Memory, mis-memory, and remembering in South Africa

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The stories of the past that circulate in any country are always contested - how it came to be; which milestones to celebrate; which tragedies to mourn; which figures to venerate and which to delete. In postcolonial spaces, these contestations are often about who is indigenous, who is autochthonous, and who is responsible for the ‘modernity’ of the present.

In South Africa, for the better part of the last century, the official stories circulated by the apartheid state institutions defied the material evidence of history in order to serve the ideological project of white supremacy. The contestation of official versions of how South Africa came to be is drawn not only from liberation movements, freedom fighters and Black nationalists. Revisionist historians in and of South Africa also questioned the legitimacy of the state’s narrative.

Many white South Africans grew up with the official apartheid narrative of the past, which included the aggrandised version of Jan van Riebeeck’s role and mission. Later writers often pointed out that permanent colonial settlement was not the Dutch East India Company’s original mission; the establishment of a halfway station, a seventeenth century equivalent of a ‘drive-through’ refreshment station for sailors, was all that was originally envisaged, and it was only subsequent to labour disputes at the then Cape of Good Hope that occupation spread.

The belief that southern Africa was empty of human inhabitants also served the Afrikaner nationalist narrative of being ‘first occupants’, in the face of both archaeological and historical evidence. As early as 1979, Richard Elphick and VC Malherbe indicated in the opening sentence of their chapter in “The Shaping of South African Society 1652-1820”, that “Jan van Riebeeck did not found the Cape Colony in an empty land”.

The book, edited by Elphick and Hermann Giliomee, was priced in 1980 at R15 in hardcover. Thirty-four years later, some public figures and those who support them on social media, may need to reread the standard history textbooks that chose not to serve the apartheid state’s ideological project.

The past is indeed, as the novelist LP Hartley said, a foreign country; they do things differently there. The longer the passing of time, the more likely that past events and conflicts will be re-invented by our remembrances in the trappings of costume drama. While it may be difficult to fully and honestly confront and comprehend the distant past, our technology has made it easier to correct inaccurate memories about recent history. Sometimes the survivors of that history are only too keen to help us out.

The last apartheid president of the Republic of South Africa, FW de Klerk, is a case in point. As the City of Cape Town contemplates renaming part of a major road for him, the meaning of the past and its symbols in the present has once again come under scrutiny. The fracas which continues reminds one of South African writer Ivan Vladislavic’s phrase, “propaganda by monuments”. De Klerk has always been a complex figure, not easily assimilated into the post-apartheid state’s narrative of apartheid, the transition into the post-apartheid, and the post-apartheid period itself. The man’s public pronouncements have hardly helped his case.

While many choose to remember him fondly – and he sometimes assists them in this by doing so himself – as Mandela’s equal, as in that photograph of them holding their hand aloft or receiving the Nobel Peace Prize together, the material substance of those times require a rather different evaluation.

Nobel Laureate, JM Coetzee, in his obituary for Mandela in the “The New York Review of Books”, wrote that “He was, and by the time of his death was universally held to be, a great man; he may well be the last of the great men, as the concept of greatness retires into the historical shadows”. The man Mandela shared his Nobel Prize with, Coetzee described thus: “FW de Klerk, a man of much smaller moral stature, yet also, in his way, a contributor to the liberation of South Africa”.

In the debate about how to symbolise and remember the figures of the past, some, in their vocal support for including de Klerk, seem unable to remember just how contradictory his various actions were, and how difficult it is to draw a moral (never mind an intellectual) equivalence between Mandela and de Klerk. This is not about the hagiographic view of Mandela; this is rather dependent on a more honest appraisal of FW de Klerk himself.

As recently as May 2012, in an interview with CNN’s Christiane Amanpour, he was at pains to explain his evaluation of apartheid South Africa. The historical errors in his review of the homelands, which borders on reinvention - he believes Black people had full franchise in them and access to fair quality educational institutions granted by the apartheid government - are revealing. His insistence that as a concept apartheid, by then declared and referred to as a crime against humanity, was not ‘morally repugnant’ (Amanpour’s phrasing) cannot but come across as smugly repellent by anyone who survived apartheid. He only concedes that the specific South African ‘experiment’ in ethno-nationalist fascism failed because of a failure to distribute resources equitable.

