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Soweto & Apartheid

November 26, 2011 By Leave a Comment

“I saw a child fall down. Under a shower of bullets I rushed forward and went for the picture. It had been a peaceful march, the children were told to disperse, they started singing Nkosi Sikelele. The police were ordered to shoot.”  Sam Nzima

The picture, taken on June 16, 1976 by Sam Nzima, who was a photographer for the Johannesburg newspaper The World at that time, shows Mbuyisa Makhubo, 18, running with the bloody and dying body of 12-year-old Hetor Pieterson, who was shot by the police, in his arms as the boy’s older sister sprints alongside in obvious anguish.

The iconic photo captured by Sam Nzima

Pieterson was pronounced dead at a nearby clinic, he’s remembered as one of the first casualties of the Soweto Uprising in which police opened fire on some 10 000 school children who were protested a law they felt was unjust.

The powerful image epitomized the outrage and tragedy of a day that would forever mark South Africa, especially once it was transmitted around the globe. Due to constant police harassment, Sam Nzima ended up quitting his job at The World , in 1977 he opened up his own business in a northern city. Mbuyisa Makhubo was also the victim of such intimidation. He went into exile and apparently hasn’t been heard of since 1978 when he sent a letter form Nigeria to his mother.

Soweto or Jo'burg

Last week, while standing at the intersection where, 35 years ago, Pieterson and possibly hundreds of more young people were killed, a few questions popped up in my head. How could law enforcement officers shoot at unarmed children? What ever happened to the men that murdered those Soweto youth? I walked around the area reading the notices that offered information on the Uprising, taking pictures and reflecting.

Outside the Hector Pieterson Museum

The words of Nelson Mandela

A short car ride away I visited the Hector Pieterson museum  (it opened on June 16, 2002 a few year’s after the Mandela House opened). Before entering the modern two storey structure, I spent much time  taking in the quotes and slogans written on stones and metallic boards outside its front doors. The following are the words of Mbuyisa Makhubo’s mother, they were written on a large  rectangular stone.

“Mbuyisa is or was my son. But he’s not a hero. In my culture, picking up Hector is not an act of heroism. It was his job as a brother. If he left him on the ground and somebody saw him jumping over Hector, he would never be able to live here.”

I was disappointed that I couldn’t take pictures inside the museum because some of the photos were so compelling they need to be shared. Considering there’s still much controversy over the details of the Uprising, I thought the curator did a good job of presenting the events leading up to that faithful day and utilized a lot of first hand accounts from the young protesters and parents.

In the section dedicated to incidents following June 16 hung one photo that’s still vivid in my mind. The image is of a moving green vehicle being driven by an un-uniformed white police officer. In the backseat there’s another man aiming a shotgun out of a semi-opened window. Next to the photo, are several accounts by Soweto residents claiming to have seen that car driving around and shooting blacks.

After eating a delicious late lunch on the street for barely 3 bucks (I had some barbecued beef, pap (which is a South African staple), pumpkin, chilli peppers and salad), I got a  car ride out of Soweto to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg.

Standing at the entrance of the Apartheid Museum

As a teenager I read Mark Mathabane’s Kaffir Boy and a few years ago I read Nelson Mandela’s A Long Walk To Freedom (I’ve also watched a few films dealing with apartheid such as Cry Freedom), so I wasn’t expecting to be surprised or moved by anything in the grandiose building. Yet, the combination of videos, photos and narrative writing inside its walls left me with a hauntingly intense understanding of the apartheid system. It was a degree of understanding that I had never experienced.

That evening, back at my hostel, I thought about what I heard, saw and learned. It wasn’t long before I was going over my first three days in Jo’burg (Johannesburg) and tentatively hypothesizing that apartheid has made it extremely easy to distrust and even hate in this country. Hopefully, time and effective changes will make love equally possible.


 

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My last stand in Paris

November 21, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Three straight nights of Paris nightlife had taken its toll on me. My voice was raspy and whenever I sat down the desire to sleep would arise. It was Saturday afternoon and apart from seeing the Eiffel Tower, I had not yet observed any other tourist attraction and I had no urgent impulse to do so. Instead, I was on my way to visit an old friend from college at her weekly three hour choir practice at a church in Bastille.

After three nights of loud club music, it was refreshing and even heartwarming to hear worship songs that were sang so beautifully. Once practice was done, Tracy and I grabbed two baguette sandwiches and walked to a nearby square (something Paris has loads of) where we chatted away while enjoying our déjeuner. Being married to a Frenchman and having lived in the City of Light for almost four years Tracy had no problem showing me around a rather quiet area and then a bustling commercial district while providing me with public and personal impressions of the city.

