The media wars that shape our reality

They say a lot of things, they do. Some are true, some, not so. One of the things they say is that there are two sides to every story. Journalism students are made to be particularly aware of this and reminded constantly that their role is to objectively report on both.

But what if objective reporting is impossible? What if there are more than two sides to a story and what if the journalists reporting back to us don’t even know this – or, if they do, can’t (or don’t) do anything about it?

I’m currently reading People Like us: Misrepresenting the Middle East by Dutch journalist Joris Luyendijk and man has it struck a chord! I confess that though I hold a degree in journalism I’ve never practised in the field and am not particularly diligent about reading the papers or following the news generally. In fact, it is my constant fear that I will be asked a question on current affairs and in attempting to answer it will expose my absolute lack of social and political intelligence.

So along comes Mr Luyendijk to reignite my interest in the mechanics of the media. For me the book is less about ‘the situation’ in the Middle East and more a reminder of the way political systems, PR and media shape our view of the world.

I have never been to Israel, nor have I experienced life in Palestine or Iraq, or spent time in Syria. Hell, aside from one or two acquaintances with a connection to Israel, I don’t even interact with people from these counties. Therefore, my entire opinion of what does or does not happen in these foreign lands is entirely in the hands of the likes of the BBC and The Guardian, who are in turn often in the hands of government officials.

Was I aware of the polished Israeli approach to media briefings following ‘incidents’? No. Within my Western framework, can I even begin to understand the notion of dictatorship and what that means for freedom of expression? Alas, no, because I have no concept of what it means to feel like your every thought is being policed and that this fear determines what one can and can’t tell a magazine reporter or show a camera crew. And what about words, the very things I claim to love? Have I ever stopped to really think about the lexicon used in the news and how this affects meaning? For example, how I react to an army “attacking” verses and army “acting” or “intervening, or to the word “assassination” versus the term “preventive military strike”. You know what, probably not.

In part this is just because I am getting on with my own life and as I don’t have the time to deconstruct the media, I put my faith in the fact that the media I am choosing to consume are genuinely able to provide a trustworthy account of things. I fear this is impossible and because I have no other genuine source of knowledge, I have no way of knowing what I am missing.

It’s scary to think that media coverage is probably the sole informant behind my understanding of ‘terrorism’, ‘fundamentalism’ and various other ‘isms’ that I have no first-hand experience of.

The rise of social media
Social media is, of course, starting to add a degree of balance. The use of tools like Facebook and Twitter, and even Blackberry Messenger and Whatsapp, to share user-generated content and organise normal citizens – as seen in the uprisings in Syria and in the UK riots of 2011 – means that the formal media is no longer the sole source of information. So if I want to verify what I see on BBC, I could turn to Twitter for ‘news on the ground’. Yet dictatorships will still affect who has access to these social media tools and can, therefore, still influence what views spread.

And so the real meaning of a media war becomes clear. It’s not about war and strife being covered by the world’s media and fighting for the best bits, it’s about a war that is carried out in the media and in many ways, shaped by that media. A TV channel that finds it has great footage of an event/ incident, may well decide to headline that evening’s news with the story. Another TV channel which finds its footage lacking in impact may instead choose to run the piece as a minor soundbite only. And so different audiences form different views based on how the media has presented the story and what the powers-that-be have provided by way of briefing material.

It’s scary to think that media coverage is probably the sole informant behind my understanding of ‘terrorism’, ‘fundamentalism’ and various other ‘isms’ that I have no first-hand experience of. This affects what political party I vote for, which charities I support and what comments I make on Twitter. Scarier still is the knowledge that you can never know what you don’t know. Unless you’ve experienced it, you don’t know that the intense loyalty shown by that man on the 8pm news is part of his insurance policy, the thing that will protect his family from harm by his country’s rulers. You don’t know that if the camera had zoomed out of its tight framing around the ‘violent mob’ you would have seen that this ‘mob’ was no more than a handful of people amidst a sea of bemused onlookers.

Even if you decide to carry out some research of your own, your search on Google will deliver different results to what I will see even if we search using the exact same term at the exact same time. This, because Google – and other search engines – will return results based on previous searching behaviour and will therefore decide what you are most likely to want to find, not necessarily what you should find.

