I Am Trayvon Martin

An African American student who is a friend of a friend of mine wrote on his Facebook wall that he was shocked by the Trayvon Martin verdict (see my previous blog here). Someone responded:

"Don't take this to heart. You are a very smart, very talented, handsome guy, don't let yourself be dragged into this mentality. You are not going to be shot- you carry yourself well, speak well, walk and dress well. Martin was not killed because of the color of his skin, he was killed because he got into a very violent altercation with an armed man...Martin, RIP, had pictures of marihuana (sic) in his cellphone, texts about buying a gun illegally, and lots of racist profanity against white Americans. This was not about race. I'm telling you because you are new to this country and while its true that there is racism out there, this case wasn't it....You're a smart, educated, good looking guy. Believe me, you're not Martin."

There is something fundamentally sad, something fundamentally wrong about this. Something that struck me to the core with an anger that felt almost powerless against such passive discrimination. It is a discrimination so silent, so cloaked in politeness you almost get hoodwinked by its seeming logic and tell yourself that all is well. But then the questions hits you: are people who carry images of marijuana in their phones supposed to be shot? Should we be shot for the content of our Whatsapp messages? Once those questions start coming in, the floodgates open: am I supposed to be safe because of the way I dress? If I dress like a "thug", should I be shot on sight? Is what a wear, an indicator of who I am? Are the lives of those who buy their clothes from Fifth Avenue in New York, Sandton City in Johannesburg or Sam Levy Village in Harare more valuable than those whose clothes are from the corner thrift shop?

"You are not going to be shot - you carry yourself well, speak well, walk and dress well...." Whites can carry and talk whichever way they want to but if a black person carries himself well, then he is safe. What does this imply for those who don't? Let's not fool ourselves. This is about race. This is about discrimination, about the snap judgements of those who see the world as simply black and white, good and bad, they who subscribe to Cersei Lannister's motto: "Everyone who isn't us is an enemy". Certainly George Zimmerman revealed as much in his call to Emergency Services, "...they always get away", he complained. Who is 'they' we might ask?

I talk well. I like to think I dress well and I carry myself well. I learn at one of Europe's best schools, so supposedly I am safe right? Wrong. I have been a Trayvon Martin so many times it hurts. In Algeria where I would be the only one made to get off the bus and unpack my baggage to be inspected at police roadblocks. One officer went so far as to taste my toothpaste. The fact that I was the only black on the bus does not seem that much of a coincidence. In university where my professors would call me "l'africain" instead of ever trying to learn my proper name.

In Germany where I was the only black on a flight filled with Europeans and Arabs, where I was pulled out of the queue at boarding and put in a little room and interrogated, my hand luggage searched, my laptop scanned and my passport stamps and visa's examined in great detail.

In South Africa where I was helping my cousin shop for her wedding dress and the white owners of the shop completely ignored us for twenty minutes but went running to a white couple who had just come in to ask the price of a necklace. At the South African Post Office where the white manager told me I was "a problem" and that I should go back home instead of trying to open a bank account with my "fake" passport.

But closest to home, the day I was approached by one of our white neighbours who lived in the complex where my parents live. In all my innocence, dressed well, speaking well, carrying myself well, she approached me and asked me what I was looking for there. Who cares that I had unlocked the gate with my security code, that I had actually had a conversation with her a few months earlier when I happened to meet her in the garden; no, no one cares. To her I was suspicious just for being there. I didn't belong there.

I didn't belong there in much the same way Trayvon Martin did not belong there that fateful evening. I looked strange for being as normal as I could possibly be, in much the same way Trayvon Martin looked strange for walking home slowly from the shops talking on his phone to his friend. I was guilty of something in much the same way Trayvon Martin was guilty of carrying images of marijuanna on his phone. Something just had to be wrong. Something just had to not click. So she came up to me and asked me what I was doing there.

We are all Trayvon Martin's. We are all judged and told we do not belong every time we walk into a shop and security starts surreptitiously following us around. Every time one of us gets shot for being afraid of the big Hispanic man following him in the dark night. Which one of us would not stand their ground? Trayvon Martin did. And George Zimmerman decided he didn't belong not only in that neighbourhood. But on this earth. And the jury agreed.

