South Africa loves MJ

Last night, I had just clicked "send" on my final brief for my legal writing class, and called a taxi so I could join my friends in the Melville section of Jo'Burg. After waiting 20 minutes in the blustery cold, my cabbie, a young Masters student at Wits, pulled up in front of my dorm. After a brief discussion about law and politics in the U.S. and South Africa, my cabbie's phone began lighting up with text messages and phone calls.

"No way. Don't tell me that! It isn't true," he said forcefully to the person on the other line. He hung up, looked at me, and cleared his throat. "Michael Jackson died."

WHAT????

He jammed his finger on all the radio buttons until he found a talk radio station. "CNN has not yet confirmed, but other news outlets have reported that Michael Jackson has died."

OMG. WHAT? Dead? As in -- DEAD?! I was speechless. My cabbie and I listened to the radio, silently, hearing all of the calls of condolences and MJ song dedications. We missed our turn. We didn't care. I didn't believe it. So I said to myself: "I won't believe it until CNN confirms it."

The driver and I parted ways, he looking solemn and I feeling a bit deflated, but still in denial. Michael Jackson didn't die -- he's the freaking King of Pop! So I went into the bar where I met up with my friends, who were already drinking and having a great time. And I didn't know whether to say anything about it, so I didn't for a while.

Until a good friend of mine from the States texted me: "Michael Jackson died of a heart attack." Say what? Heart attack? Damn. And then -- another text: "Michael Jackson is dead. :(" That was from my professor, our program coordinator. So, I looked to the South African-born, Mississippi-raised friend of mine and whispered: "Not to be a downer, or anything, but Michael Jackson died tonight."

And as word spread, both through my group of friends and throughout the clubs in Melville, the voices became a little lower; everyone began to talk a little slower and the hush of sobriety seemed to blanket my adopted home. It wasn't silent or even quiet, mind you, but there was a heaviness that lay upon all our shoulders, and likely on our hearts. But life goes on, and we all continued our celebrations: of life, of love, of an old chapter's end and a new chapter's beginning, of friendship and camraderie among people from all walks of life. And it seemed a fitting tribute to a man whose music and performances seemed to celebrate those very things.

But the point that the events of last night really drove home is that, all our superficial differences aside, we are all mortal, and we all share in our common humanity. That's a theme Michael Jackson often highlighted in his work, and we are all better for the message that his music conveyed. I hope that he will be remembered for the gift he was to world, rather than for the poor choices he made as a man. Because we are all human, and none of us is immune from the trials and tribulations of life. I think we recognized that last night -- in South Africa, in America -- worldwide. For all the things people may say that Michael Jackson was, I think that after the response to his death, we can all agree that he was indeed one thing: a uniter.

When I arrived back at my dormitory (around 5am), I passed my security guard, who was listening to the radio news coverage of Michael Jackson's death and shaking her head. "He had so so many problems and so so much heartache. That must have been what caused his heart to give out. Your heart can only take but so much." I reflected on her words as I lay in bed. And I fell asleep thinking: "May he finally rest in peace."

**South Africa/Michael Jackson factoid: Michael Jackson's last live performance on tour was in 1999 in Durban. South Africans have been proudly touting this fact all day, as well as the speculation that he had been watching the South African soccer team play Brazil before he died. South Africa loves them some MJ. So do I.**

In the presence of greatness

One thing that I've not mentioned since being in Johannesburg is the countless opportunities I've had to meet and interact with important figures in South African law, politics, and civil society. A few weeks ago, my group had dinner with Justice Arthur Chaskalson, the former Chief Justice of the Constitutional Court and one of the architects of the South African Constitution (who was also Nelson Mandela's attorney in the Rivonna trial and has been part of a commission that has been investigating the use of torture in the wake of the anti-terrorism movement). He was a fascinating man, who engaged all of us in discussions about the use of torture in the U.S., as well as polled us on our opinions of President Obama.