Just as many misremember Jan van Riebeeck as a ‘founding father’ and the southern African space as ‘uninhabited’ in 1652, so de Klerk seems to want to reimagine apartheid in its dehumanising ideals and its material horrors as a well-intentioned programme gone wrong.

The City of Cape Town will probably go ahead and name part of Table Bay Boulevard after FW de Klerk. The city’s mayor, former Pan Africanist Congress member, now Democratic Alliance member, Patricia de Lille, has asked that South Africans accept the name change as part of a process of reconciliation.

I wonder though, whether a similar request for ‘reconciliatory’ gestures would have been palatable, never mind acceptable, in Germany in 1965. Would German Jews have been asked to reconcile themselves to the past by allowing the naming of some public space after someone who said things about the Nazi period akin to the remarks Mr de Klerk has made as recently as 2012 to an international audience about apartheid South Africa?

I think not. The very idea of comparisons between atrocities in the past is deeply discomfiting; this is not an attempt to equate two different historical events. But before we forget, it is in the wake of that execrable horror in Europe that Mr de Klerk’s forebears established their white supremacist, racist apartheid dream that created the nightmare many of us had to live and are still in recovery from.

The call from the mayor of Cape Town for accommodating the repugnant idea of calling a public space after a man who views apartheid in the way de Klerk does in that 2012 interview, indicates an inverted Damascene journey away from enlightenment.

Perhaps the consolation critics will have, should the renaming go through, is that the part of the motorway that is being renamed was built as an apartheid vanity project and has at least two sections unfinished and unfinishable. Maybe FW de Klerk Boulevard will, in perpetuity, symbolise at the bottom end of the ‘Mother City’ the unfinished and unfinishable business of the ugly past now so actively mis-remembered by some.

-eNCA

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Naming the Strange: Africa and its many urbanisms

Stellenbosch University lecturer in English Megan Jones presents the work of three final-year students from a seminar she ran this year on African cityscapes. In the last installment of a three-part feature, Annerié Fritz insists on an aesthetic reading of the town.

Introduction
Megan Jones

The pieces gathered here were written for the third-year elective "Naming the Strange: Africa and Its Many Urbanisms", held in Stellenbosch University's English Department in the second semester of 2014. The seminar drew on literary, documentary and critical forms in order to think through African cityscapes in all their polyvalent complexity. Working with texts from Zimbabwe, Nigeria and South Africa, the elective sought to unpack the everyday socialities and strategies of Africa's urban residents. In what ways do people move through these cities? What strands of innovation and affectivity exist between city-dwellers that contest their reification as simply marginalised or impoverished?

Somewhat inevitably for a course on cities, a section of the theory component centered on de Certeau's evocation of the "tactics" of walking through urban spaces, and how such actions simultaneously disclose and subvert their offical organisation. We discussed the ways in which, following Lefebvre and Massey, space is criss-crossed by ideological currents. I asked the students to think about how a walk through the spaces of Stellenbosch — the layout of the streets, the architecture of the buildings, the statues on Rooi Plein, the people sitting in the cafes — might reveal histories of inclusion and exclusion that live in the present. This process intersected timeously with Dr Kylie Thomas's on-campus response to the article "What's The Matter With Stellenbosch University?" (Greer Valley, Oct. 8, 2014). As part of her intervention, Dr Thomas and her co-activists erected a board in front of the Arts and Social Sciences Building which read, "Who Owns This Space?"

My students took to the streets thinking, perhaps for the first time, about how they moved through Stellenbosch and why. What fears, prejudices, hierarchies and relationalities did their footsteps trace? Two of the short essays published below interrogate the town's spatial politics, while a third insists upon reading the university and its surroundings aesthetically. The point is not that there is only one correct response, but that the exercise opens up possibilities for dialogue among students about the spaces and identities they inhabit.