RIP Trayvon Martin.

"What is really injured, bruised, if you will, is the psyche of our national population. We are all harmed. We are all belittled, and we give to the rest of the world more ammunition to sneer at us." - Maya Angelou speaking on the Trayvon Martin verdict.

From Paris With Love: The Paris Air Show 2013

One of the wonderful things about living in Paris one would think, would be the feeling of being at the centre of the world, or near enough to it that it is all the same. Love tennis? Roland Garros is a metro ride away. Love cars? The Paris Motor Show is a train ride away. Love fashion? Go to Paris Fashion Week and if you love cycling go stand on the Avenue Champs Elysée in August to see the winner of the Tour de France cycle the last few metres to victory (we all know this time it won't be Lance Armstrong so it might actually be interesting again).

But the reality is I have always been too busy to attend any of these things. I remember well the Paris Motor Show coincided with my mid-semester exams. Sometimes what you are left with is a feeling of so near and yet so far away...but not today! I got to go to the Paris Air Show!
And the funny thing is that I actually wasn't going there when I woke up that day, a cancelled appointment left me in town with nothing to do and a quick phone call to a friend who assured me the first day of the show was free for students (one knows the reputation of Ndebele's and free things) saw me making my way to Le Borget one of Paris's four airports where it was being held.

So that's how I ended up at the show where dreams take flight. And oh how did they fly! Jets were making complicated shapes in the sky with the vapour jets behind then. French army pilots did breathtaking tricks that left me wondering if they were either highly trained, high on drugs, unafraid of death or all of the above. A French military unit showed the ever appreciative crowd how to fly a helicopter with six soldiers hanging from a rope below the aircraft like fruit flailing in the wind. To say we held our breaths as we watched them high above us with nothing but a rope and the pilot's skill between them and a Youtube worthy death would be an understatement.

And the whole world was there it seemed. Every European country seemed to have a stand showing off the latest in aeronautics. The Russians had a stand where two very Russian looking pilots (all they needed was a bottle of vodka to complete the scene) were posing for pictures in front of an adoring crowd. Civilian aircraft were posed next to unmanned drones and missile launchers a sobering reminder at times of the highly profitable market that is war. But I couldn't let myself become too philosophical, awe was the most appropriate word to describe the maze of space rockets and Formula 1 racers parked within reach. For a geek like me: it was heaven!

But even in the heaven of the Greeks certain gods dominated the arena and who else could dominate an Air Show but Airbus with their magnificent Airbus A380 parked in the centre of the exhibition. "Own the sky" was splashed on its side in bright blue letters and the logos of airlines, for once, were printed in small print near the bottom of the plane. I have never been a fan of the Engineering Sciences but today I could not but be in awe of the sheer technical and scientific genius that was able to bring 300 000 kilograms of aluminium into flight. And according to French media, between them today, Airbus amd Boeing signed deals worth 130 billion Euros.

And there were the lighter moments too. The commentator on the public address system had a highly developed sense of humour not to mention his heavily French accented English translations. And the makers of the Parrot iPhone controlled drones had them doing a simply delightful aerial dance routine. I just found myself wishing as I walked away that amongst the many flags that were flying today, I could have seen an African flag. We have come a long way but we still have some way to go. Reminded me a bit of an Eskom advert I saw a years ago:

Dreams speak to the man 

The man whispers his dreams to the stars 

The stars wink back and say, 

“Come up anytime you are ready”

Our time shall come.

Why Should I Care: A Zimbabwean in Paris speaks

I am a Zimbabwean. 

Those four words suffer the distinction of not being neutral. They cannot be said and leave one unmoved, and depending on the person you are speaking to, on the context, and their level of honesty with you; their reactions can range from mirth, mocking laughter, sympathy, pity, suspicion all they way to downright contempt.

You see the country I come from, if by some strange connivance of the gods you were born yesterday, suffers the distinction of having imploded -spectacularly imploded may I add. Of going from being one of the African continents richest countries with nicknames such as Africa's Paradise and Little England to being on the headlines of all the major news outlets for all the wrong reasons. You name it we've done it - we've run out of our own money at one point with queues stretching blocks as people waited for banks to get their hands on a few banknotes. Shortage? You name it we've managed to finish it: water, electricity, petrol, foreign currency, bread, oil.... Headline? We've been there, done it: Cholera (in a 21st century country with what was an excellent health system), starvation, too much food, poverty, wealth, from the hilarious to the sad to the downright nonsensical.

