Universities Must Fall: Thoughts on the Concepts of Decolonization and Free Education

The week of 3rd October 2016 will, from here on out, best be known as the week where the future of South African tertiary education potentially (for lack of a better term) “went to shit”. The seeds of destruction were evident from the outset. On Sunday 2nd October, it was announced that, as a result of a majority vote on a referendum, the staff of Wits University would return to work after a  university national shutdown, instigated  by the Fees Must Fall Movement, caused a three week delay in the academic teaching calendar. The next day, students would return to class to finish off the year. It was a perfect plan, but, sadly, it was not to be. Fees Must Fall protesters, believing that the referendum was an ineffective means of measuring support for their cause, chased academic staff out of their offices on Monday. In response, Vice Chancellor Adam Habib announced that there would be an increased police security presence on campus on Tuesday to assure that students could return to class, uninterrupted by protest activity. However, again, the Fees Must Fall Movement was one step ahead of Habib. Militantly, they came together in their hundreds, disrupted lecturers and then proceeded to battle with the police, turning Wits’s East Campus into a toxic war zone. It was a finely executed plan on the part of the FMF movement who officially claimed Wits as their territory, putting in motion a series of events that has led to the continued shutdown of the university with Habib at their mercy.

Now, all things considered, there’s one specific thing that  I want to point out when considering the intentions of the Fees  Must Fall Movement. Though these intentions have now become secondary to the spectacle they have created, they are of extreme importance. This is because what they address is the anxieties which are central to the life of a black student, studying towards a tertiary education in South Africa. These intentions are two fold. The first and ,perhaps, most significant one at this point, relates to the need for free education that the ANC government had promised to implement five years ago. The second is to decolonise the university, particularly in terms of the academic syllabuses of its respective faculties. What they highlight is the sense of resentment, instability and uncertainty many black students as they embark on their academic journey.

From the moment these  black students enter a university campus for the first time, a narrative of imminent misfortune appears to be set in motion. Firstly, for many, there is a constant financial struggle to complete their degree. Secondly, there’s a constant tension between these students and the academic advantages afforded to their white colleagues.  For instance, the medium of instruction at all South African universities is English. This is a language that many white students have known since birth. Therefore, they face few issues in assimilating into the linguistic world of the South African university. For those black students who speak English as a second or even third language, however, achieving this assimilation is an often  daunting challenge. Their ability to express complex thoughts and ideas is often hindered by the means of expression available to them. As a white,English speaking educator, a central issue I encounter is how to grapple with this language barrier and its impact on these students’ development. In truth, there really is no definitive solution to this problem. These students have little choice but to adapt and survive within an environment where the only way to succeed is by learning to speak a language which is not their own. Then there is the academic curriculum itself. The issue within the field of Humanities, in this instance, is that though there is a place for the African narrative, it’s constantly framed within the context of a colonial discourse.  The reality is that the black student is, in many respects, indeed marginalised and this is is a dilemma that after 22 years of democracy, has gone unaddressed for far too long.

This then is the primary advantage of the Fees Must Fall Movement. It provides a prolific platform to express these concerns in a way which they could not be expressed before. It’s a movement which, in essence, should be a necessary game-changer within the South African academic community. In fact, it has been. However, the question is has its influence really between to the betterment of South African academia, or has it, ultimately, been to its detriment? Of course, as the past weeks have proven, the answer to this question is a highly subjective one. There are those that feel that the tactics employed by the movement are essential to shifting the power balance of the university which they believe has consistently silenced the black voice. Then there are those that believe that such radical moves as initiating a university shutdown in a bid to secure free education have infringed on the rights of other students to learn and, in doing so, exacerbated an already complex and tense situation.

