A Free Press

This week I have felt tired. Tired with the government for its controversial information bill – I don’t expect us to be having to defend the right to a free press this far into democracy.

But I am equally tired with the media who would like us to think that it is a sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter. I feel that they have lost the plot – it seems like it has stopped being about our right to know but more about the money.  In my book the plot is to provide us with independent information, to increase our awareness of the world we live in so that we can make up our own minds about what to believe. For too long we have lived in a nanny state where we are told what to do and what to believe.

When I pick up a newspaper I feel like I am being manipulated, being steered in a certain direction. Why should I care that Malema wore a purple suit to a wedding in Mauritius? And do I care about who is eating sushi off who? Even if I don’t want to know about it, I can’t ignore it because it is on the front page of not one, but a few newspapers, and on the television when I switch it on. Good karma to them if they think that that is a good way to spend their money. It all feels a bit like the old apartheid propaganda of swart-gevaar – look what these blacks are up to now that they have power/money.

Two weeks ago I went to my favourite annual dinner for awards for ordinary philanthropists. It buoys me up. I didn’t read much about it in the newspapers. Are we really a nation of negative, pessimistic people? Or is it the media who is feeding us doom and gloom? I think sooner or later we will become immune to the shocking. Sometimes days go by and I ignore the newspapers which get delivered to our door. I am tired of the negativity and the manipulation.

If you read the newspapers you will believe that the government is evil. While we have a far way to go still, and much needs to be done, we live in a country with a democratically-elected government. We should all stand up to defend a free press. We should also demand more responsible reporting from that same free press.

My sister works on the other side of the “boerewors curtain” and on Tuesday was texting me some of her colleagues’ comments - among them, the feeling that democracy was going down the drain and maybe we would need an underground newspaper again. Well, Viva! Let’s go for it. Maybe the press needs a bit of pressure to get back to the plot.

Plett Rage

One more matric exam to go – and so ends 13 years of formal schooling. The exams have gone well as far as stress levels are concerned. It has been a bit of a military operation with the mocks being the practice run. We have combined modern medicine and complementary health approaches with good diet and exercise. Yoga and Boot Camp have been useful when she felt like knocking her brother over the head (or me). But, as someone commented last week, for someone who has been writing exams for weeks, she is looking damn good!

And now looms another rite of passage – the dreaded Plett Rage. Traditionally after the final exams, the matrics from all over the country hit the beaches for one big party. In the Western Cape it’s off to Plettenberg Bay. This is a newish tradition, certainly not one that was around when I was doing matric. Every maternal instinct is screaming out against it – I keep thinking of hundreds of teenagers, newly empowered with driving licences and legally able to imbibe alcohol, wanting to shake off 13 years of institutionalised learning – sounds like a lethal mix to me.

But everyone is going. Everyone. I know there are other parents who are concerned, especially about getting to Plett which is 5 hours drive away. I have made one rule, which is that she is not driving up in a car operated by a teenager or someone who recently passed their driver’s licence test.

There appears to be structures in place and activities seem to be organised in so far as they can be. I guess this is the part where I have to trust that she can go out there and have a good time while holding onto all that she has learnt at home. And hope that she will be safe.

The Gaza Doctor

Hate is an easy option. It takes courage to not hate. That is the message that has come through strongly for me from Dr Izzeldin Abuelaish’s book, I Shall Not Hate.  Dr Abuelaish is also known as “the Gaza doctor”. In 2009 he suffered unspeakable tragedy when three of his daughters were killed by Israeli Defence Force shells, three months after he lost his wife to acute leukemia.

A month ago I attended one of his lectures at the UCT medical school as part of the alumni program. I was blown away by this man who spoke of the tragedy with tears quietly streaming down his cheeks. But it is his response to this tragedy that is remarkable. He refuses to sink into hatred, although he acknowledges the anger he feels. Anger is important, he says, if it is accompanied by change and propels you toward necessary action to change the situation and make it better for everyone.

He spoke for close on an hour with a passion and quiet strength that points to how he has managed to survive with dignity and compassion. He says that as a medical doctor he has been trained to save lives, to treat people irrespective of who they are and that it is this belief that has helped him to search for the humanity in everyone that he has come into contact with.  

I had to buy the book to learn more about what makes this man tick. It is hard to imagine the daily life in Gaza that he describes in the book, the immense difficulties that he has overcome to achieve what he has. In spite of the immense loss that he has suffered, he believes that peace is possible. He hopes that the deaths of his daughters will be the last sacrifice on the road to peace in the Middle East.

He urges us to act now – that it is up to all of us to speak up and take an active role in promoting peace. During his talk he quoted a passage from the German Pastor Niemoller whose words I remember having up on my notice board during the apartheid years:

In Germany they first came for the Communists, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. 

Then they came for the Jews, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. 

Then they came for the trade unionists, 

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. 

Then they came for the Catholics, 

and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant. 

Then they came for me — 

and by that time no one was left to speak up.

I Shall Not Hate by Izzeldin Abuelaish is published by Bloomsbury