June 16 2011: Let us support a wider range of youth programmes

Youth development is not just about programmes that facilitate access to jobs - as important as that is. It is also about endorsing youth in their organisational and political activities as well as supporting social programmes that advance the role of youth as active citizens. Read my views on this at http://sacsis-org-za.win24.wadns.net/site/article/688.1.

Lewin's Stones Against the Mirror is a milestone

The book 'Stones Against the Mirror' is another in a slew of South African books that look back on the past through the autobiography/memoir lens. The motivation for this kind of book, one takes it, is an author's need for things that happened in the past to be better understood or to ensure the past (or bits that are important to the writer) is not forgotten.  In other cases, the autobiography or memoir – as someone once said – is  a case of the writer saying … “see what I have been through”.

Hugh Lewin was part of an underground resistance movement, the African Resistance Movement. Made up of mostly white activists, they deployed violence to try to prevent the white electorate from sinking into a false complacency. All this was at a time of apartheid repression, a time when black movements and voices were being silenced. The strategy was to launch dynamite attacks on installations, in the process avoiding human injury or death. In 1964, Lewin went to jail for 7 years after Adrian Leftwich gave Lewin's name to the Security Police and after Leftwich and John Lloyd testified against him.

Hugh Lewin wrote his book for particular purposes, not explained but apparent. The reader is left with the clear impression that the book is a part of the same search for healing that is covered in the latter part of the book. Lewin wants to deal with certain deeply felt and unresolved things; he wants to slay some demons.

On the cover, it is noted that the book is about friendship. Actually, the book is better described as being about betrayal, about Lewin's crippling sense that he was betrayed by someone very close to him, about his long interregnum of bitterness, and about his quest for the final 'closure' through making peace with his (former) buddy. Thus the book is in many senses Lewin's own TRC (Truth and Reconciliation Committee) process - a painful process of retelling what took place and exorcising the ghosts.

What is great about the book? First, Stones Against the Mirror is powerful in its interiority and subjectivity. There is the broad canvas of politics (a further filling in of the resistance history); but the spotlight is also trained on personal issues, on interactions and on growth and development of Lewin and his relationships. Under discussion, at times in unflinching ways, are personal trauma, bitterness and the psychological process called healing. Secondly the book adds to the historical record. It covers a period – and a strand of resistance – that is often missed when the commemorations and reflections are done. Thirdly, it contains instances of brutal honesty (critical reflections). For example, he provides exacting reflection about the nature of sabotage activities, how naive and adventurous some aspects of this were and how, when the clampdown began, Lewin had no escape plan to deal with such an eventuality. Fourthly, the book adopts some sharp viewpoints about race and how race functioned in society. Discussing attitudes in boarding school, the outlook of his father, etc., Lewin shows how racist thinking permeated the society. He takes the black consciousness view when he notes how difficult it would be in such a context for someone from the privileged white group to claim no involvement: only deliberate action as opposed to neutrality was needed.

But the book also raised a number of issues at different levels, some of them controversial. (Some of these issues were also alluded to in the discussion at the book launch in Johannesburg on 9 April 2011. In the comment below, I refer to some of these issues.)

Constructing what happened: The book demonstrates the extent that history is a construct. In this sense, writing history is both non non-fiction and the work of the imagination. This book shows how difficult it is to achieve agreement as to 'what happened'. The angles regarding what occurred are many – the security police, the court record, Leftwich's writing (some of it self-serving) and now Hugh Lewin trying to piece it all together so many years later. [Writing about happenings, conversations and reactions so many decades ago is extremely difficult - who can remember exactly what was said and, in all cases, the precise sequence of events? There is a great deal of making up. Normally the process is rendered more credible through corroboration of stories and cross checking of facts. However, in a tale filled with such contestation and conflict such as Lewin's, constructing the story appears to be a far more difficult and charged process].

What is left out: “Stones” is interesting for what is left out or the silences in the book. For example, Lewin does not indicate what his current attitude to John Lloyd is, and why the latter is not included in Lewin’s 'making peace' process. At his book launch, Stephanie Kemp, a struggle stalwart and a former ARM activist, raised this very issue; Lewin responded that it was Lloyd who wanted nothing to do with him.

Forgiving: The book raises the vexed question of 'forgiving' – what is it, who is entitled to it and whether forgiveness can be deployed regardless of the perpetrator’s attitude or active participation in it? Hugh Lewin himself refuses to describe his peace-making interactions with Leftwich and the security policeman Johannes Viktor as being about forgiving them. For him, it is much more about his own process of dealing with nightmares and letting go (of bitterness?, of anger?) and of moving forward. There are contradictions between the TRC mode and the approach he adopted in relation to the two: Lewin makes peace with the two without requiring full explanations in return.