As both a student and an educator, I admittedly struggle to be objective about this situation. The fundamental concern with this movement, I believe, lies with the attitude and approach of its leaders. At the end of Tuesday’s harrowing events, one of these leaders, Busisiwe Seabe, declared on the steps of the Wits Great Hall, that the impact the movement will achieve once free education has been secured will parallel the impact of Nelson Mandela’s release from prison in 1990. I find the conflation of these two events highly problematic. Firstly, whether you look at the FMF leaders as struggle heroes or destructive egomaniacs, one thing we probably all agree on is that none of these leaders come close to Mandela’s stature. To even suggest this is  to greatly misrepresent Mandela’s memory. Secondly, it pinpoints to these leaders’ constant manipulation  of history. These leaders consistently frame their words and actions through the lens of an apartheid narrative, most significantly that of the 1976 Soweto Uprising which saw thousands of  students participating in a march against the implementation of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction in black schools. The consequence of their actions here was a confrontation with apartheid police who opened fire on them, ultimately taking many of these students’ lives. The feeling among followers of the Fees Must Fall Movement is that they are now reliving the same narrative. Subsequently, there have been continuous references to police brutality, the abuse of black bodies, human shields and statements regarding the willingness to take a bullet for the cause.

It’s all very grand and powerful in its execution but it’s not founded in coplete truth. Yes, there are issues of class and racial oppression that continue to exist today. But we are living an entirely different reality. Politically speaking, in South Africa today, we are all equal. There are no methods of racial segregation in place. Our problems are socially constructed. They are not bound by any laws or regulations. Therefore, to perceive the situation through this lens, implies, again, a misrepresentation and misinterpretation of one of the greatest tragedies of the apartheid era.  On a broader level, what the leaders are ultimately immersed in is a narrative of Black Consciousness. Yes, Black Consciousness is very relevant to this situation. However, for me, the brand of Black Consciousness practiced here seems to be heavily entrenched in a 1970s way  of thinking. The objective of this movement during this period was to celebrate black identity and overthrow white supremacy. Today, though its ramifications remain, white supremacy has, politically,   been overthrown and, therefore, the way of thinking and objective needs to change. This, however, seems to be of little concern to the FMF leaders.It might be considered a contentious statement to make but I think it’s necessary to hold the leaders accountable for twisting this narrative as a means to justify both the rhetoric and the violence which has ensued.

By the same token, the leaders have certainly taken advantage of the liberties afforded to them today by also flipping this narrative, making them assume the roles of victim and oppressor in equal measure. There have been numerous death threats targeted at white lives. There has even been a suggestion of murdering a white student to make the movement’s overall intentions clear to Habib. I will admit that the existence of white privilege has played a key role in what’s brought us to this point.  However, to conflate all white people into one category, to perceive them all as oppressive forces and enforce both verbal warfare and physical violence against them is not the solution to the problem.

This then leads to my other problem with the movement. A university is a space where students are meant to exchange ideas, challenge one another and engage in productive dialogue. The questions that FMF raises are important and need to be addressed critically and thoughtfully within the intellectual space the university provides. The movement, however, is steeped in absolutes. Apart from their dealings with management which come with their own set of issues, FMF leaders are very quick to dismiss the concerns and arguments made by students who try to engage with them from an alternative position. A student who disagrees with the movement’s tactics is labelled a “sell-out” and then faces some or other form of intimidation. To do this, it appears, is far easier than conversing with these students, something any group that is said to represent students’ interests should be doing. In this regard, I think that the biggest victims of the FMF movement, as a whole, are the leaders and their followers themselves. They are driven by the utopian notion that their lives will be better once they have got free education and decolonised the university space. Yet, they fail to realise that these victories will, ultimately, come with their own challenges. A free education implies that universities will be unable to sustain the amount of students they have at present and, therefore, will need to become more selective. This means that many of these students may face exclusion. On another level, to prompt a complete disengagement with colonial ideas and practices is to potentially distance the university space from the dialogue it is meant to promote.

Indeed, there will be a metaphorical bullet and someone will have to take it. I just hope and pray that our universities will be able to survive and recover from its impact.

Photo credit: http://www.afrikareporter.com/fees-must-fall-protests-and-the-status-of-post-apartheid-south-africa/

 

 

 

Losing the Educated Voice: Why #RhodesMustFallen is not a Victory

This week a strong-willed group of students at the University of Cape Town and many of their fellow South Africans cheered as a vehement battle to have a statue of Cecil John Rhodes removed from the university’s campus was finally won. For many this victory lies in how the removal of the statue has helped to give emphasis to the concerns of oppressed black South African voices and provided a significant step forward in renegotiating the university’s current white dominated identity. The opposing argument to this, however, has been that as one of the university’s primary benefactors, Rhodes’s presence on campus is significant and integral to the identity of both the university and its students, as well as South African society as a whole.