Another third world country you say? What's new about that? Well perhaps it's the irony of it all. A country with Africa's highest literacy rate, that is home to one of the seven natural wonders of the world (click here to see this awesome BBC doccie on the Victoria Falls), breathtaking scenery and fertile farmland, a country that hasn't known a state of war for over three decades, a country that in the nineties looked at South Africa and shook its head in pity before taking a sip of tea in its perfectly manicured gardens and admiring the jacaranda's. Perhaps its karma being the infamous bitch that I hear she is, perhaps it is the side effects of chasing out tens of thousands of people based on the colour of their skin (reverse racism anyone?), perhaps that's just the way life works but it is what it is.

So here I am, a Zimbabwean stuck 11,804.9 km away from the place of my birth. I should be content no? One of the lucky four million Zimbabweans to have left (read escaped) Zimbabwe's implosion. My friends assure me that I am so lucky, that I should already start forgetting Zimbabwe and plan on settling in Europe forever. Armed with a European degree what could seem easier? But the issue of those four words remains. The words that are hardly ever neutral, the words that remind me so much of the phrase that Aurther Mutambara once said to us a few years ago, "You will never be respected as a person until your country is respected".

No other place in the world will never have the right to deport me. No other place in the world is a place where the sky is as blue as the eyes of God, where the rain thunders in summer with all the awesome terror that heaven can muster. Even as I walk through the boulevards of Paris and admire the many (many) statues built in honour of 'Liberté | Egalité | Fraternité' the French fought and died for, the thought comes, unwanted but insistent, they did not fight for me. My liberty was fought for and paid for somewhere else, my dreams were paid for in blood in another hemisphere and they that died for me did not die so that I could dream in French.

They died so I could dream in Ndebele, so I could say I am Zimbabwean without being apprehensive or regretful. They died in the hope that one day all children could learn in world class schools, strive to be whatever they wanted to be. They left their kraals and huts in South Africa to be burnt by Shaka's murderous wrath to begin a new life in a land they had never seen before but certainly must have dreamed of as they crossed the Limpopo river so long ago.

What must it have been like to stare down Shaka Zulu, the most powerful man in what was their world, and tell him where to stick it? What must have it been like to face the incoming hordes of Europeans armed with guns and the bible (a lethal combination: the only thing worse than a conqueror is one armed with theology) come to take their land and still have the courage to fight. What must have it been like to think back to simpler days and know they they were forever gone but go to sleep in the hope that one day it would be okay. They dreamed, so long ago, they dreamed and I am the product of that dream. I am the flesh incarnate of their wishes, their hopes and everything that was good about them. And I am reminded of Einstein's words, "A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labours of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving." 

Let it be that one day, some Zimbabwean child's life will be easier because I existed, let it be that he never knows the pain of deprivation or the murderous toxin that is hatred for the world. Let their days begin with a laugh and let their days end with a smile. Let them not need to fly to far off lands to get medical treatment because world class hospitals are around the corner. Let them dream of applying to the local university to learn and feeling as proud as if they had gotten into Harvard, let them be able to look any idiot on God's green earth and say with all the pride they can muster, their heritage, their blood and their history lined up behind them, I am a Zimbabwean. And let the world respect them for that.

That's why I care.

Letter to my 14 year old self

Inspired by Ernest Mackina

Hi B.

I would ask how you are doing if I didn’t know already exactly how you are doing so I’ll just hope you are having a good day as you read this letter.

I’m ten years in your future, ten years down the path you will take, ten years away from you right now at this very instant. But the thing I realise is that I owe everything to you. Every decision you are about to make will result and lead me to this place, this point in time. Every thought that passes through your mind colours my opinion, every action you take is my memory and every action you don’t is either a regret or a blessing in retrospect. For the most part you have done a great job and I have nothing but gratitude towards you; thank you B.