During the last week of the program, we had the honor of having Judge Daniel Nsereko, the President of the Appeals Chamber of the International Criminal Court in The Hague, Netherlands. A tall, soft-spoken man, Judge Nsereko is nevertheless a commanding but graceful presence. One day, in the middle of lecture, his cell phone began to ring. "I must take this, ladies and gentlemen. That is The Hague calling." He hastened out of the classroom, and we all began to laugh as we realized just how wet-behind-the-ears and inconsequential we all are in the world of international law. I guess you have to start somewhere.

There are a host of other great figures with whom we spent time -- far too many for me to mention. However, all of them were amazing, not just because of who they were and what they were accomplishing, but because they had taken time out of their busy schedules of saving the world to help train the next generation of human rights attorneys. They shared their time with us, and our experience was enriched one hundred times over as a result.

What an amazing program this has been!

June 16

Today was National Youth Day, a day which commemorates the Soweto Student Uprising of June 16, 1976. On June 16, 1976, students from all over Soweto protested the new government policy of instructing students in Afrikaans, the language of the apartheid (Afrikaner) government. Armed only with a passion for their cause, students walked out of their schools and took to the streets, demanding that they be instructed in their native languages. Unfortunately, the government, in an unprecedented show of force against civilians, opened fire on these primary and secondary schoolchildren, killing or wounding over 1,000.

To commemorate this somber occasion, we went to a Youth Day rally in a nearby township. I took pictures and video, which I will post next weekend when I have a more reliable internet connection. It simply takes too long for video and pictures to upload.



These guys are doing a dance that is, I believe, a traditional Zulu dance. Look at them KICK! The Rockettes got nothin on them.

When you're at a refugee camp in Jo'burg, try not to fit in.

I'm back from my brief hiatus just so I can share this little bit of advice: if you are black and touring a refugee camp in Africa, try your best to NOT fit in. Especially if said camp gets raided by the police and military.

Here's the story:

1. Blessed are the merciful
My classmates and I were touring a refugee camp that is set in a downtown Johannesburg Methodist church. The bishop, a kindly and passionate advocate for the poor, gave us a talk about his work at the camp and the challenges they face (including having been sued by a posh law firm located a few doors down to shut the camp down). Then, he invited us to tour the facility, meet the over 3,000 residents, and play with the children.

2. Blessed are the pure of heart
We started on the church's fifth floor, where we entered a small nursery through a dimly lit hallway. The floors lined with mattresses and blankets, the walls were painted with cartoon characters. I was greeted by a young boy, about two years old, who was wearing a blue corduroy shirt and waving to me from an open shower stall. He smiled as I waved back. A little girl in a pink windbreaker ran and hid in a crevice between the bureau and wardrobe. She was a bit overwhelmed by the 22 strangers who had interrupted her mid-morning nap.
---
As we continued downstairs, I shook hands and spoke to the church community's residents, many of whom were well-educated professionals in Zimbabwe, but had abandoned their country in the wake of Robert Mugabe's autocratic grab for power. Again, a few of my new acquaintances attempted to strike up a conversation with me in their native tongues. And again, I clumsily explained that I am an American, and I don't speak their language. Yet others mistook me for being a Coloured South African, and asked whether I spoke Afrikaans. No, I'm American; I speak English.

3. Blessed are the poor
I joked with a gentleman who was making a sign that read: "13 wives, 16 children, 7 goats, 3 cats." I asked what his sign meant, to which he replied: "These are all my responsibilities." "Really? 13 wives? You must be a wealthy man!" I smiled. He shrugged as his lips parted, exposing a row of white teeth. "Noooo, my sister. I have too many responsibilities -- that's why I'm poor!" He and I laughed together, he heartily and I uneasily. My life is a freaking cakewalk.

4. Blessed are the meek
We continued downstairs into the lower levels of the church, which housed the orphaned, older school-aged children. There were two boys in the dormitory, who were probably about fifteen or sixteen, cooking some sort of stew on a hot plate. They did not want to talk, and they hovered over the hot plate, seeking warmth and looking too busy to interact with the strange intruders.