Despite the sheer volume of information at our very fingertips, it seems we are as far away from true knowledge – and wisdom – as ever we were. Would it be too cynical of me to say so much for truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

And what time do you call this?!

Surely the best part of the day lies in those few minutes between when the alarm goes off in the morning and when you actually get out of bed. The bed is just the right temperature, your mind is a comfortable sort of hazy, and unless you’ve knocked the water glass off the side table in your fumble for the alarm, nothing has had a chance to annoy you yet. This is probably why I try and extend this time for as long as possible each morning. And why I am constantly late.

Not for everything, mind you, just for morning-based activities of the salt-mines variety. I realised I was probably taking this approach to punctuality a little too far when my arrival into work a few minutes earlier than my usual degree of lateness the other day was met with whoops and cheers. And when my manager, with an overt dose of sarcasm, asked whether I might be able to make a special appearance at normal start time the next day in order to cover a meeting for him, I knew I was going to have to start mending my ways*.

But it’s so hard! Not to mention seemingly ingrained in me. Just last week whilst reminiscing over our childhood, my brother told me off for constantly making him late for school. Really? I honestly don’t remember. I do remember getting dressed for school whilst still in bed under the covers though so maybe that had something to do with it.  Funnily enough I seem to be able to manage just fine on a weekend or on holiday when waking early means treats of the experiential variety!

 I realised I was probably taking this approach to punctuality a little too far when my arrival into work a few minutes earlier than my usual degree of lateness the other day was met with whoops and cheers.

Now that I’ve learned this about myself I wonder whether it doesn’t explain a few other things, like why I sometimes feel I’m just a little bit behind on where I should be in life. It’s true I am stubbornly reluctant to participate in any activity currently being obviously indulged in by the rest of the population.  It’s why my refusal to read anything by Stieg Larsson continues, why I have still not watched The Silence of the Lambs, Basic Instinct or Avatar, and why I will probably only consider buying leggings when they are consigned very firmly to the retro bin. So it stands to reason that maybe it is also why at the ripe old age of 28…okay, 31. Alright, alright, 33. At the ripe old age of 33, I am only now figuring out what I want to do with my life while my younger brother seems to be nearing early retirement as a squillionaire.

But no, ‘worry’ is the wrong term, because I’m not actually that worried, just a bit amazed that’s it’s taken me this long to get here. It’s why I’ve dubbed 2012 ‘The year of Living Bravely’. It’s a year for taking risks, making changes, embracing opportunity and dusting oneself off when the inevitable trips occur. It’s incredibly energising and therefore a fitting first post to this blog for 2012! And if you want to follow one of my brave adventures for 2012, check out my new monthly column in the African Business Journal which launches this Friday, 20th January. Whoopaah!

*Disclaimer: Acknowledgement of weakness with regards to getting out of bed early should not be read as an absolute commitment to improvement.  

Deck the bores with boughs of folly

I am wearing green tights today. Very green tights. And red lipstick, a Christmas wreath necklace and a santa hat. T’is the season to be jolly after all, and dammit I am going to be jolly today even in this big shiny monument to banking in which I peddle my trade.

It is no secret that I embrace festivities that allow me to accessorize – Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny were huge influences during my formative years and continue to be major players. Perhaps the theatricality of my standard seven English literature teacher rubbed off too because it strikes me that were I to enter a classroom of 14 year olds today I would not look dissimilar to thatcrazy woman who wore bright coloured tights and taught us Macbeth (or was it Hamlet…?) standing on a desk, an academic gown over her shoulders, brandishing a ruler for a sword! Yip, I suspect I am now that crazy old lady! Not that I consider myself old, mind you, but I believe I have reached that age when supposedly trendy jeans and Converse trainers , especially when worn shopping in Waitrose, simply give me away as being a middle class suburbanite edging towards middle age!

