Lunch with the Chancellor

Yesterday, as a guest of Tito Mboweni, I attended his graduation where he received an honorary D (Comm) from Stellenbosch University, one of the major intellectual centres of the Western Cape. A number of things surprised me.

Firstly, the casual nature of the affair. I was uncharacteristically, in suit and tie. The last time I attended a graduation (my own!) that is what people wore. But here, the rest of the audience was in short pants and T Shirts (I exaggerate a little, but not very much!)

Secondly, I was surprised by the huge amount of black graduands in a thing called “Military Science”. No-one could explain to me what the attraction might be. Otherwise, this particular graduation was the science graduation. And the lines and lines of white young things who were graduating in various genetic, physics, biology and suchlike degrees was tedious in the extreme, but interesting in comparison. There would be an occasional (apparently unpronounceable) black surname, which would herald whoops and shouts and ululation from the black sections of the crowd – while the white bulk of the crowd would tolerate it all good-naturedly. (Or, when it got a bit out of hand, shake their heads slightly and mutter something to each other.)

So, there was an obvious pattern. In general, the lower degrees were dominated overwhelmingly by white students. Higher degrees, however, showed a good mix, if not even a parity of black students. And Military Science, conversely (and whatever it might be!) had the very rare white student. I am sure there must be some explanation for why this is the case, but it certainly looked peculiar to me.

At the luncheon afterwards, the two graduands, honoris causa, gave speeches. The one was Whitey Basson, driving force behind the mighty Shoprite Checkers group. Johann Rupert, inheritor of the Rupert tobacco industry fortune and Chancellor of the University, got up to introduce him. They were clearly friends. Basson gave three sentences of his speech in English and the rest in Afrikaans. The American sitting at my table was lost. The South African black, sitting next to me, shook his head.
Then Mboweni got up to speak. He began by saying that he had thought rather hard about accepting a doctorate from Stellenbosch, for three reasons:

Firstly, because he wasn’t sure that the ceremony would be in a language he could understand; Secondly, because Stellenbosch has a very particular negative history in South Africa and he was not convinced that it was engaged in changing that image as fast as it might; And thirdly, because he didn’t know what his comrades in the struggle would have to say about his accepting a doctorate from that university.

I noticed that the Afrikaner couple opposite me got that glazed look my children get when I am telling them something they don’t want to hear. The former Reserve Bank Governor went on. He spoke about the drama of returning exiles being faced with turning round what was essentially a bankrupt economy. And, as he had been frequently reminded by the likes of Johan Rupert, they “had never run anything”. Not a shop, not a business, not a city – and certainly not a country. They had never run anything.

And then he spoke about the remarkable turn-around which had been effected, by a left-leaning government (no less!), consisting of people who had “never run anything” – but who were clever enough to work in close conjunction with the people who had been running the country up to that point. And then to turn the titanic economy of the country around, to a point where, just before the world crash, we enjoyed a surplus.

He emphasised again, that the people who had done this had “never run anything before”. Indeed, the person they appointed as the finance minister was a “skollie” from the Cape Flats who had once apparently stabbed someone.

I saw Johann Rupert’s face become somewhat glum. And I enjoyed it enormously. Of course, he was politely agreeing. But it was polite, nothing more. And then Tito went on, talking about the University. There could be no “Afrikaans” University in South Africa. Because all the Universities need to belong to all the people of South Africa. All the schools in the country need to belong to all the people of the country.
And so, Tito concluded, he had decided to accept. It seems his fears were unfounded.

The ceremony was, to a completely acceptable degree, in English. And where it was not, it was translated. Secondly, the Vice Chancellor, Russel Botman has managed to change the face of the previously all-white, apartheid-loving institution to one which is at least somewhat more credible. At least it was the case that at the Chancellor’s lunch, something more than lip-service was being paid to the demands of transformation, by a range of people. And that has to be a good sign. (It was an equally good sign when whites started giving each other Mandela’s biography for Christmas, many years back).

But a curious joke, made by Rupert himself seemed to me to sum up the situation. He said that when the end of the world came, he wanted to be in Stellenbosch – “because Stellenbosch is at least 20 years behind everywhere else in the world”. Personally, I think that could be said for most of the Western Cape.

Markers of change

The daughter of a friend of mine - a beautiful, lithe Lesbian aged 20 – recently went on that mandatory trip to Europe, which every student is supposed to do. You are supposed to visit every art gallery you possibly can. You are supposed to party till dawn in a foreign city. You are supposed to starve, because you don’t have enough money over there. You are supposed to hitch rides, because you can’t afford the train. You are supposed to be wild. You are supposed to be free. That is all part of being a student.

So she went. And she had a ball. And she spent her last penny. And she was standing in a long queue at Heathrow airport waiting to catch her flight home. There were mostly South Africans standing in that queue. Behind her was a large-bellied, shorts-wearing, Afrikaner. He had a greying, nicotine-stained moustache. The lithe student had made up her mind that this was not the kind of person she would see herself associating with. She was fairly certain about that.

Some way in front of them, also standing in the queue was a woman in full Purdah, wearing that suddenly controversial garment which covers the face, the Burka. She was called out of the line by the security officials. In full view of the other people in the queue, she was ordered to take off her head-dress. At first she resisted, but then complied, when it became clear that if she did not, she would not be allowed to board the plane home. There she stood. To her, she could have been stark naked. She tried to hide her face. She squirmed in shame and embarrassment.

My friend’s daughter felt the blood rise to her head. She felt utterly powerless and utterly outraged. And then she heard the man behind her, muttering under his breath these few words: He said “Dis nie reg nie”. (That is not right).

She turned to him and they spoke to each other in Afrikaans. They both agreed that what was happening was outrageous. Why was the woman not taken into a private space, if they were so desperate to search her? Why was she allowed to be so publicly violated, in a so-called liberal country?