5. Blessed are they who are persecuted
As we continued toward the basement of the refugee camp, the hallways became darker and colder. Then, we heard loud shouting and chaos. We couldn't see what was going on until we were greeted at the bottom of the stairs by heavily armed police officers and soldiers holding machine guns. They were yelling and shoving refugees up the stairs, as we were trying to make our way toward the exit. Suddenly, I felt several pokes in my side, but I could not see from where they were coming. Then, my arm was being pulled, and I stopped in my tracks.

"Who are you?" A white woman wearing a yellow windbreaker marked POLICE asked me.
"I'm uh, I'm an American"
"No you are not. Where are you from?" (At this point, I realized I had no ID on me. Well, they told us to pack light . . .)
"I'm from Las Vegas, in America. I'm a law student."
By this time, my fellow students (who were white) chimed in, just as a soldier holding a machine gun glared at me, gun just barely pointing past me.
"She's with us, Officer! She's a law student from America on a winter program at Wits." I turned and looked behind me, squinting and trying to see if I could find my professor, an American ex-pat who has made South Africa his home since 1990. The officer let go of my arm, then gruffly told us all to leave the building immediately. I was happy to have literally dodged a bullet, but I couldn't help but think of my new acquaintances, and whether where they had fled to (South Africa) was any improvement upon their troubled homeland (Zimbabwe). Here, they cannot participate in the formal economy. Here, they live in deplorable conditions and survive off of hope, faith, and the charity and compassion of others. Zimbabwe must be a real horror show.
----
So, we found our way out of the chaos. I calmly, but quickly, headed for the exit. As we exited, a crowd of people had gathered by the front gate of the church. And then, there were the soldiers, menacingly tapping their machine guns. And the police, who glared at each of us as we were shoved and pushed onto the street.

My adrenaline rush permitted me to laugh and joke about my brush with an automatic weapon. But, after I parted company with my colleagues, I sat in my room. And I cried. Mostly because I realized that my new acquaintances could not use their nationality as a shield. They had no white American friends to hide behind. So, they went through this sort of thing quite regularly. Sure -- it is necessary to have security sweeps within a refugee camp. There are many dangers that come along with the desperation of a people with no home and no comfort: drugs, alcohol abuse, rape, disease, and violence. But I wonder whether those rather aggressive police sweeps aren't motivated partly by racism and xenophobia.

Because when it came down to it, those police officers and soldiers saw me as black, but my white colleagues gave me credibility. And that made all the difference.

Brief hiatus

Hi folks.

I'll be busy for the next few days playing catch-up (from the two days of class I missed being sick with swine flu -- not really swine flu, but sick nonetheless), writing my Heads of Argument (like a brief), performing community service at an urban refugee camp, and visiting Soweto. So, I'm taking a brief hiatus from blogging. I'll be back next week.

Thanks!
Kareema

Pata Pata (My Safari Video)

Enjoy!

Heffalumps and Woozles

These are the elephants playing (or maybe fighting -- I can't tell) at the Pilanesberg National Game Preserve, South Africa's only malaria-free game park. Yes, people. Malaria free, which meant I didn't have to take those awful malaria meds. You have no idea how happy that made me!

I also have some pictures to share, but I can't upload them until this video finishes uploading. I'll put them in another post. Enjoy the video!

"I love the nightlife, " but please don't talk to me if you're not willing to invest 6 goats upfront.

We do not have class on Fridays, which allows us an opportunity for study, recreation, or pre-planned field trips. This week, we did not have any trips planned for Friday (although we have our mini-safari tomorrow), so Thursday night was like a Friday to us. So -- we went out with our South African friends.