Yet no matter my age or my costume, I have no doubt that Christmas will always be a special time of year for me. I am so grateful for wonderful memories of Christmasses past with homes full to bursting with relatives and love. I remember the year our house was so overflowing with relatives that us kids were sent to sleep in the caravan in the garden. As children do, we awoke bright and VERY early on Christmas morning and pummelled on the front door to get my uncle – who was also bedroom-less and so lay sleeping under the shadow of the Christmas tree in the lounge – to let us in. He opened the door with an expression of pure disgust and upon hearing that all we wanted was to be let in to check the state of the loot, promptly shut the door on us! Naturally my brother then tried to pick the lock with a twig! (No, it didn’t work!). I seem to recall this was also the year the aforementioned uncle announced that Father Christmas had started drinking cider instead of beer and that we should take note of this when putting out the refreshments for him and the reindeer. Come to think of it, there was a whiff of cider about that slamming door!

Over the years the members of our large extended family have dispersed across the globe, and some have moved to the big cloud upstairs, making Christmas a somewhat more intimate affair. When you’re used to tens of voices carolling around the piano and climbing over sleeping bodies to get to the bathroom during the festive season, this downsizing can feel quite sad. Add to this a growing awareness of the troubles of the world from poverty to disease to political unrest and war and Christmas can be a trying season.

If you let it. But we are not going to let it, are we? No, of course not! We are going to give thanks to the folks who created Skype which will allow us to speak to our loved ones face-to-face at various intervals during this Christmas weekend. And we are going to take advantage of online fundraising sites that make giving a little something back to help those less fortunate than ourselves so much easier. If you can give of your time to help someone else this season, even better! In a rush of philanthropic zeal earlier this month I tried to register as a volunteer for the Crisis at Christmas weekend but was simultaneously disappointed and uplifted to find that the 8000 volunteering slots were all full! In a season so over-run with overt consumerism it’s good to know that the true spirit of Christmas – of giving, of sharing and of family and friends – is still alive!

So merry Christmas, happy Crimbo and a very festive Kwanzaa to you all, wherever you are! And to my family and friends – I’ve got you in my santa hat, my reindeer nose and my jingling necklace!

Not everyone likes dressing up as much as I do.

Obsessed? Moi?

A little while back a friend was asked to describe me by way of items on a check list.  We’ll ignore the fact that this kind of exercise is never ideal and focus rather on the fact that he ticked the box labelled ‘an addictive personality’. I did wonder at the time whether he meant that I was addictive to be around – which would be a lovely compliment indeed –  or whether he meant I am the kind of person who is easily addicted to things. Should I be delighted or offended? I decided not to think about it too much.

But the topic raised it’s head once again this weekend when I found myself stalking the aisles of Wholefoods in search of any and all varieties of raw chocolate – a current, erm, interest –  and then proceeded to willingly part with around £30 to take a few bars of it – and some actual raw cacao beans – home with me. I even purchased a kit so that I can attempt making the stuff at home and have consulted numerous printed and online resources on the subject. No doubt some of you will dismiss this as mere reinforcement of woman’s relationship with chocolate, but to me the subject of my infatuation is neither here nor there, it is the fact of the infatuation itself that matters. And the fact that I noticed it. I was forced to revisit that ‘addictive personality’ box.

Could it be true? I know I frequently proclaim to suffer from my own unique brand of ailment, the self-labelled Obsessive Analysis Disorder (OAD), but could the tendency to obsession really run deeper?  And if so, why have I only realised this now? I don’t recall being the kind of child who begged for a drum kit or pleaded for singing lessons and far from being obsessed with pop stars, I distinctly remember putting posters of Madonna and Michael Jackson up on my wall not because I thought they were all that, but because it seemed like an appropriate thing for someone of my age to do.

But then I suppose I must remember that when I decided to start running, I didn’t just whip on a pair of shorts and the closest pair of takkies and hit the road, well, running. No, no, no; I bought a book, got the experts to analyse my running style and kit me out with hand selected footwear, and filled a drawer with super wicking, light reflecting, aerodynamic attire, and a variety of incredibly important accessories. Like ear warmers.  The running part came later, whereupon the obsession lost its shine somewhat.

It's just semantics, right?