But the main reason I’m writing to you B is not to say thank you. Looking back from my vantage point ten years in the future I have the advantage of hindsight. I have the gift of being able to see everything as if from the side of a high mountain whereas you are trudging about in the valley. Keep trudging B, you will get here someday, you will make it to the summit. The peak seems so far away I know but trust me, keep on taking those small steps and you will be here before you know it.

I know it seems dark right now. You are stuck in a high school that at times seems unforgiving; they laugh at you for not being able to speak Ndebele properly, they laugh at you because you have no inkling of slang and you prefer to bury yourself in William Horewood novels during study period (though looking back I honestly have to ask myself where you found the courage to read a 2000 page novel in the first place). Let them laugh B. It won’t kill you. Their teasing might seem like it is barbed but one day you will realise it did nothing more to you than toughen you up for the road ahead.

Yes they tease you about seemingly everything don’t they? Your pimples, your braces, the way your voice hasn’t broken…the list seems endless sometimes doesn’t it. Don’t take it all to heart my guy. Let it roll off your back like water rolling of the back of a duck. Those braces will be gone in a few years’ time (though I wish you had worn them more often), those pimples will clear out soon enough and your voice will become your greatest asset as you go on to dominate provincial and national public speaking [spoiler alert]. As for the rest…well let them tease. Such is life my guy. You are not exactly the least sarcastic person in the world are you?

And speaking of that high school, cherish every moment B!!! Those will turn out to be the best years of your life. Those teachers will turn out to be the mentors who push you towards your dreams. And even some of those teasing you will turn out to be your best friends. Ten years will tell you the difference between the good ones and the bad but for the moment enjoy every meeting, learn from every one of them and share the communion that is the shared humanity of this lifetime. Don’t lock yourself up too much in your books, smile more often, laugh, cry and dance. Life is good B.

I know it doesn’t seem that way. I know it didn’t seem that way the two months you sat eating your lunch alone in Form One because you didn’t have any friends. I know it didn’t seem that way the day they tore you down and left you feeling as if the world had fallen around your feet. I know it didn’t seem that way the day Mr Masuku beat the entire Motor Vehicle Technology class with a broomstick that broke twice with the force of his blows (don’t worry he almost got fired for that). I know it didn’t seem that way the day you jammed in your first speech at Hillside in front of the entire school and ran off stage. I know it didn’t seem that way the day you realised your best friend was a dick. I know you can point out a dozen moments where it didn’t seem that way and I can promise you, there will be dozens more but just hold on, the one thing I can promise you is that it will all be worth it. Just hold on, study as if you are crazy, read novels as if they provide you with oxygen, laugh as if you don’t have a care in the world, continue loving as if you’ve never been hurt and you will see; one day the path will suddenly seem to level out and the clouds will, for a moment, disappear leaving you to contemplate the vast distance you have travelled and you will smile and you will remember every single day, every single moment, every single fight and you will know it was worth it.

Soon things will change drastically, you will move away to a new school, the country will begin its precipitous decline towards collapse, you will drop out of university and everything will seem to be on the edge of being torn away, nothing will seem sure but again B, hold on, it will all be worth it. I promise you that.

Don’t imagine for a moment I have reached the summit of the mountain. There is a Chinese proverb you read a few months ago in a Readers Digest. Remember it? You wrote it down in mom’s old blue diary that you use to keep beautiful quotations. It said: “When you reach the top of a mountain, keep climbing”. You will find out the meaning of it soon enough. There is never an end to struggle, just a finishing of one level and a beginning of a new one. One day you will leave the valley, and for a moment it will seem to be the summit and then you will see it was but the beginning of yet a steeper climb. Sitting here contemplating this new mountain I have to climb, again I have to thank you, for giving me the courage to keep on climbing. I return it to you B. Keep climbing.

Keep climbing.

Love,

B

PS: Ten years later I remember that trilogy you read all throughout the year. There is one part that has stayed with me till now, remember these graces. Remember them well, they shall serve you for the rest of the journey.

“The grace of form.

 The grace of goodness

The grace of suffering

The grace of wisdom

The grace of true words

The grace of trust

The grace of whole-souled loveliness.” **

(** from the Duncton Wood© trilogy by William Horewood)