Great debate with Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer on Tavis Smiley re. The Help

Watch Actresses Viola Davis & Octavia Spencer on PBS. See more from Tavis Smiley.

This was Whitney Houston

"You Give Good Love," "Saving All My Love," "How Will I Know," "All At Once"... too many good tracks to mention. Still remember every word.

Allmusic got it wrong on this one. Every track on this album is a classic.

 RIP Whitney.

Writer's Retreat

Nose to the grindstone, pedal on the metal, pen to paper... Voila!

Throwback post: The Tunisian revolution in Brussels

15 January, 2011. The morning after the night before. Almost two thousand miles north of Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, bold expressions of solidarity are being made in support of the country’s people. Yesterday, the people succeeded in bringing down a president. Today, revolutionary fervour has erupted in Brussels.

A rowdy contingent is gathered outside Bourse, an historic symbol of Belgian capitalism. The old stock exchange and speaker’s corner is the scene of many a weekend protest. No point being at the Berlaymont when the Eurocrats are away for two days, probably off in their home countries or holed up in the suburbs. Bourse, behind Grand Place and at the heart of Brussels' tourist trade, is the perfect place to draw attention to your cause. And these demonstrators are here to be heard.

“One, Two, Three / Viva La Tunisie!” they intone in full-throated chorus, over and over again, about two hundred of them in unison. Their slogan may not be catchy but it’s powerful nonetheless and everyone on the busy shopping streets surrounding the popular landmark is stopping and taking notice.

***

This isn’t, strictly speaking, a protest. It’s a party. The people are here to celebrate the people’s uprising in their homeland, which has resulted in the downfall of Tunisia’s president of twenty-three years, Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali. They used to call him “Ben A Vie” meaning president for life, an ironic soubriquet for the man who claimed to have won three successive elections, each with over eighty per cent of the vote. Now they call him “Ben A Degagé”, Ben is out and they’re elated.

“I’m here because I’m happy,” beams Mohammed, a middle-aged father of three who’s come from the other side of town to be part of the action. “In the beginning I didn’t believe it, until now. I’m Tunisian and I’ve been in Belgium for thirty years. I saw some things on television that I didn’t like and I want to be here to say that we can be happy now. I hope for good things for Tunisia and Tunisians. Fiesta! Voila!”

The North African sun has finally set on one of the region’s most repressive dictators. After days of protests, the autocrat has been pushed out of power by a surprise revolt that started almost a month ago and gradually gathered pace. It began with the deed of one man who, reduced to selling fruit on the street because there was no other job for him, set fire to himself when he was forbidden from doing even that by police. This incident ignited a series of events that led to the first successful Arab world uprising in thirty-one years. And that is why we’re here.

***

The red and white of the Tunisian standard adds colour to the austere grey of the Bourse. Young men straddle the giant lion sculptures on either side of the imposing neo-classical building, erecting flags. Rodin had a hand in this place. Now they do too.

A large crowd on the steps below excitedly pump placards high in to the air. The Tunisian flags fly alongside Algerian ones, the old enemies united in optimism, and there’s the odd Moroccan one thrown in for good measure. Banners expressing solidarity with the Ivory Coast are waved zealously beside Che Guevara motifs. The local socialists have also infiltrated the party, handing out leaflets proclaiming the imminent fall of capitalism. Revolution is in the air.

***

If this is supposed to be a party it doesn’t feel like it. Emotions are high yet, amid the jubilation, there’s a bristling tension. “Saudi government, shame on you! Fuck you and your oil. Bastards!” spits one man, aggressively jabbing his finger in the air. Along with their relief at Ben Ali’s exit, there’s resentment as to why they’ve had to endure years of despotic rule while the West stood idly by as the situation in Tunisia was allowed to deteriorate.

“L’Europe etait complice du dictateur,” reads a sign and its bearer is in no doubt as to who’s to blame for Tunisia’s agony. The man with the condemnatory placard is fulminating against the European and American governments: Ben Ali is guilty of murder, repression and corruption, he says, and the West is guilty of turning a blind eye to it. His invective is so boisterously impassioned that people begin to move away from him, creating a space for his imaginary soapbox as he expounds his theory using every part of his body. He charges the West with being complicit in the suffering of the Tunisian people for their own gain. It’s the same story, just a different state.