When it comes to men Johnny Depp has really been the only constant in my life but in this arena too I have recently been forced to acknowledge that actually, I have spent an inordinate, and entirely unhealthy, amount of time of late trying to deconstruct and understand my relationships with men. A couple in particular. Good grief! Really? I always thought this was something vulgar that other people did, that such obsession was below me. Turns out it isn’t. But perhaps that just makes me human – a person is a person because of other people, and all that, you know.

I suppose the obsession that has amused and surprised me the most is my ever increasing infatuation with the English language. Who would have thought it, hey?  Like so many of my classmates, I found English language lessons interminable at school. In fact my stand-out memories of high school English classes don’t feature language at all, they involve me taunting my  matric teacher, the delightfully named Columbine Commaille, who not only frequently rolled her eyes at me but on one occasion actually emptied a can of Fanta Grape all over my head. (The fact that this was because a friend and I nicked her car for a joy ride around the school grounds has nothing to do with this, of course.)

And yet here I am, holder of a university major in Linguistics & English Language and the person who only four weeks ago, when asked to list the five things I couldn’t live without, included, wait for it, a dictionary. The person who only two weeks ago launched an online forum at work entitled Word Nerds & Grammar Geeks (the most popular of all our online forums, I’ll have you know) and who only one week ago  screen printed a poster warning of crimes against the apostrophe. I am a special kind of nerd.

I would like to think that a little bit of obsession used positively can be a good thing – I’m sure it sits as a motivating factor behind many a Nobel Prize winner – so I am not altogether worried about this self diagnosis, but by golly it comes as a surprise when you only realise things about yourself at the ripe old age of ‘tirty tree and a tird’!

For a 25 hour day…

Shock, horror! Did you know that a Bar One and a Mars Bar are in fact one and the same thing, just branded differently? Now I am not a particular fan of either , but I distinctly recall South African kids back in the day proselytising about the superior qualities of the Mars Bar ‘from overseas’ in comparison with our lowly local Bar One, despite the obviously similar livery. Clearly I was brainwashed or seeing this chocolatey nugget of information in black and white would not have come as such a blow.

For me, when I think about Bar Ones I think of two things: 1) Barone – pronounced bah-ro-nee – sauce drowning ice-cream (mmmmmm) and 2) a very confusing TV advert that claimed a Bar One, as eaten by burly firemen, would give you the energy for a 25 hour day.

This confused my childhood self greatly because didn’t everyone know that there are only 24 hours in a day? Was this purely a silly mistake by some junior proof reader – most likely fired now – or was I missing something? Did fireman actually get an extra hour in their day?

Clearly, my ability to decode such complex advertising speak was severely delayed.

I have to say though, that if eating a Bar One a day would guarantee me an extra hour I would gladly become a BarOness.

You see I, like Martin Luther King, have a dream. Okay, so it might not be quite as impactful as his, but it is a dream nonetheless. The problem is that for too long I have let it waft about in dreamspace instead of following the advice of countless clichés – which we have to admit have become clichés because they are born out of truth – that tell me to ‘seize the day’ and embrace the fact that ‘if you can dream it, you can achieve it’.

Until now.

Now, things are going to get a shake up. Now I am going to pull out my net and catch that floaty dream and pin it firmly to terra firma, or at least fail trying. And it is frightfully exciting! It has, however, set me into a frenzy of activity such that I genuinely am in need of at least another hour in each day. Given that this is unlikely, no matter how many Bar Ones I eat, I have become a time maximiser of note. No more random people watching on the tube, I must either do research or write notes – preferably both. At the same time. And no more of this eating lunch at my desk, I must whisk my computer down to the third floor canteen and dedicate my lunch break to more research, constructive scribbling and thoughtful looking thinking. Loo breaks – don’t waste ‘em, this is important brainstorming time! I have never been an early riser but just as it’s somehow easier to get up early on a weekend than it is on a weekday, getting up early is that much easier when you have dreamwork to do, or you at least want to fit in some down time to do non-dream stuff like, say, write a blog post…

So you see, time is of the essence. In the absence of a 25 hour day  I am at least comforted by the fact that my mother has always said that if you want something done you should ask a busy person. On this, as on many other things, she is indeed correct. So I can only hope that the fact that I am having to make maximum use of every second of my days at the moment means that when it comes to this dream, it will in fact GET DONE!