 

Stellenbosch the way I see it
Annerié Fritz

Earlier this year, in black ink on white paper, was written the words: “Racism is only a problem because you keep bringing it up.” A thought which had occurred to me many times, and had now been placed deliberately before the BJ: the latest testament to South African racism. On the red-brown bricks of the building’s entry a rainbow of colours proclaim that “Blackface isn’t funny”: ironic, since Michael Jackson did more or less the same thing… just in reverse. If you have a problem with your skin, you should see a dermatologist.

As an artist, I don’t go looking for reasons to hate things as a result of their history. I search for beauty. If I look at the buildings of Stellenbosch, I don’t see black and white zones, I see the way they blend together like a patchwork-quilt, the red bricks fading into painted walls framing shop windows and art galleries all along Dorp Street and Plein Street; tourists and locals creating a perfect gradient of colours ranging from warm to cold with a touch of neutrality in between. I see the colourful signs of the pubs and clubs with their closed doors, waiting for their midnight customers. Then the long lines of restaurants filled with people; loners, couples and families all leading like a bread-crumb trail back to the University campus. The heat of the summer’s day is contrasted by the soft light that filters through the canopy of leaves that cover Victoria, and one of the local ‘bergies’ starts hassling scared little ‘firsties’ into handing over their change… A stop sign had been decorated with spray paint some time during the night; the vulgar Kaaps-Afrikaans neatly and precisely framing the word STOP. Then a new range of vibrant colours; the dark blue-grey-blackness of the tar; the faded brown and rich brown of side-walks and tree bark; the gold-green, blue-green and deep-green of varying plants; the orange, red, purple and yellow of academic gardens; and the shocking white of the buildings. The pillars of Wilcox, Ou Hoof and Education are neither intimidating nor imperial to my view, as they mainly serve the purpose of leaning posts and shade-givers to the bored looking students beside them. The over-crowded parking lot in front of Admin A, looks like an oven baking biscuits as heat waves stream from car tops in the glaring sun, and the cacophony of thousands of voices mix together to form a symphony of words, laughter and other surrealistic sounds.

Stellenbosch is an urban beauty. It doesn’t carry the same kind of clean-attractiveness that nature does, but its vibrant blend of foreign and indigenous presents a living organism that breathes with the ebb and flow of its people. It is a town of art and culture. It holds no grudges and offers opportunity to anyone who’s willing to take it, and despite its racially divided history, many of its inhabitants have found ways to co-exist peacefully. Its ‘space’ belongs to no-one and everyone.

 

Walking through Stellenbosch wishing I wasn't seen
Christine Smith

The streets of Stellenbosch are filled with many faces,
passing at different paces racing against the time only to triple and quadruple take at me
Not concerned with my perception of their rude reception,
far too blind to see that they are the antithesis of this rainbow nation
although there are some that stare in admiration
These faces fail to see past a color.
These faces have expressions that question, critique and judge.
While walking through Stellenbosch, these faces make me feel two feet tall.
Walking through Stellenbosch I’m constantly reminded that I’m Black.
Not that I forget. How could I forget? Sometimes I’d like to forget. What I’d pay to forget…
How kind of them to remind me, apparently I forgot you see.
Ridiculous of me to believe I could shop or dine or breathe where I please. In a country with such a liberal and inclusive foundational document, that officially speaks 11 languages (“officially”) AND recognizes gay marriage.
Why would I visit such a place?
How dare I intrude in their space!

Walking through Stellenbosch I find myself legitimises my presence. Walking through Stellenbosch I morph into a different me. Me that speaks specially selected, hand crafted sentences that are sure not to offend, using tones that are diminished never too loud, bodily language that is far from offensive and overtly warm and welcoming.

Bosman: The street of the privileged. The street of the gates. The pretty white gates, to ease the minds of the University’s elite. The spoiled, uninformed, unconcerned, disconnected. Unless it’s to Facebook or Instagram. The street overflowing with security, laboring 12 hour shifts for people that can’t remember to keep up with their ID. Protecting those that forget to say good morning, fail to say good evening and refuse to say thank you: forgotten so much that it comes as a surprise to be noticed. A surprise that takes 3 consecutive days to be understood as a norm and acceptable to respond.