The nightlife in Johannesburg is very similar to that in the States (save Las Vegas, which is like going from the farm team to the big leagues two weeks into the regular season). There are various bars, taverns, clubs, coffee houses, music venues, and after-hours restaurants to fit anyone's fancy. Last weekend, we ventured into Melville and went to a bar called Six, which is a relatively new venue with a young, upbeat crowd. We also went to a restaurant in one of the more, uh, lived-in districts (I don't want to worry my mom) which had live music by an Afro-Arab-Spanish fusion band, followed by a DJ who spun until about 4 am.

Back to this week (more specifically last night), we decided to head into the Newtown district and check out a place called Sophiatown (pronounced: Sef-eye-a town), a restaurant/lounge named after a famous racially integrated neighborhood that was tragically bulldozed by the apartheid government back in the early 1960s. [And now, a brief history lesson: Reminiscent of the village of Harlem in New York City, Sophiatown the township was very much a cultural center for blacks and coloreds (including the very few Chinese in Jo'Burg) -- a place where jazz, art, dance, and political resistance intersected. In its place, the government built a white suburb called Triomf (Afrikaans for "triumph").]

Anyway, the restaurant Sophiatown had a sort of bohemian atmosphere and was smartly decorated with photos and memorabilia of the fallen neighborhood, and the sounds of jazz and lively conversation wafted through the air. One of our South African classmates brought his old law school chum, who is now a clark (law clerk) for one of the Justices of the Constitutional Court. So we all were talking and enjoying our beverages, and I wanted to pick this guy's brain. So I did. And I found out that the Con Court accepts applications from foreign students to clark for their justices (for one 6-month term). AND at the end of the term, those clarks get scholarships to the LLM program of their choice. Food for thought.

I ended up getting much more information than I bargained for. After we talked about the different justices on the Court, their personalities, and their zany antics during oral argument, my new friend decided to tell me his life goals. The first of which was to have children within the next 3 years. This confused me, because he wasn't wearing a wedding band, and he didn't bring a girlfriend to the bar with him. And -- yes -- I'm nosy, so I asked: "Do you have the woman yet? I mean, babies don't get dropped onto your doorstep by the stork." Yes, I ALWAYS have to be a smart-alec. I was prepared for him to give me a snide reply, but instead, he said to me: "Well, I am looking for a wife. Maybe you would be interested in this job?"

Uh, no thanks, sir. I'm just here to break stuff. Talk about a buzzkill -- he was only talking to me because he wanted to drop that completely lame marriage proposal. And, unlike the men who wanted to marry me in Turkey, he didn't even offer any livestock in exchange for my hand! Shoot, I'm American, sucka. As a public service announcement to all South African men: I am not interested in making a love connection. And even if I were, your average Joes could not afford me. My bride price needs to be paid in U.S. Dollars, and it WILL be steep!

Let's figure out Kareema's bride price by engaging in a simple calculation:
Attributes
Years of schooling: 22
Excellent cook: +5
No children from a previous thing: +5
Not hard on the eyes: +5
American = bratty: -2

So we add up the attributes: 22+5+5+5-2= 35
That's the number of goats I get as my bride price. Then, you must convert to cash, because my parents aren't farmers. I think one goat = approx $2,000 USD.
Thus: 2,000 x 35 = $70,000 USD

That's enough to pay off most of my student loans! Maybe I CAN afford to go into Human Rights advocacy . . .

Anyway, I decided to stay in my freezing cold dorm room tonight, mostly because I have a cold and want to be well enough to go on the safari tomorrow. But partially because I cannot hack another goatless marriage proposal. Come correct, brothers!

A word about the 2010 World Cup and cleaning up Johannesburg

If you haven't any interest whatsoever in soccer (football), you may still have heard that Johannesburg is the host city for the 2010 World Cup tournament. This is a big deal to South Africans, largely because of their love of the sport, but also because they are anxious to showcase their country to the world. Every time I meet a local, they ask me whether I know anything about soccer, then proudly tell me about the upcoming World Cup. I quickly learned that the easiest way to make a friend in South Africa was to mention how exciting it must be for the World Cup to be coming to Jo'burg.