By late afternoon, I had passed the architecturally stunning Hôtel de Ville and arrived, alone, at the Notre-Dame de Paris as the sun was setting. Walking aimlessly behind the picturesque cathedral I stumbled upon a very unique bridge where hundreds and possibly thousands of padlocks with loves messages or hearts on them are locked to its railings. Evidently, all the hoopla about Paris being an effortlessly romantic city was proving to be true.

Notre-Dame de Paris

Locks of love

Saturday night was the first time I went to bed at a reasonable hour. When I arose on Sunday, I was energized for a day of sightseeing. In the morning I visited the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur, a nearby museum and a section of Montmartre. For lunch, I met up with my host, Ludivine, and we dined at a small but delightful Cuban restaurant. It was yet another mild and sunny day in Paris so we decided to walk down to the Champs-Élysées where we met up with her sister and friend in front of the Grand Palais. Before dusk, we took loads of pictures in front of the Arc de Triomphe. We concluded the day with some humorous poses in front of a lit up Moulin Rouge.

Basilique du Sacré-Coeur

Posing in front of Arc de Triomphe

I saved the Musée du Louvre for my last full day in Paris and it was well worth the wait. The storied museum was far larger than I imagined it to be, I could have easily spent a full day taking in some of the greatest European works of art. The crowds of tourists that surrounded the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa was incredible. I filmed a lot of the gentle pushing and positioning that was happening in order for them to get the best possible shot (I must note that I thought the Mona Lisa is quite small, especially when comparing it to the other paintings).

The Louvre

The Seine on a sunny afternoon

Once outside the museum, I decided to take a stroll along La Seine , which was one of the most peaceful walks I’ve ever had, before rushing off to hang out with a Parisian that I met, by chance, in Bangkok in 2007 and 2009. Cédric came to pick me up from a metro station on his scooter, then drove us back to his place where he had some red wine, camembert cheese and ham slices waiting for me (he also prepared some small fish balls that reminded me of the fish balls my Bajan neighbours use to make when I was child). As we talked and laughed under the influence of Bordeaux, he reminded me, several times, that Parisians, like himself, believe in enjoying their lives rather than constantly working.

After leaving Cédric’s apartment, I met up with Hélène Lee,  a French journalist who wrote the brilliant book The First Rasta: Leonard Howell and the Rise of Rastafarianism which she helped turn into a film last year. Having a background in journalism myself and a passion for travelling and learning about the unfamiliar, I was overjoyed to sit down in Hélène’s home and discuss her work and mine (she was also kind enough to offer me a plate of  delicious fish and a grain that looked like couscous but wasn’t).

When Tuesday morning arrived, I was up before my host, packing my bag and reviewing the previous six days. I went to Paris with very low expectations, but that morning, I proudly told Ludivine that I would love to return and see what else the city and the rest of the country has to offer. Next up was South Africa and my very first African journey.

 

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A Wedding à Paris

November 17, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Finding the restaurant from the metro station proved to be considerably more difficult than I anticipated.  Whether it was my poor vision, the tiny streets signs or incorrect directions by the locals (it might have been a combination of all three), it took me almost twenty-five minutes to reach the street that L’Escale de Marakech, the restaurant, is on. I was already running late before the delay, so when I arrived at the Moroccan eatery I was a full 45 minutes behind the established dinner time. Whatever guilt I had about being tardy disappeared when I realized that the Swanne, my friend who was getting married, her father and a few others had only turned up moments before me.

There were at least 30 of us gathered inside  L’Escale de Marakech to support Swanne and Andrés on the eve of their wedding. We, family and friends, ate, drank and most importantly talked and laughed for hours. Having known Swanne and her family for many years, the dinner almost felt like a reunion or sorts (Swanne and I used to run on the same track team, her younger sister, Vanessa, also competed and her father use to drive us to many track meets. I later became good friends with the Ricky, the eldest child, who also ran track). With Andrés being from Barcelona, his family and most of his friends are Spanish speakers, so throughout the evening I was motivated to attempt the little Español I know.

While everybody that Swanne and Andrés invited to the dinner decided to return to their hotel or apartment once it was over, Ricky and I jumped into a taxi and headed to Bastille. We spent the night going back and forth between a hip hop club and a venue that was playing reggaeton and dance music across the street. Although the hip hop club stayed open until five, we called it a night at around three. I didn’t get much sleep on my overnight flight from Montreal and I didn’t nap all day; my body was incredibly tired. I fought sleep during the entire 24£ cab ride home. By four I was in bed and six hour later I commenced my second day in Paris.