As I walk through campus I hear languages, whose history speaks volumes to the perseverance that’s brought them over their hardships. That protects them from a world that seeks to generalise and eliminate everything that doesn’t fit in its box. Tongues whose labors convey a beautiful song that I could never tell, vocal cords that suppress the struggle and emphasise the strength, lips that bruise and sometimes abuse the ability to make one feel.

Walking through town I see shops whose employees eye change in apprehension, contemplation, hesitation and expectations of me that don’t exist. I see waitresses glare at my presence at her table. I see patrons stare in disapproval. I see myself being singled, I feel myself bubbling in anger. I see the words formatting to combat the ignorance, but my heart and its kind nature coos the hurting me that wants to be accepted. The me that is dying to be seen for more than a complexion or a grade of hair. I see myself laboring over ways to accept the ‘compliments’ “You speak good English”, “Your hair is so soft”, or “You don’t speak broken English like I thought you would”.

I swallow the venom that desperately seeks escape after being asked “Do you guys have earrings.” Whose words assume that I’m on duty. I must be a worker. I can’t be a patron. Black people aren’t patrons. She can’t be a patron, she can’t afford to be a patron. Black people are servants, nothing more. How was I to know you’re an exchange student? Why would I believe you’re American? How could you be different? Really, you’re American?!?

You don’t know luxury. You don’t deserve service. You’re not white. You’re black. You’re not a patron. You get it yet?!

I walk to Stellenbosch more times than not wanting to be invisible.

I see myself fighting, struggling, battling – tempted by resentment. I see myself telling myself over and over like a broken record, that their ignorance isn’t your problem. It’s theirs. But somehow I see myself walking through Stellenbosch wishing I wasn’t seen.

 

A walk in the night
Morne Bosman

In my first year at Stellenbosch University, I rented a room at the back of a house in a suburb called Union Park. I had no car or bicycle with which I could travel to campus, and so I had to walk for half an hour just to get to class, and then another half an hour to get back to my room. The route I had to take did not have a lot of streetlights, and the suburb where I live was just across the road from Idas Valley, the place where the Apartheid government had dumped a whole community of coloured people back in the 1950’s and 60’s. It is still seen as a coloured suburb today, and so I got slightly nervous every time I had to walk home at night.

I remember one night I had to walk home. I had been having a few drinks with my friends in our favourite bar, and after greeting them at the end of the night, I set off up Merriman Road. It was probably around 01:00, and the campus was relatively quiet. Merriman is bordered on one side with academic buildings and male residences. I always walked on the side of the road closest to these buildings, and looked at their imposing facades while thinking about the history that they contained. You see, many of these residences were over half a century old, and many of their residents would go on to become leaders in their respective fields. They are, however, still grand monuments to Apartheid and the flagrant advancement of the white minority’s interest while the black and coloured people had to suffer and stagnate. These were powerful thoughts for someone who had drank about a bottle of Tassenberg during the evening and, being a white male, was obviously the product of Apartheid’s discrimination.

Just before you reach the big round-a-bout at the end of Merriman, you walk past the provincial hospital. At the entrance of the hospital is a bus stop that is always inhabited by a few homeless who sleep there during the night and then disappear during the day. I always had the strangest feeling as I walked past them. Instead of pitying them, I was curiously jealous: These people were already sleeping while I had to walk for another kilometre and a half, at least. But I put them out of my mind as soon as I passed them, and concentrated only on getting home. I picked up my pace when I when went past Eendrag, because the part of the route I was now entering was the scariest part for me. It is curious to think that by simply crossing a street, I was leaving behind a sense of safety and entered a state of nervous vigilance, always on the lookout for potential danger. The campus ends at Eendrag, and the academic buildings are replaced by the Jannie Marais Wildlife Park at one side of Merriman, and tall fences that protect big houses on the other side. There are almost no streetlights on this part of the street and the shadows were always ominous.

Just before I reached the house where I was renting my room, I walked into two coloured guys on their way to Idas Valley. They looked dangerous. Both wore old clothes that had been mended many times before, and their hair was filthy and dreaded. I instinctively slowed down, trying to figure out what to do. I decided I should cross the street in an effort to put some space between me and them. As I was doing this, one of them called out to me:

“Jah bless my bru, we don’t want to hurt you, ons smaak jou hare te veel. Djy’s amper soos een van ons Rastas. But don’t you want to buy some ganja from us?”