These feverish debates around the statue (and, indeed, other statues that bear the mark of colonial or apartheid ideologies) is understandable. A statue is a symbol and symbols, by their very nature, are loaded with meaning. Discussions around what that meaning is are significant because they challenge us to consider the state of our national identity, what it was, what it is and what we want it to become. I also, in this regard, think protests are integral to establishing these discussions. Despite this, however, I can’t help but feel that the triumph of the Rhodes Must Fall campaign is not so much a victory as it is a failure of the educated mind.

To put this into perspective, let’s consider the identity of the primary instigators of the protests. These protesters are young, black students who are attending ,what is perhaps, the most exclusive and prestigious university in South Africa. Indeed, there have been allegations that the racial quota in this university is problematic, implying that its identity is one that is associated with a fundamentally white, affluent South-African culture. This is most certainly an issue which needs to be rectified. For the moment though, the protesting students in question are ones that have access to the same educational opportunities and possibilities that their white peers have. This is not to say that their grievances about the Rhodes statue aren’t of relevance and importance. It’s just to say that because they have access to such vital educational resources, they have the opportunity to articulate their protests in a far more effective manner than they have done up to this point.

I’ve always believed that the classroom is where the greatest platform for protest begins and ends. The university lecture hall, in particular, offers a unique space for students of different ethnic and social backgrounds to critically engage with one another in thoughtful and complex ways. The words exchanged in this lecture hall become words that shape individuals who will become future leaders, who will use both the written and spoken word to create change. This is the platform that is available on a daily basis to all students of the UCT.

Yet, instead of utilizing this platform, the students driving the Rhodes Must Fall have chosen spectacle over debate. In the past weeks these students have thrown feces at the Rhodes statue, chanted aggressive renditions of ‘one settler, one bullet’ and prompted violent disruptions of Student Representative Council meetings, held specifically to discuss the grievances they have been raising. There is no denying that such behaviour makes a statement. It very loudly states that what these protesters want is better representation for black identity within academic culture. However, the key word there is “want”. They want more black lecturers, they want a syllabus which incorporates African languages, they want the statue of a racist, colonialist politician removed. However, amid all this, the word that’s missing is “how”. What we have here are demands, not solutions.  The point of a protest is to find a way to gain common ground, to seek solutions. Without the “how”, the statements are empty and insubstantial. In many ways they are threats, rather than valid arguments.

Hence, as provocative a statement as it is to make, I believe that, in some ways, the powers that be at  UCT failed their students by having the Rhodes statue removed. Essentially, this decision is more an endorsement of bullying and intimidation than it is of the future of  education. Despite the antagonism towards it, I believe the presence of the  Rhodes statue on UCT’s campus was important, primarily because of the discussion it generates. The statue may be a tribute to a notorious colonialist but, in today’s context,  it’s also a testament to the past, present and future of our national identity. Locating the statue at an institution of higher education, the very place in which this national identity is forever changing and evolving, is necessary because it provides a useful and, perhaps, even crucial marker via which to negotiate this identity and continue its process of development. Now that the statue has been separated from this location, what marker will future students have through which to understand their national history and its impact on their present?

I anticipate the kind of backlash the comments I’ve made above may create. Firstly, the claim may be made that to defend the Rhodes statue is much like defending a tribute statue to Adolf Hitler. The problem with this claim is obviously that Rhodes and Hitler are political figures that differ significantly from one another, operating under very different political and social circumstances. To conflate the two is to completely misunderstand the situation at hand. Secondly, it may be suggested that I, admittedly coming from a position of middle-class white privilege, have little understanding of the issues many black university students face. This is absolutely true. I will never have a complete understanding of these issues, nor do I claim to. However, as someone who has experienced the roles of both student and lecturer, what I can testify to is that our education, and the values it’s been founded on, is rapidly being replaced with radicalism which masquerades as intellectualism.  Education is increasingly becoming less about the process of learning. What it is becoming is a shield, an excuse or, rather, justification for throwing feces at a statue. For all its glamour, there’s nothing revolutionary about that.