A question of home

I learned several years ago that home is not a place, it’s a person. Or people. But I have realised recently that it can also be a smell, a sound, a memory or indeed a flavour. The tell-tale sign of home is less likely to be a number on a wall than it is a flutter in the belly and a comfortingly solid sense of security.

It is my experience as a South African living abroad that ‘home’ is an emotional and often conflicted concept. I refer to my flat in London as home but equally, whenever I visit South Africa, that is considered a trip home. A question commonly posed to foreigners living abroad is “do you intend to go home?”. Now perhaps this is just my impression, but it feels to me that this is a question that hits every South African living abroad with a force more particular than it does someone from, say, Australia or Canada. Because this is not just a question of geography, it is a question of politics, of belief, of hope, faith and allegiance.

One of my biggest fears living abroad is that people might brand me a racist or a deserter because I have chosen to live away from South Africa. Not indefinitely mind you, but for now, and for who knows how much longer. It is possible it is our own internal conflict that creates this concern but it feels like there is far more pressure on South Africans living abroad to justify their decision on where to base themselves than on people of other nationalities. And it is a question debated time and time again amongst Saffa friends living overseas.

Yes, I know you can see my reflection...

At this very moment I am typing this post from a camp chair plonked square in front of a game fence in South Africa’s Kruger National Park. It’s 34 degrees and I am being treated to a symphony of cicadas and birdsong. If I look up from my screen I can see a small herd of impala and a naughty family of monkeys. There’s even a very muddy warthog that minces past my chair every now and then. To me, this is my natural habitat; in the African bush. A home.

Yet when I return to London in a few weeks time, I will mark my return by visiting York House in Twickenham where I will swear an Oath of Allegiance to Queen Elizabeth II and in return, will be granted British citizenship. Technically, this gives me another home. Citizenship of the UK is not something I set out to achieve when I first moved to London but it just so happens that I have done the time and so a little red passport is my reward. Achieving red book status does, however, herald a whole new look at the question of home. Where is it now and where will it be in the future? Do I have to choose?

And so full circle to the idea that home is a combination of people, smells, sounds, flavours and memories. The tricky thing is that when you come from what I consider to be a fairly nomadic generation, capturing all of these elements in one physical location is nigh impossible. So does this mean that those of us in this situation are homeless or that we need to adapt to multiple, often intangible, homes?

My home: The smell of the potato bush, drinks on the stoep in Pretoria, sand on the stoep at Oyster Bay, a caravan, a tent, the sound of the bush at night, a song by Cassette, some Free Range Chickens, a walk by the Thames,  our man in New York, a Goddaughter, Skype, a pot of gazpatcho, a game of Frustration, dim sum with the girls, book club with the other girls, a family height photo, a red mug with a nose, Africa time, a stolen Christmas tree, teeny tiny pieces of Bovril toast, Creme Soda and Nik Naks, a duck pond, a market in Barnes, a photo album, an Easter Egg hunt, a boy in a sandpit, an awful rendition of ‘Le poisson’, a pub lunch, lying on mom’s lap, riding on dad’s back, a gaggle of relatives, a slow moving dog, an aeroplane, several dinners, cops and robbers in the dunes, neighbours with keys, comfortable silences, two tartan tracksuits, bad puns with good people. And hands. Lots of hands, each with their own particular brand of home. 

The Bollywood millionaire in the boot of the Maserati

Let me start by clarifying that I did not put the Bollywood millionaire into the boot of the Maserati, he got in all by himself.    We had just had cocktails on the 123rd floor of the tallest building in the world and he was keen to show us the internal boot release handle which is supposedly there to deter the Russian mafia from buying this particular brand of luxury vehicle. Now you know.

And so ended a lovely, though at times quite surreal, weekend in the Disneyland of the desert: Dubai. I visited Dubai on business in 2008 and while I enjoyed my week there, I can’t say I left enamored. It just felt a little too manufactured and sickly sweet in it’s excess. Plus the persistence of the sun scared me and my delicately off-grey skin. My trip back this weekend then was not inspired by a desire to revisit this particular Emirate, but rather to visit a friend who has chosen to make it his adopted natural habitat.