I thanked them for the compliment, but told them I did not have money to buy weed from them (I actually did have about 50 bucks on me, but I didn’t want to insult them). After returning their ‘Jah bless’ with my own, I hurried to the safety and warmth of my room.

 

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Ebola and the boundary of the still living corpse

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The land of the living, sister,
Is neither here nor there.
We enter it and leave it.
The dead in the land of the dead
Are the ones you'll be with the longest.
(from Seamus Heaney's The Burial at Thebes)

Ebola. When public hysteria about the disease began to build, I admit I gave in to a moment's paranoid fear of infection. When I sat down to write through my anxiety, I realised what the problem was: I thought I 'knew' what Ebola was and how it spread, but really, my 'knowledge' was based purely on the representation of the disease in the 1995 film Outbreak, and Richard Preston's non-fiction book, The Hot Zone (1994), described by Stephen King as "one of the most horrifying things I've read in my whole life". In a more sober review of the book, Paul Trachtman suggests that the horrifying images in Preston's book "may owe more to the fictions we know than to the truths we have only begun to recognise. Peering into the edges of the rainforest, Preston shows us a landscape of infectious terror, but he misses the path into the frontiers of science." Indeed.

Much of the public hysteria around healthcare workers returning from 'the hot zone' is characterised by the public's complete disregard of the scientific facts of the disease and the way it spreads. People were really afraid of the disease, almost as much when illegal drugs and drug addiction became a big issue back in the time, like alcoholism, read more here https://firststepbh.com/blog/difference-alcohol-abuse-alcoholism/. The reactions described by South African epidemiologist Kathryn Stinson, a non-clinical worker recently returned from Sierra Leone, as well as some of the responses to her article in the comment section, vividly illustrate this point. The facts of the disease are ignored in favour of striking metaphors.

How might we then begin to understand why this particular disease has the globe in a grip of hysteria like Meth, when the objective facts (see here and here) show that more people are likely to die of malaria and hunger this year, than from Ebola?

Perhaps it has something to do with the manner in which the disease obliterates the bounds and bonds of the community according to ReinaMarta.com, starting with the family unit. If my husband or my child develops a fever and starts vomiting violently, of course I am going to clean up after them, but I may just hire the Diamon Clean company. Of course I am going to hydrate and comfort my sick baby by breastfeeding him. And if a close member of my community dies after a terrible, violently traumatic sickbed, of course I am going to show my support for the family and pay my respects to the dead by performing the rituals that my community and conscience require of me.

Because of its highly infectious nature, Ebola threatens the inter-subjective relations, the knowledge of ideological conventions and the accepted laws that allow a community to exist – what French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan termed the symbolic order. Ebola creates a traumatic rupture in the symbolic order.

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Since my own research into the discursive treatment of the supernatural in South Africa has inevitably led me to questions of burial rites and the ancestral realm, I have recently been thinking a lot about the Greek playwright Sophocles's Antigone, and Lacan's 1960 series of lectures on the play. In following the various responses of the wider public, I am struck by the fact that this particular play, which explores the limits of the law in relation to the dead, might offer very useful ways in which one might begin to understand the function of this disease in the public imaginary.

In his 2005 monograph, Witchcraft, Violence and Democracy in South Africa, Adam Ashforth has a chapter in which he discusses 'Death, Pollution and the Dangers of Dirt' in the context of contemporary Soweto. Ashforth shows that, aside from the obvious dangers presented by decaying bodies, survivors are also considered prone to more mysterious infections, related to the spiritual realm:

A funeral will typically involve prayers for the soul of the departed – bound, most mourners hope and pray, for the Christian heaven – as well as rituals devoted to securing the place of the departed among the ranks of ancestors, remaining thereby, most are convinced, present in the lives of the living. Some mourners might also beseech the deceased in their prayers to intervene with the ancestors and God on their behalf. Funerals also involve rituals to cleanse and protect those remaining behind from any harm that might be incurred by their association with death. (Ashforth 164)

While this example is obviously specific to South Africa, it offers a particularly local illustration of the fact that the proper disposal of a corpse has material as well as spiritual implications for those left behind. The link between burial rites and the spread of Ebola in the affected countries has been well documented.