So there were these two individuals. A pot-bellied Boer and a young Lesbian student, bonded together in their disgust for what was happening to a Muslim compatriot. And their whispered converse left them both with an extraordinary pride in what they were and how far we as South Africans have journeyed, to become what we are.

During the World Cup, my job took me to every corner of the Western Cape Province. I have had detailed negotiations with virtually every municipality in every District. And this is what I have seen: I have seen white people and black people and coloured people working together, and working hard. I have seen honesty and integrity. I have seen competence and I have seen government officials willing to work overtime, without recompense. (I have seen idiots and crooks as well). But in general, I have to say, that what has impressed me the most are the white officials, mostly Afrikaans speaking, who do their jobs and do them well. And who have changed beyond recognition. They are comfortable in their own skins and the people around them are comfortable with them.

Transformation has happened and it is a wonderful thing to see. And it is things like this that should give us as a nation, real pride in the journey we have taken and the point we have reached. But besides anything else, I would want to say that it is very likely indeed that it is because minority groups like the Muslim community feel not only respected in our society, but integral to it, that we could host a totally safe World Cup.

A gentle lesson in humanity

I have just come back from Knysna, where the unit for which I work was sponsoring various 2010 related events, in the Knysna Oyster Festival. Now the Knysna Oyster Festival is, pretty much, a very white affair, with major events consisting of a half marathon and a cycle race. It was started to keep tourism going in Knysna during the winter months. And in that it has succeeded very well. The problem is, that tourism in Knysna has always been a very white thing - and so it remains - only now increased during the winter.

So, we sponsored a "Disabled Fun event" - so named, because the organisers of the festival wanted to brand it "where everyone is a winner". (Personally, I had qualms about the political correctness of the use of the word "disabled" - but then was informed that the organisers had been working with the "Disabled People's Association" - so who was I to complain?) And as it happens, the schmaltzy idea that "everyone is a winner" was the last thing on the contestants minds. They wanted to win - and that was that!

Around 250 people signed up for it (which I thought was really rather amazing!) and they came from all over the place. I was pleased to see that, like the other events we were sponsoring, (and unlike the Festival as a whole), the participants of this event were well mixed racially. They came in wheelchairs; they came in strange cycling machines, that you peddled with your arms; there were babies in specially designed prams; there were people on crutches; there were people without - and they all had various degrees of disability.

You could not fault the enthusiasm on the part of the participants - they ploughed into the streets and all seemed to finish long earlier than the organisers had anticipated. But what I loved most about the race, was the fact that the people of Knysna cheered them on. They waved - they clapped. It was a really magical moment.

Now, I hate to admit this, but let me do so, just in case there is anyone else out there who is like me. Well, here it is – I have always felt hugely uncomfortable by spasticity of any kind. I don’t know exactly what it is about cerebral palsy which makes me want to run. It is, perhaps, something about the strangeness, the unpredictability, the jerkiness? – no, I really have no idea.

I usually manage to mask it, as one does, I suppose. But I have marvelled at those who have no such problems. Mine seems to be something similar to an instinctive reaction – as one might have to falling – you find yourself in the reaction long before you have the time to think about it.

And it is certainly not anything I am proud of. I would love to be nonchalant and easy with people who are affected in this way. But I’m not. I tense up. I put on. I am not sincere. I tend to avoid, if I possibly can.

It is, of course, a conceit. And it is born, obviously, of some unresolved aspect of myself, which lies waiting to expose me when everything passionate and rational about me wants it not to. In an echo of the 1652 Anglican Book of Common prayer - I do the very thing I ought not to. The very thing I do not want to do.

I remember a year or two ago, a similar event, this time on the stage. It was under cover the anonymity of the theatre and the accompanying darkness, that I was alone with my reactions to cerebral palsy. And I was, I am pleased to say, taught a lesson I will never forget.

One of the performances was from the Filia School, a school in Goodwood, which describes itself as being “for the severely mentally handicapped”. I watched as the performers came onto the stage. One was pushed on to stage in a wheelchair, with a drum on his knees. The others all walked, some with difficulty, others apparently with ease. It took quite some time to get going, because the kids needed to find their right places, behind the right drums. Microphones needed to be in the correct hands. The keyboard was played by a teacher. And you could feel, in the audience, in that darkened auditorium, an odd sense of sympathy and wonder.

They started to play. It was extraordinary beyond my wildest imaginings. The boy in the wheelchair, beating his lap drum with sticks held in both hands, in time. The others beating African hide drums, held between their knees, with precision and with vigour. Some sang, some danced – they did it all well, much better than most of us in the audience. None of it was perfect. But all of it was utterly exultant.

Then, to end it all, and with much gesticulating from the others, a last member of the group was called on to stage. He came on. A boy of, perhaps, fifteen or sixteen years of age. The keyboard played the introduction, the backer drummers were playing their part. He lifted the microphone to his lips and sang, with an almost ethereal, haunting voice, “When Autumn leaves begin to fall”. His voice was so uncluttered with vibrato, so essential, so utterly pure, entirely transfixing. I wept. Not tears of sorrow, or pity. I cried for the sheer joy of the moment. For the sheer wonder of it all. I wish you could have heard it for yourself. Never before, (never!) had I been taught so sweet and so gentle a lesson, on what it means to be human.


For me, it is this kind of thing that the 2010 FIFA World Cup should be about. Yes, of course it is about soccer, and about able people performing extraordinary feats on the field. But if that is all it is about, we would have short changed ourselves and our people unforgivably. It is also about all of us who are never going to play in a world class team - "disabled" or not. It needs to be about celebrating our humanity, in all its diverse and wondrous forms.