And as natural habitats go, Dubai certainly does support a rich and varied eco-system.

Let’s start with the rich. The self confessed ‘idle rich’ to be precise. Now I am not one to hob-nob with the who’s-who, my social circle populated as it is more by accountants and teachers than magnates and heirs, but by the end of my three-day Dubai stay my friend and I had shared several meals and several more beverages with two gentlemen who live the kind of life that most of us can only imagine. The kind of gentlemen who have ankles accidentally broken by Charlize Theron, private audiences with the Dalai Lama and cooks and drivers stationed in houses and cars dotted across the globe. To be fair, it wasn’t really Charlize’s fault, and it was only one gentleman who ended up with a broken ankle – the one in the boot of his Maserati, a vehicle he couldn’t accurately remember buying. The other gentleman, less thirsty and decidedly less flamboyant that our man from Bollywood, has amassed his fortune through the family business. Both are on the kinder side of forty which did make me question what on earth I’ve been doing with my time and where I could have been had I been born into an empire!

It would be too easy though to say that Dubai is just about the glitz and the glamour for scratch below the distracting shiny surface and you unearth the ‘varied’ part of the eco-system. The migrant labourers from Pakistan and India who keep the city growing even through the night; the local eatery where four people can eat plastic bowls full of deliciousness for under £20; the squat sand-coloured local dwellings, home to the likes of the Arab gentleman who served us cardamom scented ice-cream with noodles – yes, noodles; and a former Miss Namibia who, with her lawyer husband, have brought some normality to my friend’s desert life. Oh and did I forget to mention the  ex-policeman who now works on investigative projects that can sometimes only be described using a conspiratorial tap of the finger to the nose?

I know that London is frequently described as a melting pot, but in Dubai the contents of an equally mixed pot seem much more likely to actually come into contact with each other than they are in the firmly delineated social landscape found in London, and other parts of the world I suspect. Perhaps that is down to the shape of the pot, because, given the spirit of Dubai where no structure or concept seems impossible, you can be sure that Dubai’s pot looks like no other. It’s probably rounder and shinier and contains the world’s only indoor (or in-pot, as it were) roller-coaster. To aid the pre-melt mixing, you understand.

So could I live there? If you’d asked me 4 days ago, I would not have hesitated to say no. Now, with the benefit of a more localised viewpoint, and heat aside, yes, the idea is not entirely unfathomable. I don’t think it is a lifestyle I could sustain indefinitely and for the sake of sanity, social grace and a sense of groundedness, the balance would have to tip more in favour of cheap bowls of ice-cream and noodles than millionaires in Maseratis. Unless of course I can convince Captain Bollywood that what his industry really needs is a Celtic-hued star in which case, pass the Cristal, I’m off to Mumbai!

Excuse me but…

An ode to my family – the unedited version

An edited version of the following story appeared in the Guardian on Saturday 1 October. For those interested, here is the full unedited version. Oh and a correction to the online story: my mother’s name is Mary, NOT Sarah!

Me with my then 26 year old mother, Mary.

This picture feels like how motherhood should be: uncluttered, happy and warm. I know it’s warm – the freckles on my mother’s face speak to me of sun. Her hand tells me of youth and of protection while the crease of my eyes as my belly and I laugh reminds me that my dad is in this photo too.

And look, there’s the slightest hint of a lamp in the background telling me that this moment of simple joy took place on our front stoep, our front patio. The front stoep of the house in Pretoria, South Africa where my father grew up and where my parents still live today. The stoep on which you’ll find my father most summer evenings, quietly drinking in the luxurious vastness of the garden and it’s multitude of birds. The stoep on which my mother serves voluptuous salads and home-made gazpatcho to visiting family and friends. Oh, and maybe a few titbits for the doglits.

I know my paternal grandparents are sitting around the outdoor table on this particular day because I have a set of photos of granny and I that proves ‘pass the baby’ and ‘let’s take black and white photos’ were the preferred diversions of the day. No doubt oupa – my grandfather -  looked on with a smile that mirrored my own.