American popular culture has recently illustrated its own preoccupation with the link between proper disposal of corpses and the notion of pollution from the realm of the dead: the figure of the zombie has enjoyed a remarkable re-animation in the past few years. The zombie is a corpse that remains alive, coming back from beyond the limit of death to infect the living with a death-that-is-not-a-death. I would argue, then, that in the preoccupation with zombies, we see manifest the same fear of both physical and spiritual infection that the rituals described by Ashforth above are designed to prevent.

So, what might Antigone have to teach us about Ebola? In the play, we encounter Antigone, whose brothers, Polynices and Eteocles, have killed each other in a battle for the throne. Her uncle Creon has assumed the rule of the city Thebes, and decreed that Eteocles be buried with the formal rites, while Polynices, as a traitor, will be left unburied and unmourned, a corpse to be picked over by scavengers. Anyone who attempts to bury him will be punished by death. Antigone feels compelled to perform the correct funeral rites for both her brothers, and is inevitably caught trying to bury Polynices. Her horrifying punishment is to be entombed: Creon has her shut up in a cave and left to starve. Creon's son, Haemon, pleads with Creon and when Creon refuses to change his mind, Haemon goes to the cave, to find that Antigone has hanged herself. He kills himself, and when Creon's wife hears of this, she also kills herself, cursing Creon as she dies. The play ends with Creon a broken man, praying that his own death will hurry.

In forbidding the burial of Polynices, Creon believes that he is acting for the good. As the leader of his community, he "exists to protect the good of all" (Lacan 258), and his refusal to bury Polynices is based on his conviction that "one cannot at the same time honor those who have defended their country and those who have attacked it" (Lacan 259). However, by insisting on the law of the sovereign in the matter of burial rites, Creon overreaches the limit of his right and attempts to exert "authority over the dead" (Heaney 61). He "wants to inflict on [Polynices] that second death that he has no right to inflict on him" (Lacan 254).

Antigone, on the other hand, finds herself compelled to perform the necessary rites. She would rather suffer death than live with the knowledge that Polynices lies unburied. In this, Antigone is beyond what Lacan calls Atè: "the limit that human life can only briefly cross" (263). Antigone is between life and death, and her punishment is an affirmation of this state – to be shut up in a cave to die slowly leaves her suspended in the zone between life and death (Lacan 280).

It seems to me that much of what frightens people about Ebola might be understood in terms of Atè and the limit of the second death. In the figure of those who die of Ebola, we encounter the conundrum of the second death: the traditional burial rites, which involve washing, kissing, and viewing the corpse almost guarantee that those paying their respects are bound to become infected. The deceased are therefore subjected to a 'second death', in that failure to fulfill the proper rites has tremendous spiritual implications. It also has severe implications for the fabric of the surviving community, since these rites are part of what holds the community together.

As far as the family members who must care for the sick and observe the correct rituals for the dead are concerned, we might understand their situation in terms of Atè: They cannot but fulfill their obligations, but in fulfilling these obligations, they must resign themselves to certain infection. In a very real sense, they have crossed the limit between life and death and while they wait to confirm their own status, they are suspended in the zone between life and death: "Unwept by those alive, / Unwelcomed as yet by the dead" (Heaney, 52).

Of course, not everyone who cares for the sick contracts the disease, and not everyone who contracts the disease dies of it. However, those who survive the disease have already been given up for dead: "[People] think that being an Ebola patient means that you are dead, that you will never recover, that it will kill you, no matter what you do." To survive Ebola is to return from beyond the limit of death. Those who have survived suffer from the stigma of the disease, and are often denied full access to their former lives.