Source for Image 1: http://www.thedailyvox.co.za/the-statue-must-fall-uct-students-rise-against-cecil-john-rhodes/

Source for Image 2: http://www.iol.co.za/news/south-africa/western-cape/protesters-throw-poo-on-rhodes-statue-1.1829526

Charlie Hebdo and the Problem of the Religious Voice in Freedom of Speech

During the past few days the world has been rocked by the terrorists attack on Charlie Hebdo magazine in Paris, a tragedy that has brought France its most large scale violent attack in two decades and fueled the ongoing debates around the notion of freedom of speech. The general argument, in this instance, has suggested that Charlie Hebdo is the brave crusader which has had its voice suppressed through an act of terrorism. Indeed, this argument is a  valid one. However,  in considering this incident and its consequences, I think it’s necessary to take note of the other side of the coin: the religious voice and its place in freedom of speech.

It has to be stated that many of the issues of  Charlie Hebdo in the past couple of years have gone beyond acceptable bounds of extremity. In the magazine covers below, both the Muslim (via the Prophet Mohammed) and Jewish communities are represented in ways which are (for lack of a better word) problematic:

“Discomforting” and “inappropriate” are probably the kinder words that emerge when viewing these images for the first time. Yet, despite this, there is a significance to these images. Whatever our emotional response to them,  what they encourage is a process of critical thought that challenges us and, perhaps, even makes us examine the depicted situation from a different perspective. The problem is that this form of freedom of speech, as important as it may be, almost always encourages active antagonism towards religion. The message is “religion destroys”, “religion kills”, “religion oppresses”, “religion works against freedom of speech”. Indeed, it’s hard to find a way through which to defend religion when it’s considered the very medium that stops us speaking about it. Many will now claim that the attack on Charlie Hebdo endorses this statement.

Here’s the thing though. For me, religion is not what oppresses freedom of speech. Rather, it’s the way that it’s approached, interpreted and utilized that prevents any dialogue from taking pace. Two Islamic terrorists do not speak for the religion in its entirety. What they ultimately symbolize is an idea, one that they have extracted from but is not necessarily embedded in the religious values they claim to represent. Whether it be the Torah, the New Testament or the Quaran, an understanding of a religious text is shaped not by what it says but how it is read. The problem is that  public discourse latches onto particular figureheads who represent a textual reading that is more temperamental, more combative, one that is more easy to oppose than engage.   That then becomes the dominant reading. There is no space (or, more specifically, freedom) for alternative religious voices to speak. Subsequently, what we have  is an image of Islam as a religion that is based on blind faith in a higher power that defines martyrdom through murder and self-sacrifice, that causes a whole nation to fall into a state of murderous chaos. The dialogue that Charlie Hebdo‘s work is meant to promote is, ultimately, shut down because this dominant narrative continues to prevail.

I’m reminded here of a line in Anne Frank’s diary that has stayed with me since the first time I read it: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart”. I believe that these words are ones that hold true for the concept of religion as a whole. The words of Jesus, Moses and, indeed, the Prophet Mohammed are ones that remain good, that have something relevant to say to the world. However, to engage with these words, there needs to be a shift in discourse, an understanding that the term “religion” as a whole is loaded with multiple meanings. We have to give the other voices the freedom to speak.

The Problem With Analogies of the Gaza Conflict

In the past two weeks I’ve found that every time I’ve logged onto some or other form of social media, my homepage has been saturated with posts on the Gaza conflict .  Some of these posts have been in the form of interesting, thoughtful articles and even status updates which (though they may sway towards a particular bias) present well constructed arguments and ideas. However, the majority of the posts have taken a  demeaning and hateful approach to the issue at hand. This hateful approach has mostly been directed at Israel and, in some cases, the Jewish community as a whole. In  the past few days the South African Jewish Board of Deputies has had to take action against Deputy Secretary General Jessie Duarte who conflated Israel’s actions with those of the Holocaust, ANC volunteer Rene Smit who took an even more radical approach by posting a picture of Hitler on Facebook with the words “Yes man, you were right…I could have killed all the Jews, but I left some of them to let you know why I was killing them” and a public murder threat against  Jews made on the SAJBD’s Facebook page.  Though less recognized to an extent, there have also certainly been examples of hate speech towards pro-Palestinian supporters. A Facebook page called “Jews’ Views”, for instance, declared that anyone who didn’t support Israel was either “an idiot, an antisemite or an Islamic terrorist supporter”. The intent of my post here, let me just point out, is not to promote a privileging of one side’s victimhood over the other.  There will always be differing, heated opinions on where the line between victim and perpetrator stands with regards to this issue. Rather, my intention is to address the kind of rhetoric that has been used to articulate people’s perspectives on the conflict, a continuously emerging discourse which I find inherently problematic.