Oupa served two terms as the mayor of our town back in the 50s, you know. He got to wear a fancy gold chain and granny got to wear fairytale ballgowns – two of which I would use as prized dress-up gear right up until my early twenties when I shamefully ripped the long lavender gown climbing through a pub window at university.

I had a Mazawattee tea dress-up outfit from my other granny; it was all lacy gloves and floppy matronly hat – not exactly glamorous but it appealed to my vintage side. I believe she played in it as a child too, though having being born in Scotland, she probably knew more about what Mazawattee tea actually was than this African-born lass did.

This photo may only show my mother and I – who grow more similar by the day – but to me it captures the stories and unconditional love of a whole sprawling family; my parents, my brother, all the grannies, grandads, aunties, uncles, cousins and pets who made that carefree laugh and that unquestioned sense of security possible.

I’m 33 now and I know that if it were physically feasible, my mother would still lift me up into the air if it would make me smile – and my father would catch us if my laughter toppled us. Should he stumble, then my brother, who no doubt raced to join us after witnessing this scene from his post as the twinkle in my parents’ eyes, would be there to break the fall or – perhaps more likely – to make us laugh more. And there’s nothing like a giggling heap to attract the attention of a veritable army of relatives who would no doubt want in on the action, even if that meant bringing their own packs of cards and precautionary cake tins.

Yes, there are more than two people in this photo; there are at least fifty. That’s a lot of love.   Some quirks too, yes, but a lot of love.

Wors and all

Next week I will be attending the Annual Race For Opportunity Awards at the London Hilton Hotel. The awards recognise exceptional progress within organisations working towards race equality, diversity and inclusion within the workplace. The dress code is black tie or national dress.

Hmm, national dress. What does that mean for me? I’ve always been very patriotically South African but neither the safari suit, the seanamarena nor any variation of animal hide attire seems instinctively mine. I find I have the same problem when filling out forms that require me to indicate my ethnic grouping: I am neither African nor White European. I tend to make my mark next to White Other and then provide a hand written explanation –  White South African.

Last Saturday, 24 September was Heritage Day, a day when South Africans are encouraged to celebrate their cultural heritage and the diversity of their beliefs and traditions, in the wider context of a nation that belongs to all its people. A lovely black African friend of mine – and I use that description intentionally as that is what she is – went all out and proudly went to work on Friday  in traditional Xhosa dress. She came home a little disappointed that many of her white colleagues didn’t seem to feel the same passion for the day that she did.

But this got me thinking, what is a white South African supposed to do to visually represent their culture. I have in my cupboard a Xhosa skirt, several items made of Schwe Schwe fabric and a vast array of beads. A a child I had a Scottish kilt and the English tea-dress is no stranger to my current wardrobe. But do any of these accurately represent my culture, a culture which is a combination of European, Afrikaner, Xhosa, Sotho, Indian, Zulu, Venda, Cape Malay, Coloured etc? I may be able to trace my roots back to Europe, and I may well be on the brink of claiming my British citizenship, but when asked who I am and where I come from, there is no doubt in my mind that I am first and foremost, South African.

 ”We have 11 different official languages but only one word for the wonderful institution of braai: in Xhosa, English, Afrikaans, whatever.”

It was a clever person then who came up with the concept of National Braai day, which falls on Heritage Day, for this, ladies and gentlemen, must be the most appropriate and inclusive interpretation of South African Heritage.

For those not in the know, National Braai Day was initiated by the Mzansi Braai Institute in South Africa in 2005 and since 2008 has been promoted under the Braai4Heritage banner, a non-profit initiative which has as it’s patron the wonderful Archbishop Desmond Tutu. “There are so many things that are pulling us apart, this has a wonderful potential to bring us all together,” Tutu explained back in 2007. “We have 11 different official languages but only one word for the wonderful institution of braai: in Xhosa, English, Afrikaans, whatever.”

One’s culture is both a shared and a personal thing. Finding that  one element that is common to all is precious, and if that means sticking a piece of meat on a braai, then so be it. Hey, I don’t even eat meat but just as I love  South Africa, I love National Braai day “wors and all”!

PS I still don’t know what to wear to the awards ceremony – do you think lady Gaga would let me borrow her meat dress? or perhaps Tannie Evita has a braai themed hat?