Each reader of this book must answer (for themselves) the question as to whether this book is a full unburdening or whether they judge it as unsatisfactory because of the gaps. It is true, as Claudia Braude raised with him at his book launch, that Lewin is stingy on detail in his description of the meeting with Leftwich? (This meeting is a key focal point of the book). It is also true that the book is silent about his feelings regarding John Lloyd today. While readers always want “all” to be told, Lewin may retort that he has never punted the book as being about ‘truth’ or the whole story, but about friendship.

I have a dual response to Stones Against the Mirror. One part of me, the one that espouses intellectual rigour, asks for more about this process of closure (the how, the why); that same part joins in to highlight gaps, silences and inconsistencies. Another part of me applauds this work as a milestone, and  views the book as a wonderful piece of recollection. It foregrounds a neglected strand of resistance during an important historical period. This second part of me asserts that Lewin should be saluted for having given so much of himself while writing ‘Stones” (that in a book that stands out for highlighting the personal/psychological while also narrating broader political events).

[Please feel free to add your comment in the Comment box]

The vision, talent and inspiration of jazz giant Zim Ngqawana lives on

Zim Ngqawana has certainly left his mark. Reports in the media this week referred to him as a genius. His 'son', Ludwe, drafting the press statement, referred to him as an icon. These superlatives are no exaggeration; Zim was a professional musician of note  – one who operated in the world as if he had a clear mission and a singular calling.

On 9 May 2011 Zim played his beloved instruments for the last time. Rehearsing at his Johannesburg home for a forthcoming gig, he collapsed and was rushed to hospital where he died the next day from effects of a stroke.

Saxophonist, flautist and composer extraordinaire, Zim was highly talented and inventive, creating distinctive sounds and boldly combining various styles of jazz. Musically he was a visionary. He was always pushing the boundaries, trying to go beyond what he created before and frequently fusing indigenous sounds with stylistic elements from the canon of western jazz. He never patronised his audiences, always believing in their capacity to appreciate the avant-garde.

He not only played music for his and others' enjoyment, music for him was a meditative space. Through it, he seemingly strove to reach a deeper core of human existence. Many of those who listened to him came to appreciate this and turned up at his gigs with a fitting mindset. Others did not quite get this, sometimes causing Zim frustration as he played. They did not get that he wanted music to be approached with a certain reflectiveness, that his stage could be seen as an altar that could help life-weary listeners enter a sacred space (even if that place was the space within). It’s not that he opposed people having a beer or scotch in the venues where he played; but he did hate it when a venue was like a bar-room -- when excessive drinking and raucous banter superseded the listening.

Zim had many visions, some might even say lofty ones, for his music. This is why he called it Zimology – he saw it as an approach, a way of thinking and a way of being in culture. Music to him was part of a journey of spiritual discovery he was undertaking. In radio interviews, questioned about his music, he found an incredible articulateness about the meaning of his music. Tapping into his inner core, he spoke wisely about the deeper sources and meanings of music.

I haven’t seen him much in recent months, but in earlier times  – a few years back  – he was driven by a need to try to create a physical home for Zimology. He dreamed of establishing a renowned jazz club cum rehearsal space cum academy. He identified certain buildings/venues and submitted offers or expressions of interest, but nothing came of this. He bought a farm in Walkerville and some wonderfully crazy, creative and collaborative things happened there. But this venue never really took off in a big way. The dream of a special and spectacular 'space' always eluded him, slipping through his fingers.

Zim established two organisations to carry his vision, the Zimology Institute and the Zimology Development Institute (Zimdi). Zimdi expressed his commitment to young artists and was meant to be the forerunner of the major academy he dreamed of. There were debates about how much the work of Zimdi would be structured and how much would be a kind of loose mentorship based on the idea that the protégé would learn from spending time with, observing and listening to the Master. Numerous young artists  – rough diamonds  – were nurtured and honed by Zim, and have emerged as accomplished musicians in their own right. Zim was by nature a person constantly generating knowledge, thinking and insights. With the exception perhaps of jamming with fellow jazz musicians, he liked nothing better than sitting in a lounge or a kitchen talking, reflecting and discussing. These discussions covered views of life, culture and, as often lately, existential questions.

Zim achieved greatness in seemingly deft and clear-guided ways, but much of it was underpinned by relentless hard work. He won many awards and played with renowned jazz musicians across the world. He netted a slew of SAMA awards and, early on, was hailed as the brightest and most exciting young jazz artist in Mzansi. He featured as a solo saxophonist at the inauguration of Nelson Mandela as president in 1994.