To put this into perspective, let’s first consider the concept of “critical thinking”, a skill which I imagine we have all been exposed to in some form or another, most notably through tertiary education. To critically think, we learn, is to conceive a particular argument that is considered objectively against an alternative, opposing argument in order to prove the validity of the argument that is being made. In the case of history, I admit, that to critically think can be difficult, if not impossible. I would hope that despite some vehement opposition, most people are of the belief that the devastation of the Holocaust can’t be justified by any opposing argument whatsoever. So too I would hope that most people do firmly believe that apartheid was wrong. The conflict between Israel and Palestine, however, has created a scenario whereby there is indeed a medium for critical engagement and debate. Yes, people may firmly believe in their respective right and wrong positions. However, there does exist a space where these positions can be shaped into a debate that, in a respectful and thoughtful way, can be used to highlight the strengths and weaknesses of both perspectives.

The problem, however, is that not only are examples of critical engagement on this issue few and far between, but that this engagement has been replaced with often vulgar, radical statements that appear to be more concerned with shock value than debate. I’ve noticed that many of these statements follow a certain formula. Using similes as the root from which to promote their perspective, they state as follows “Saying that [insert point of view] is like saying that [insert comparison]”. The comparison in question, of course, is where the problem comes into play. See, what happens when these comparisons are made is that the Gaza conflict is taken out of its respective context and merged with images and/or discourses which, in truth, are completely mismatched with the conflict and its central concerns. The problematic associations between the Gaza conflict and Holocaust have been addressed in great detail in various media forms. Hence, I want to rather turn my focus here to how the issue of women abuse has suddenly emerged in framing the analogies associated with the conflict. This past week I’ve found two examples of such analogies, each of which, rather interestingly, have been used to represent two contrasting perspectives on the conflict. The first of these is a statement which seems to have been doing the rounds for months but now has increased in prominence. The statement in question is “Blaming Hamas for firing rockets into Israel is like blaming a woman for punching her rapist” and it’s cropped up on various online media platforms. The second of these was Tweeted by comedian Bill Maher who stated “Dealing with Hamas is like dealing with a crazy woman who’s trying to kill you-you can only hold her wrists so long before you have to slap her”.

Now I don’t always agree with the viewpoints expressed on the feminist website Jezebel but in the case of their commentary on Maher’s analogy, they’ve been  spot on. As Jezebel commentator Rebecca Rose states, “Making a joke about hitting a woman to make a point about a country where people are being killed is just gross. […]. If you want to be taken seriously as a political pundit, how can you be so dismissive in the language you use when referring to women or other marginalized groups?”. This observation is one that really gets to the centre of the problems inherent in both  gender based analogies. Clearly both of these, as with the Holocaust centered analogies, use the language they use in order to make an impact, to emphasize their complete and utter contempt for their opposition. Indeed they are both successful at unleashing their venom. Simultaneously, however, their success is at the expense of the point they mean to express. See when people start to speak so animatedly about Hamas and Israel hitting and/or raping one another, they aren’t making a serious political statement. What they’re doing is merging together two different issues in a manner which is so flippant that it devalues the purpose of both issues. Essentially, in both these cases, the language is used so casually that what emerges is an abuse joke that fails on all levels to address the concerns of the Gaza conflict in a sophisticated and complex manner. In essence, what their statements simply become is empty and offensive spectacle that lack any substantial basis for critical engagement.