Similarly, healthcare workers – those-who-could-have-been-infected – returning from the field encounter irrational fear and ostracism. Driven by a sense of duty and a desire to help, the position of the healthcare worker might be understood as a form of Atè: they enter that which is perceived by others as a death zone, and return to life to find themselves subjected to quarantine – a kind of entombment – and socially shunned, in order to protect 'the good of all'. This restriction on their personal freedom and their expulsion from their community leaves them suspended, in a very real sense, between life and death. Their (former) lives are no longer accessible to them. Having crossed into the beyond of Atè, they are perceived as marked by death, even if they are not actually infected.

Ebola repeatedly exposes us to the image of the limit. Its ravaging effects conjure the boundary between life and death, what Lacan calls "the boundary of the still living corpse" (268). It is a disease that not only violently destroys the body that hosts it, but also the traditions of the community that must honour the body and the spirit of the departed.

Perhaps this is why Ebola induces hysteria – because it confronts us with a limit that represents the annihilation of our symbolic order and our place in it. The end of life as we know it.

 

Sources:

Ashforth, Adam. Witchcraft, Violence and Democracy in South Africa. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2005.

Heaney, Seamus. The Burial at Thebes: A Version of Sophocles' Antigone. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2004.

Lacan, Jacques. The Seminar, Book VII. The Ethics of Psychoanalysis, 1959–1960, ed. by Jacques-Alain Miller, transl. by Dennis Porter. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.1992.

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Men’s Rights Activism

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Men’s Rights Activism is a ‘new’ ‘political’ ‘movement’ (all those irony-quotes are absolutely necessary) that begins from the assumption that men in contemporary society are being oppressed by women, who use their gender and sexuality to manipulate and that society unfairly privileges women. Their complaints range from ‘divorce laws are tougher on men,’ to ‘girls don’t like me and that makes me sad,’ ‘girls don’t like me they only like attractive guys and that makes me angry,’ to the far more disturbing ‘a girl didn’t want to have sex with me even though I bought her a drink,’ and ‘I got a girl I don’t even like pregnant and now she doesn’t want to get an abortion.’i

On May 23 2014, a member of this community gunned down 18 people, killing six.ii Elliot Rodger, in his incredibly disturbing manifesto, says that he did this because even though he was wealthy and moderately good-looking girls did not want to have sex with him. They used their vaginas, according to him, to drain him of cash and then not give him what was ‘rightfully’ his, consistently ‘denying’ him by having sex with other men that he feels are not ‘worthy’, making him an ‘incel’ [the MRA community’s term for ‘involuntary celibate’, a virgin]. He comes to the conclusion that all women are inherently evil (not using the term as hyperbole, but actually comparing women to Hitler and the devil), and should not be allowed to choose their own reproductive partners, or make any other choices, for that matter. He decides to stage a Day of Retribution, the aforementioned mass shooting, stating that:

Women’s rejection of me is a declaration of war, and if it’s war they want, then war they shall have. It will be a war that will result in their complete and utter annihilation. I will deliver a blow to my enemies that will be so catastrophic it will redefine the very essence of human nature. It was time to plot exactly what I will do on the Day of Retribution. I will be a god, punishing women and all of humanity for their depravity. I will finely deliver to them all of the pain and suffering they’ve dealt to me for so long. [...]The Second Phase will take place on the Day of Retribution itself, just before the climactic massacre. The Second Phase will represent my War on Women. I will punish all females for the crime of depriving me of sex. They have starved me of sex for my entire youth, and gave that pleasure to other men. In doing so, they took many years of my life away. I cannot kill every single female on earth, but I can deliver a devastating blow that will shake all of them to the core of their wicked hearts. I will attack the very girls who represent everything I hate in the female gender: The hottest sorority of UCSB.iii