The wedding was slated to begin at 1:30pm, but I agreed to have déjeuner (lunch) with Ludivine, my host, meaning I had to leave the apartment early. She led me to a pâtisserie that was walking distance from the Mairie du 12éme arrondissement which is where the ceremony was being held. Apart from cheesecake, I don’t get excited about dessert, but I surprisingly found my mouth watering at the elegantly presented selection of sweets and ended up buying some apple crumb with my two meat quiches.

The romantic and uplifting ceremony concluded within an hour. I captured most of it on my flip camera, then went around asking family and friends to expresses their best wishes to the newlyweds. The reception took place on a boat that cruised the Seine and provided the most splendid nighttime view of the Eiffel tower. Despite not recognizing anything that was served, the meal was absolutely delicious. The wine and liquor flowed freely until the celebration ended at midnight with many tired from all the dancing and intoxicated from all the drinking.

No wanting the night to end, Ricky, an American scientist that I met at the reception and myself kept the festivities going inside a large night spot in Bastille. I met a lovely and petite Parisienne who oddly enough is named Ludivine. Despite the loud music, we discussed a wide range of issues, most of them had strong sociopolitical undertones. It was a little after four when we left the club to get some much needed food. After a very short cab ride, we were in Pigalle (yes the red light district most famous for the Moulin Rouge) where she brought me to a small eatery which she claimed offered the best late night meal in Paris. I enjoyed the shawarma meat on a baguette with fries on the side, but it had nothing on the pizza from Al-Taib in Montreal.

It was 7am when I returned to Noisy Le Grand and crashed on my air mattress to end my second day in Paris. With my host organizing a housewarming party for later that evening and me needing to get some writing done, I knew that I couldn’t get as much sleep as my body probably wanted.

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Pancakes at Starbucks

November 12, 2011 By 1 Comment

My mouth began to salivate the instant the young French woman walked passed my table with a plate of heavenly looking pancakes that I had no clue was even on the Starbucks menu. I tried not to stare, but they were calling my name so out of respect I had to at least acknowledge their existence. Despite, having eaten a breakfast sandwich less than two hours ago, my stomach growled as she poured syrup over them and took her first bite. While trying to regain my focus and finish up the video editing and emailing I had put off for days, another lady sat down a few feet away from me with a plate of pancakes as well. I wanted them…I wanted them real badly, but the lineup was massive. In fact, over the last half hour, the lineup has doubled if not tripled. It’s hard to believe that with a all the cafés and bistros around Bastille, Starbucks would remain incredibly popular.

It’s 11:12am and I’m surrounded by breakfast (petit déjeuner) eaters and coffee drinkers. In this Starbucks, unlike the ones back in North America and even China, patrons aren’t on their laptops or smart phones taking full advantage of the free wi-fi, they’re actually conversing. The one woman that was using her iPad left a few minutes ago so I’m now the only one sitting with a computer.

Since arriving here in Paris on Wednesday morning, I haven’t had much time to reflect which is making this Starbucks experience quite enjoyable. From the airport, my lovely host brought me to her place, after stoping to have a petit déjeuner. Instead of sleeping, I decided to go out and see Paris.

Not especially preoccupied with seeing the tourist attractions, I found myself wandering around the streets outside the Strasbourg – Saint-Denis metro station. On one block, stood at least twenty heavily made-up and provocatively clothed Asian women, most of which appeared to be over 30, who seemed to offer various sorts of adult services. Next to them were several groups of three or four young African men. Judging by the little that I was able to understand, when I walked by, they appeared to be involved in many kinds of commerce. I was most curious about their relationship, if any, with the Asian women.

In a stark contrast to that block, which reminded me of some areas of Bangkok and Hong Kong, the rest of the area was incredibly family friendly and inspiring. I passed many African, Indian and Middle-Eastern restaurants and other small businesses while watching parents walking and talking with their children. Every street, felt like a never ending road which presented a new opportunity and experience with every curve and turn. I purchased an unlocked phone from a small internet café that was operated by two men from Bangladesh one of those roads.

After the hour commute back to my temporary home in a suburb outside of Paris, I  dumped some footage from my camera onto my external hard drive, helped my host and her friends move a table and chairs into the apartment before quickly preparing for a wedding dinner at a Moroccan restaurant. Fatigued, I found myself dozing off on the trip back into the city.

(To be continued…)

 

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Bugs in food

September 13, 2011 By 1 Comment

Her excitement for entomophagy was undeniably engaging. After all, it’s not every day I hear someone enthusiastically talk about eating crickets, grasshoppers, cicadas and other insects. During her interview, last week, on CBC’s Q (Q is my favourite Canadian radio show), Daniella Martin explained how she became an insect eater and then presented a solid case for the exotic practice.