Now let me be clear here. I’m not saying that analogies between the Gaza conflict and other social and political histories shouldn’t be made. In fact,in many respects, the use of analogies can prove very useful in framing the complexities of the conflict. What I’m simply getting at is that these analogies should be more thoughtfully and tactfully constructed. This implies a more careful consideration of which histories could authentically speak to the issues of the Gaza conflict. Furthermore, it suggests a use of analogies which is less resistant to critical engagement and less inclined towards speaking in absolutes. We all have strong opinions about the Gaza conflict but do we need to practically eliminate the potential for open dialogue by expressing ourselves through such a reductive discourse? Indeed mediums such as social media are designed to provide a forum for provocative statements to be made. However, they’ve also been developed to encourage fruitful debate. It’s unfortunate  that many of the current responses to the Gaza conflict have failed to realize this.

Source for image: http://www.novinite.com/articles/145247/UN+Calls+for+Ceasefire+in+Israel-Gaza+Conflict

“a” or “A” for Apartheid?

Up until I reached my mid twenties, I was always under the impression that the word “apartheid”, a term which is so integral to both South African history  and the world’s understanding of racial oppression, was written with a capital “A”. For me, it made sense to think of the term in this way.  As we learned during  childhood, when we encountered language and its intricacies for its first time, a capital letter carries with it a certain sense of personal, social and political prestige. It’s used to emphasize importance, magnitude, identity and belonging. We cannot, in essence, speak about an event such as the Holocaust without the presence of the capital “H”, an emphasis which goes beyond the necessity of grammar rules to draw our attention to the gravity of the Holocaust and its impact within public consciousness. Some literary critics have identified a non capitalized version of this term (holocaust) as one which draws attention to its impact on the private and personal sphere, as opposed to the public one which is associated with the capitalized Holocaust.  Conversely, during a speech made at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum on the Mall in Washington, African-American activist Khalid Muhammad, as cited by literary critic Walter Benn Michaels, spoke about the “black holocaust”, as opposed to the Jewish Holocaust. In this context, the absence of capitalization signifies Muhammad’s interpretation of alternative holocausts as being secondary and forgotten next to the Jewish Holocaust. Despite these two instances where the term “holocaust” enters Holocaust discourse, we predominantly understand and engage with this term in its capitalized modality.

When we speak of apartheid, however, the issue of capitalization versus non-capitalization is one which is distinctly more difficult, in fact problematic, to define. On a  recent visit to the Liliesleaf farm museum site, I found out that I was not the only one confused by the question of whether it’s “A” or “a” for apartheid. At the entrance of the museum site, sign boards which summarized the narrative of apartheid, were scattered with spellings which alternated between “apartheid” and “Apartheid”. It was as if whoever typed up the text for the signboards encountered the very same dilemma  that  I encounter every time I write “apartheid”, forsaking the capital  “A” for the sake of oddly implemented grammatical conventions. In a nutshell, this dilemma can be defined as follows: without the presence of the capital letter to emphasize its presence and meaning, how are we to interpret and respond to the word we call “apartheid”? The signboard typist (albeit subconsciously) seemed to keep reinserting “Apartheid” as opposed to “apartheid” in order to draw attention to the purpose and power it commands in the capitalized form. Yet, what kind of emotional pull or status does apartheid with a small “a” have? By virtue of the word itself, does it still stick out? Or does it blend into the non-capitalized “hes” and “shes” and “the”  words which lie beside it?

Because the word “apartheid” is pretty much a central focus in my study, I face these questions (read anxiety) every time my fingers encounter the keyboard. More than once I’ve found myself falling into the “trap” of capitalizing the “a” because the context I use the word in in each sentence I’ve written thus far has been so significant that the thought of it being washed away is (and I hate to sound dramatic here) unbearable. The word “apartheid” contains within it a multiple number of names and identities: Hendrik Verwoerd, Eugene De Kock, Nelson Mandela, Steve Biko and Joe Slovo. When I use the small “a”, it feels as if the word simply can’t contain these names and identities. It bursts under that amount of pressure. It needs to be capitalized, recognized and heard. Yet, as much as I want to defy grammatical conventions and restore its prominence, I’m pulled back by the confines of academic discourse which forces me to type “apartheid” once more.

The question for me is this: whether we perceive apartheid as an event or an ideology (the two seen to merge into one another when it comes to its present definition), doesn’t apartheid, much like the Holocaust, deserve its capital letter? Doesn’t it deserve not to be misread as a thing? And now I feel another sting as I write “apartheid” one more time.

Source for pic: http://www.sahistory.org.za/image/bury-apartheid-1980