The country is already abuzz with anticipation. Of course, there is much to do in the next year. Currently, there is an effort to "Clean Up Jo'Burg." A group of young people have taken it upon themselves to mobilize the community and clean up the city. Here's an article from The Times:
Big Joburg clean-up for 2010
Nkosana Lekotjolo Published:May 11, 2009

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An ambitious group of youngsters is sweeping clean the streets of Johannesburg for the 2010 soccer World Cup.




2010 Special Report


The group of about 700 young volunteers, organised by the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, has embarked on a massive clean-up campaign under the banner “New Vision for 2010.”

They want to ensure that Johannesburg, and its surrounds are spotless during the biggest sporting event to be held in this country.

The spokeswoman for the group, Nametso Mofokeng, said the volunteers were hoping that soccer lovers and tourists would be greeted by a ‘ ‘clean and fresh host city”.

‘‘Litter is a big problem in the city centre and young people are eager to make a difference,” said Mofokeng.

‘‘The city [council] is trying its best to clean up, but the problem is too big. That is why we are coming on board.”

She said the project wanted to recruit more than a thousand people, plus the homeless and hawkers.

‘‘We are also educating the community about the importance of keeping the city clean and [having] a healthy lifestyle,” said Mofokeng.

The clean-up campaign was launched on Workers’ Day, when the group cleaned up Park railway station, and the Noord and Bree street taxi ranks, where littering is a big problem.

Mofokeng said the group would ask businesses for sponsorship.

‘‘We will continue cleaning the city every month,” she vowed.

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On the other hand, it's going to take a lot more than a few extra trash pick-ups to clean up this very troubled city. Johannesburg is one of the most dangerous cities on the planet, in terms of violent crime, police corruption, and motor vehicle accident-related deaths. A few days ago, our professor warned us to keep our dorm room doors locked at all times, as a young man was robbed at gunpoint across from the dorm where the other American students are staying. I know how to keep myself safe in a crazy city (uh -- New York, Newport "Bad" News, Las Vegas), but many of my colleagues do not. Lucky for them, they have me around to look crazy enough for nobody to want to mess with us. :)

The other thing I have going for me is people always mistake me for being one of them. It has happened to me more than once that someone will sit down in front of me and attempt to strike up a conversation with me in their language. And I just smile and feel like an idiot before I inform them that I'm American. Which totally blows their minds. One guy's face lit up and he said: "You know Obama?"

Yeah, I know Obama. And lions and elephants roam freely in downtown Johannesburg.

But, back to soccer, I think it is worth mentioning that sports in South Africa were also played according to race. Rugby was for Whites; Cricket was for Coloreds; and soccer was a black man's game. That division has definitely loosened up a bit since the end of apartheid. Although cricket is still vastly Indian and Colored, white nd black South Africans have joined the game. Rugby has been greatly integrated, with several star players on the South African team being black. Most South Africans love soccer -- watching and playing. So it is truly a big deal for this country to have its home sport return home. Hopefully, soccer will be able to return to a clean home in 2010.

The Professor and Moodle

My professor is a mess! We have a reading assignment that the university was supposed to photocopy and provide us with in class today. But that, like many other things on this program, didn't quite happen the way it was planned. So our prof uploaded it to this strange coursework site called Moodle. MOODLE?! What the heck is that, I wondered.

I wondered it in an email to my prof (which had asked him to send an e-copy to the class), to which he responded:
Moodle is a name coined by those who are dedicated to eradicating the world of noodles. As pasta are not protected under the genocide convention, Moodlists are not considered genocidaires. But are they pastists?

Now, there is nothing I can say to that. I am not quite as clever as he, but I was not to be outdone, so I wrote:

Some movements are so transcendent they defy all attempts to label them. Perhaps Moodle is one such movement.

Nerds, the lot of us.


(From left to right: Ron, my prof; Yours Truly; hallmate, Jen)