But lately, things for Zim began to move to a certain point – a decidedly downward turn. His health took a dip when he had more than one minor stroke in the last three years. His farm was vandalized and a grand piano senselessly damaged. As is the case for most jazz musicians, it was a struggle to ensure strong and steady income streams from his work. He saw his dream of establishing an iconic jazz club and successful academy wither, thanks to closed doors on the part of financial institutions and myopic vision from relevant public bodies. His mood became sombre and sometimes depressed, and in an interview just after he turned 50, he made a point of discussing his mortality. Latterly, he even began to wonder if jazz would ever get its place in the sun and be properly appreciated in our society. He seemed to be overcome by a weariness and he told one friend days before his untimely death that he was overwhelmed and another that he needed rest.

At his funeral on 10 May, a rainy evening, scores of people packed his home to say their final farewells. Although there were many musicians present, there was no sound of a musical instrument to be heard. Even at the graveside, there seemed to be a sombreness. We should have been celebrating an icon, remembering him with bold brassy sounds and vibrant vocals; instead, the mood and much of the discussion between mourners was pensive and somewhat downbeat. Perhaps it was just the rain and the mud and the piles of slippery brown leaves on the roadway and the verges. Perhaps and more likely, it was the huge sense of loss – our realization that, even though Zim would be with us in so many ways thereafter, we would not see him play on stage again, at one with the sound being created and, simultaneously, profoundly connected with those present.

One thing is for sure: the greatness, the inventiveness and the pioneer spirit that is Zim will live on in the oeuvre of great works he produced, and in the hearts of his numerous followers. He was a grand master of his game, and has laid down tracks and planted signposts that will influence jazz for many many decades to come. I honour him – go well, anointed one....

(Please feel free to add your views in the comment box). 11 May 2011.

Memory and the present clash in The Pump Room, a dynamic new play

Allan Horwitz’s play, the Pump Room, which just finishes its run at the Theatre in the District in Cape Town, should have attracted much greater attention from audiences and reviewers alike. But this small production, lacking a big budget and the marketing muscle of the big theatre houses, has for now made only a tiny blip on the theatre scene. Pity.


The play has interesting structural elements. The narrative is built around the central metaphor of a pump room – around the sluggish but rhythmic work of pumps to depollute, clean up and freshen out water so that it can be fit for public use.

Although the specific comment is about how former security policemen have reinvented themselves and function (in often toxic ways) in the new dispensation, there is an implicit reference to wider comment about corruption in society.

At one level, the play throws light on how emotions, issues and trauma of the past have washed over into the present. At another level, it shows how the evil deeds, manipulation, terror and human exploitation, including exploitation of women, continue into the present.

Horwitz juggles the characters between crosscutting lines of conversation, between the male and female poles and between the claustrophobic pump room setting and the sea-view location. He manages to maintain the balance (and precariously so) without letting it all collapse in confusion. The banter between characters becomes fast-paced; everyone struggling for some control of their situation by defending who they are, using verbal sniping, pushing their view of life and all too often sticking the knife into each other's flaws.

In the end, memory and the present jar but also, in a strange way, work to form a coherent whole. For the characters, the memories opens wounds and surfaces unresolved issues. But for the audience, as the past is revealed, it helps to explain the distorted relationships and the strange bonds. The information about the past brings a frame of understanding and even empathy.

The play is political but also invokes the personal dimension. It skillfully raises the question: what is it that prevents the individual from breaking out of paralysis so they can move forward with some sense of future and purpose? How much of the 'stuckness' is due to external forces, and how much is due to the demons, often un-named, that we carry with us?

It was a pity the show attracted such small audiences, as I said. The powerful piece forms part of a broader phenomenon. There is currently a flourish of new works, in literature and the theatre, that focus on the past (the days when apartheid reigned supreme) or show how the new democracy is still shadowed by ghosts of the past. The Pump Room links particularly to works that show how individuals, including those who were involved in the struggle, were traumatized and brought close to breaking point by what they went through. For a good number of such people, while many aspects of life in Mzansi move forward, they remain on the sidelines, trying to reassemble their life. Although the social situation cries out for selfless champions, for the kind of value-driven activists that they were, they are unable to bring themselves to drive the dynamic social change agenda that they fought for in earlier times.

Horwitz, in his guise as a playwright and director, is an important new voice - one that believes in the vibrancy, ongoing relevance and life-giving quality of politically-oriented theatre. Skillfully directed and well acted, the Pump Room’s brief run is over; one hopes that it will be staged again in the near future.