I can only guess the number of listeners, if any, that decided to give entomophagy a try after hearing the interview. As for me, although the thought of eating waxwarm tacos, sautéed cicadas or a cricket stir-fry doesn’t whet my appetite, I don’t find it repulsive.

Back in January of 2006, while traveling around the island Koh Phangan in Thailand, I was offered to try a handful of deep fried insects from a food stall vendor at a community fair. Without too much contemplation, I grabbed a grasshopper, put it in my mouth and chewed away.

A few years later, this time I was with a few friends in Northeast China, I tried some roasted insect pupae. By the time I found myself in Bangkok the following winter, I had no reservations about munching on a deep fried beetle and cricket upon being playfully challenged by a family from Colorado (two parents and their three homeschooled children) to help them finish their tiny bag of insects.

Notwithstanding, my experimentation with entomophagy, I’ve yet to develop a craving for any kinds of bugs. The same applies to my relationship with dog meat, pig brain and blood tofu (coagulated animal blood), all of which I’ve eaten during my eight and half years in China.

Throughout my time in Asia, my notions of what should and shouldn’t be on a human being’s plate were constantly being challenged. The cultural conditioning I received here in Canada has very stringent guidelines on what can be considered food (for instance, bacon is food but dog meat most certainly isn’t).

It was only by broadening my ideas of what constitutes food that I was able to live and travel in places where I was unfamiliar with the majority of the dishes. Today, there’s probably very little food that I’ll refuse to try at least once. This dietary openness allows me to have more options when it’s meal time.

Not unlike, a vegetarian who details the many ways to enjoy nutritional and tasty dishes that are meatless, Daniella Martin’s passionate endorsement of enthomophagy simply hopes provides eaters with an additional option: bugs.

According to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, there are approximately 1 462 species of edible insects. Interestingly enough, insects are believed to be quite nutritious since they are high in protein and vitamins, while remaining low in carbohydrates and saturated fats.

It’s no secret that raising livestock generates more greenhouse gases than driving cars, depletes and pollutes fresh water supplies and reduces biodiversity. Bearing in mind, these bleak environmental consequences, that will surely increase as worldwide meat consumption continues to rise, having as many alimentary alternatives as possible might be the smartest approach to adopt.

 
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Pride & the city

August 30, 2011 By 3 Comments

My intentions were far from innocent, indeed, I’ll admit to them being marred by arrogance, but it was unquestionably my civic duty to show my friend from Vancouver all the reasons why I’ve declared on numerous occasions that Montreal is the best city in Canada.

After all, she along with the other teachers I worked with this past school year year, the majority of whom come from that celebrated western city, weren’t convinced my hometown owned the top spot. Therefore her visit presented an epic opportunity for me to demonstrate that my bragging was justified.

I’m not sure how a professional tour guide would have introduced the city, but I decided to start with breakfast at Eggspectation which she seemed to greatly enjoy. After formulating our plan of attack at a coffee shop, we set off for the Biodome and Olympic Stadium.

As she took photographs of the massive structures, I had a rather shocking revelation: the Big O is a pathetic tourist attraction. Why do we Montrealers show off the architectural disaster that has experienced countless structural problems and continues to cost taxpayers money? (Even my friend knew about how Montreal is still paying for the maintenance of the rarely used stadium.)

Entering the Biodome, my thoughts retreated to my first and last visit which was on a high school field trip. “This place really blew my mind,” I said, as we walked towards the Tropical Forest ecosystem. As we made our way through the replica, I could sense that she wasn’t tremendously impressed.

She thought the polar area was interesting but quite small. Considering she’s from a place renowned for its mountains, trees and ocean; the Laurentian Forest and Saint Lawrence Marine ecosystems didn’t do much for her.

I told my guest that Parc Lafontaine was large, lively and cultural, but as we sauntered around the 40-hectare park there was little evidence of this. “Usually there’s a lot more people here and a lot more action,” I said, feeling the need to defend the park’s honour. “Well, I doubt it can compare to Stanley Park,” she said, with a calm confidence. Naturally, I couldn’t agree with her, but inside I accepted that her city’s famed 404-hectare park may have more to offer.

On day two, we trekked up Mount Royal, through the woods, which under a clear blue sky and bright sun was incredibly enjoyable. The following day, our visit to the St. Joseph Oratory was equally as engaging. We found ourselves lingering around the cathedral taking in the scores of worshippers and tourists.