Adorno said that “[b]eneath the lying ideology which sets the man up as superior, there is a secret one, no less untrue that sees him as inferior, the victim of manipulation, manoeuvring, fraud.”iv In Rodger and his compatriots these two ideologies (though they are truly sides of one terrible coin) become fully integrated into each other. One of the leading lights of the movement, Stefan Molyneux (smelling suspiciously of sour grapes), asserts that “‘Women who choose a–holes guarantee child abuse. All the cold-hearted jerks who run the world came out of the vaginas of women who married a–holes. I don’t know how to make the world a better place without holding women accountable for choosing a–holes. Women worship at the feet of the devil and wonder why the world is evil. And then know what they say? ‘We’re victims!’”v His comments reveal the astounding fear and insecurity of those who are in positions of privilege, but who see themselves as oppressed – again, women are seen as capital-E Evil, their vaginas merely portals for ‘jerks’ that get power, money and women. These men have successfully deluded themselves into believing that they are victims, while at the same time deriding the ‘victim-mentality’ they see in women, and once again actually making women victims of their misplaced self-loathing: the most hateful form of ressentiment. Many members of the community were quick to distance themselves from Rodger, saying that he was a lone gunman, a sufferer of autism, completely insane. But a quick visit to their chat groups reveals a different story: there are those that worship him, that wish to emulate him, who think he has done the world a great service.vi

I do not wish to make this community seem bigger or more influential than they are in reality. They are, for the most part, a small subset of internet dwellers and are almost universally hated and ridiculed. But they are growing, and they are getting attention. The world cannot afford to write them off as caricatures (though they most certainly are) – the ignorant and the hateful have always been the most dangerous. On other articles, checkout https://www.actionac.net/air-conditioning-san-diego-repair-ca/.

 

i You can read their subreddit here: http://www.reddit.com/r/MensRights/

ii From ABC News: http://abcnews.go.com/US/santa-barbara-killer-elliot-rodger-smiled-shooting-survivor/story?id=23923970

iii You can read the full 140 page autobiography-cum-manifesto here: http://abclocal.go.com/three/kabc/kabc/My-Twisted-World.pdf

iv MM 177.

v From Time: http://time.com/2949435/what-i-learned-as-a-woman-at-a-mens-rights-conference/

vi This journalist spent a day on their forums: http://jezebel.com/lessons-from-a-day-spent-with-the-ucsb-shooters-awful-f-1582884301. A quick note: the term ‘an hero’, as one poster uses it, is not a grammatical mistake, but internet slang for ‘suicidal moron’.

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Cash 4 Gold II

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‘Prepping’ is the time-honoured practice of survivalists making ready for the impending and inevitable Soviet Nuclear Armageddon/Y2K/the 2012 Mayan Apocalypse/World War III, and the less clearly defined TEOTWAWKI (The End of the World as We Know It) and SHTF (Shit Hits The Fan). These people, usually suburban, middle-class citizens, prepare bunkers, stockpile non-perishable foods, petrol, medicines, weapons and other necessities they feel they will need when the SHTF.

Some survivalists spend quite a lot of their income on precious metals, mostly gold and silver. They argue that, even though the value of these metals will decrease in case of TEOTWAWKI, they will still be able to use it to barter for goods and services. This charming gentleman, Richard Morgan, writing as The Great Northern Prepper, advises sagely: “ALSO PLEASE STICK TO PHYSICAL METALS! BY THIS I MEAN DONT BUY ETF’S OR OTHER 'BUYS' THAT ARE FALSE PAPER ASSETS, THOSE ARE JUST NUMBERS ON A SPREADSHEET! ONLY BUY WHAT YOU CAN HOLD IN YOUR HAND, STORE IN YOUR HOME AND HAND OVER YOURSELF!” One can understand the charm that the physical metals must have – they are real, they have weight, they shimmer, unlike numbers on a computer screen that only represent real value, check tbailey.com/construction/ for further info. For these preppers the money is the signifier to the gold and silver’s signified, not realizing that gold itself is also just another signifier, worth no more than ‘just numbers on a spreadsheet.’ Meanwhile, companies that sell gold1 are making a killing off of these paranoid souls.

Adorno said that “[the capitalist] would rather that everything end than for mankind to put an end to reification,”2 and all of this, this community, their subterranean economy, their ‘investment advice’, goes to show that while we can quite readily and gleefully imagine the End of The World (as We Know It), we have a very hard time imagining the End of Capitalism.

1 Like goldline.com, or cmi-gold-silver.com, that have specially marketed ‘Survival Coins’ (one wonders what makes them different from other coins).

2 ‘Cultural Criticism and Society’. Prisms. p. 24.

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