Lewis Nkosi: a giant of SA literature

A giant has fallen with the passing of Lewis Nkosi (Sunday 5 Sept. 2010). He was one of only a tiny few of the so-called Drum writers that lived on into the last five to ten years; not only that, he continued to be prolific and powerful with the written word for this extended period.

In this sense, he was an ongoing resource and a re-energising force in South Africa’s literary affairs and in critical discourses related to it, enriching in distinctive ways the dialogues, conversations and reflections on the emergence and future directions of our literature. He held a perspective and boasted an involvement that spanned several key phases in the development of black writing in Mzansi.

The experience of being a 'Drum writer' – a reference to black writers that worked at Drum magazine in the pre 1960s period – functioned as a powerful platform for Nkosi. It contributed to his qualities of always being engaged and refusing an ivory tower detachment from what fellow black South Africans were living through. Also, something of the wry humour, the twinkle in the eye, the brashness, the willingness to lash out at oppression –qualities associated with the Drum writers – always remained with him.

However, his journey and transitions took him light years beyond the Drum writer categorisation; in other words, he was so much more. Utilising his articulateness and perceptiveness, he has added in immense ways to the understanding of literature and black voices in literature. He was able to embrace the Drum writer identity and at the same time adopt a helicopter vision and critically observe the "Drum writer' phenomenon as well as other features of literary expression in South Africa.

In his literary criticism, he wrote with insight on the ‘schism’ as well as the common ground between the inzile and exile writer. He often bemoaned the fact that repression and censorship in the post-60s meant young writers were deprived of their heritage (access to the work of writers driven into exile).

Nkosi [author of Mating Birds (Perennial fiction library) and Mandela's Ego] was a master with words and a fount of insights; he was inventive, clever, bold in his novel writing and non-sentimental as a commentator. He possessed a deep understanding of the relationship between literature and society and of how the writer is influenced by, and illuminates, understanding of society. He applied this understanding adeptly to the dynamic and ever-charged South African situation. Lewis Nkosi is gone far too soon, but through his works (essays, plays and novels) he will continue to dialogue with us about a diverse range of issues related to our literature and its development as the process of democratic change continues in our society.

(For further reading, see also the following text on Nkosi: Still Beating the Drum: Critical Perspectives on Lewis Nkosi (Cross/Cultures 81) (Cross/Cultures: Readings in the Post/Colonial Literatures in))

Mandela and leadership: Leading from the deck & leading from behind

One of the greatest leadership lessons from Nelson Mandela is that you can lead from the front or the back; and that the dynamic leader frequently alternates between the two.

At times the leader steps boldly to the front, setting the pace and spearheading decisions on critical and urgent issues facing the organisation. At other times, the leader opts for a more recessed position, providing a framework or an anchor that gives strength in the midst of turbulence.

During his long journey of social and political commitment, Nelson Mandela at times led as the captain on the deck, so to speak. At other times his leadership role was a background role, much more in line with the notion of a leader-filled society. Nelson Mandela's leadership style, and the approaches within that, has much to teach us. Here is a schematic view of how he alternated between the two leadership approaches:

Relevant period or initiative	Leadership approach
Defiance Campaign	Leading from the front
Rivonia Trial	Leading from the front
Internment on Robben Island & the period of armed struggle	Leading from behind
Negotiations	Leading from the front
Constitutional negotiations	Leading from behind
New democracy: Reconciliation	Leading from the front
New democracy: delivery and redress	Leading from behind
Eschewing a second term (as president of S.A.)	Leading from behind
Decision to retire (from active public role)	Leading from behind

During the Defiance Campaign, Nelson Mandela occupied the decidedly upfront role of Volunteer in Chief.

At the Rivonia trial, Mandela led from the front. Faced with the possibility of a death sentence in the context of a hostile courtroom and an unfavourable legal system, the trialists took a courageous and firm stand, based on a belief in justice. Nelson Mandela played the central role in forging that stand – cementing his reputation as a forceful leader in the face of adversity and a fearless campaigner for justice. In his speech from the dock (in 1964) he famously said that the ideal of a democratic society was one for which he was “…. prepared to die”.

Later while in prison serving a life sentence, Mandela appeared to understand that the leadership of others would be foregrounded. Oliver Tambo and Joe Slovo, for example, took up central leadership roles and Mandela regularly deferred to them on many questions facing the organisation. In prison, Mandela advised the other ANC leaders that they were inmates who should view themselves as political prisoners rather than leaders. This meant accepting the limitations on the role they could play – and also, critically, embracing the reality that political prisoners could not and should not engage in negotiations. Of course Mandela remained a leader and a symbolic force, but in the armed struggle context, he was not central (in the same way as before) in the day to day life of the movement.