She explored Old Montreal on her own and found it charming, but we regrettably didn’t make it out to the Tam-Tams. My plan to show off the Montreal Museum of Contemporary Art, on day four, was shattered by a large sign on a glass door stating it was closed on Mondays.

The Plateau was deserted (maybe because it was a Monday) and Ste. Catherine street was uncharacteristically quiet. In truth, the whole downtown core seemed to be overflowing with tourists desperately searching for that Montreal je ne sais quoi. I wondered if they were as disappointed in my city as I believed my friend to be.

Where was the excitement of June and July, when the city plays host to an array of festivals that create a certain air of fiesta which resonates across the island?  It was early August and Montreal appeared tired and indifferent.

It’s no secret that in recent years Montreal has consistently ranked behind Vancouver, Ottawa, Toronto and even Calgary on various surveys that list the most liveable cities in the world. In terms of money, Montreal is far from being the economic capital of Canada. Last year, Kitchener, Winnipeg and Regina experienced more growth than Montreal.

However the last time I checked the city was still Canada’s undisputed cultural center, a fact that I routinely toss at naysayers who refuse to evaluate anything outside of official surveys. It’s highly conceivable that Montreal’s cultural uniqueness, which I believe is its greatest possession, isn’t measurable and takes more than a visit to experience and eventually appreciate.

 

 

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Beyond the sound bite

August 11, 2011 By 1 Comment

Utter silence was the response Lupe Fiasco received when he labeled President Obama as a terrorist during his interview with Dr. Cornel West before a group of teenagers who were participating in this year’s Youth to Leaders conference hosted at UCLA.

Because I was listening to a recording and not viewing a taping of the conversation, I’m unaware if the audience and West were simply shocked or in complete disagreement with the Chicago rapper. Or perhaps they were just quietly processing the controversial statement and needed further elaboration. So, after the noticeably awkward moment of silence, Fiasco continued to explain his opinion on Obama and terrorism.

Although he eventually received a brief round of applause from the teenagers (hopefully they weren’t prompted to do so) and words of appreciation from West, when the podcast was done I found myself going back to his bold assertion and the silence that followed it.

Let it be noted that none of what the rapper stated is new, nor is he the first entertainer or public figure to speak out against a president and the US government. I suppose, even the level of media coverage he garnered is not abnormal. After all, here’s a young black man calling America’s first black president the “biggest terrorist”, that’s the sort of sound bite mainstream media outlets salivate over.

Rashard Mendenhall, a running back for the Pittsburgh Steelers, surely realized this when following the announcement of Osama Bin Laden’s murder and the impromptu celebrations that ensued across the country, tweeted: “What kind of person celebrates death?”. His tweets about not understanding people who can hate Bin Laden without ever hearing him speak and expressing doubt over the events of 9/11 became the object of much media attention.

In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Kanye West dominated news headlines when he claimed on live television that George Bush didn’t care about black people. Unfortunately, little to no attention was given to the provocative statements he made before the unforgettable sound bite.

Whether or not President Bush was a racist, was certainly a sensational topic. Yet, wouldn’t it have been more advantageous, on a societal level, to also delve into the underlying issues of economic, racial, education and housing inequality that West was referring to? (It’s important to mention that there are countless individuals, without West’s status or reach, that dedicate much of their lives to making advancements on these very issues.)

Sound bites, especially those that are genuine and passionate, have an undeniable public appeal. However, in a country where voicing one’s opposition to the ideologies held by those in power is not only protected by the constitution but the tenet that throughout history has helped to move it forward, more contemplation, dialogue and debate needs to be had on the key points surrounding sound bites of dissention.

Muhammad Ali’s “I ain’t got no quarrel with the Vietcong. No Vietcong ever called me Nigger” is an extremely loaded sound bite, but it essentially expresses the unpopular anti-war opinion of a world heavyweight boxing champion that was in the ring with the US government. Interestingly enough, during the late 60’s and early 70’s, Ali was heavily ridiculed and marginalized for taking a stance that today would be seen by many as commendable.

Ali was calling out the US government on its domestic and foreign policies. He was asking serious questions during a time of change. His sound bite, did add fuel to the anti-Vietnam War movement, but his overall message about human rights and peace weren’t given much if any attention.

Removed from its context and stripped of all supporting arguments, sound bites tend to have a polarizing effect. Upon hearing or reading the ones put forward in this piece, some have heroized Lupe Fiasco, Rashard Medenhall and Kanye West while others have villainized them. Hopefully, after labelling, which I’m not convinced is useful, as a thinking public we’ll spend more time reflecting, discussing and possibly acting on messages of dissent.

 

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