Emerging from prison into the pre-democracy negotiations, he again stepped into the forefront, leading from the front. In the negotiations, and the period immediately thereafter, he was at the cutting edge.

Mandela very early on began to step aside from part of his presidential roles to allow Mbeki to become prominent. He skilfully prepared the public and the world for the reality of a democratic South Africa led by someone other than himself.

As leaders such as Mandela have shown, through leading from a position within the ranks, the leader can work more intensively and purposefully on the ethos, on general practice and on values. He or she can deepen the contribution to these aspects, in many cases a process begun but sometimes not consolidated when a leader is totally absorbed in the cut and thrust. From the rear vantage point, the leader has the space to elaborate certain ideas and to think about how he or she might institutionalise values. From that background position, he or she can provide the grounding and depth that nutures leadership and builds astuteness at all levels, thus promoting organisational sustainability.

In practice, leading from behind does not necessarily mean a leader has more time at their disposal, opts for a less intensive role or is retreating from responsibilities. The pressures and demands on time may be as great. However, because the leader that operates from the background is somewhat removed from the more reactive space, she has room to apply herself to broader questions – and to prioritise what is important (but perhaps less urgent) over crises and immediate pressures.

As Linda Hill has pointed out, Nelson Mandela has explicitly endorsed leading from behind and has done so through drawing parallels with how the shepherd handles the sheep in his care. In his autobiography, Mandela noted that the shepherd “stays behind the flock” steering them from behind. In this piece, I continue my theme of leadership lessons from the great man; I show how Mandela has used this leadership mode in conjunction with the more conventional “leading from the front,” depending on the requirements of particular situations.

Mandela's values: reconciliation & a complicated transition

The values of Mandela have been described and listed in a variety of ways; almost always, reconciliation features at the top and as a central part of his legacy. This reconciliation is also said to be embedded in the leadership style of Nelson Mandela, especially of the man that emerged from 27 years of imprisonment at the hands of the apartheid system.

The issue was brought to the fore again in a recent discussion (29 July 2010) at Wits Theatre Johannesburg where writers such as Nadine Gordiner, Achmat Dangor, John Kani and Chilean-American Ariel Dorfman shared a stage.

Reconciliation, according to John Kani, was flawed if it did not bring about social justice. In a segment from his play - Nothing But The Truth - that Kani read out on the night, the character Sipho insisted that he wanted a white policeman that shot his son during the apartheid conflict brought to court and found guilty.

While Sipho wanted the perpetrator to pay for his unjust deed (retribution), John Kani the author spoke of the need for justice, for reconciliation to be accompanied with 'righting' of wrongs and for payback in the sense of socio-economic justice for the black community. While retribution and revenge, taken either personally or historically, are never a resolution, Kani's call for restoration makes sense. If, for example, you steal my bicycle, it is not enough for you to say sorry to me when your actions catch up with you. It is reasonable that I expect you to return the bicycle to me.

For Dorfman, who spoke at a screening of a film in which he featured earlier in the same week, the question of reconciliation came to the fore in an oblique way. He did not use the term, but he noted that one of the greatest errors (leading to the downfall of the Salvador Allende government in 1973) was the failure to respond creatively to the middle class who feared that they would lose everything (property, farms, businesses, ownership rights, their wealth). "We should have realised we could not implement radical social change without getting the middle class on our side," he said. The 1973 coup ejected the democratically elected government and began a 15-year reign of repression that included widespread killings, torture and disappearances.

Reflecting on these two perspectives - Kani's and Dorfman's - one can see how Mandela's reconciliaton was, on the one hand, correct and, on the other hand, incomplete.

Emerging from prison to see close at hand a society fraught with violent conflict and as deeply divided as ever, Mandela was keen to undermine mobilisation of the right wing and to disrupt the possibility of solid (white) middle class sympathy for such forces. In this context, he skilfully crafted his reconciliation approach and led its implementation within the negotiation process and at various levels in society.

The 'Mandela Way', so to speak, involved - while putting in place universal political and civil rights - breaking down divides between people, establishing symbols acceptable on all sides, emphasizing a shared humanity and personally reaching out to various population groups and in particular the Afrikaner community. These approaches form core parts of his leadership style.

I term this reconciliation 'functional reconciliation'. Needless to say, it was critically important and a vital part of the transformation process - avoiding a slide into a sustained period of violent upheavel and militarised resistance to democratic change.It speaks to the astute leadership and the acute historical understanding on the part of Madiba.

The challenge now is to move from 'functional reconciliation' to a substantive reconciliation - one in which elements of restorative justice and reparations are strongly present and in which greater economic justice helped to create a well-grounded stability and a 'just peace'.