***

Because of Ben Ali’s support to the West as a bulwark against Islamic extremism, and his cosy relationship with various European leaders, his heavy-handed rule has long been tolerated. France, Tunisia’s former colonial power, even threatened to send troops to Tunis to help restore order. For the West, it’s been a case of better the devil you know. Not so for the Tunisian people, who’ve been sacrificed in the process, considered collateral damage in the war against terror, like the innocent Pakistanis killed while they slept in drone attacks or the Afghan civilians cut down on the street by misguided bombs.

“Memoir a nos martyrs de la liberté”. Those who have died, like Muhammad Bouazizi, the self-immolator, and the dozens of others killed in the days of rioting, are considered freedom fighters here. Their deeds have made them martyrs. “Power to the people”. “Ben Ali doit payer pour ses crimes”. “Arretez le massacre”. “Dignité, egalitié, paix pour la Tunisie”. The demands, declarations and accusations by way of banners and placards keep on coming. They’re written in French, Dutch, Arabic and English. This is, after all, an officially bilingual, international city, the capital of Europe, and they feel - they hope - that Europe, if not the world is watching. But, whatever the language, the message is the same: We’ve suffered enough. This is our time. Carpe diem.

***

Like their compatriots in Tunis and other towns and cities around Tunisia, most of those here celebrating are young men in their twenties, some Belgian-born-and-raised, others more recent arrivals. There are also a decent number of women and older people in the throng, whole families - fathers lift small children on their shoulders so they too can bear witness - as well as non-Tunisians of various backgrounds. They’ve all come to share in the moment, to watch history in the making.

“I live here in Belgium,” says Ali, a man in his late thirties, in strained but perfect English. “Unfortunately.”

He’s holding aloft a double-sided placard which reads: I call all Arab nations to get rid of their dictators on one side and Yes We Can Too on the other. Both sides declare: I’m proud and Tunisian so that no one is in any doubt. 

“Why unfortunately?” I ask.

“Because I wanted to be there,” he says. “This is my way of expressing solidarity.” And without missing a beat he insists: “And I’m ready to die for it.”

When someone looks you in the eye and tells you with complete conviction that they're ready to die for their country, you don’t flinch, so unnerved are you by their devotion. There are a million questions you want to ask but none make themselves available. You begin to see the person in a different light. All of a sudden, he becomes more real, not just another stranger but an actual human being with a past and a present. His future becomes questionable. He becomes vulnerable. So do you. You realise that he could be your brother or your cousin and you feel protective of him. You empathise with his wanting to be at home and yet having to be far from it, desperate to play a part in shaping his country's future. You feel it about Britain, in the wake of some of the severest cuts that the country has experienced in a generation, and I feel it about Ghana, always.

“I want to talk to the people of the Arab world because the Arab leaders are all stupid and dictators,” Ali says. “I want them to have a revolution and show all the leaders that we are stronger than them.”

There’s something completely sincere about Ali, and something wholly naive. He looks an anguished man. His lips speak of revolt and his eyes convey suffering. Though this is the first time I’ve met him, and it will probably be the last, he begins to mean something to me. Something in him reflects something in me. I feel I know his struggle. I identify with his frustration. Maybe it’s the Africa connection.

My mind wanders back to what it must have been like in Africa at the dawn of independence, when sweeping change was on the horizon and the anticipation was so high it was electric. There was no knowing what the future would bring but that was half the excitement, the unfolding of events. It makes you think about the cost of freedom and those willing to pay its price. Perhaps you would give your life for your family or even a good friend but for the men and women you don't know, many of whom are yet to be born? These are the revolutionaries, the sacrificial lambs. It’s in their hands that the future lies.

Most of the protestors know that, while they’ve come to the end of a long battle, they’re just at the beginning of another, one of uncertainty but not fear because this time, at least,  they’re in control of their own destiny. “Ben Ali has been the “president” of Tunisia but actually he’s a dictator and he’s been oppressing people for over three decades and now finally he’s gone,” says Ben, a twenty-year-old Belgian-born Tunisian while hastily handing me a sign to wave. “But we don’t know what’s going to happen next,” he admits. “The most important thing is that he’s gone.” He pauses briefly to think about what he’s said and, with more than a hint of caution, adds on reflection, “For now.”

And that’s all they have – “for now”. How long is now only time will tell. For the moment, there’s unbridled happiness that will soon be tempered by cautious optimism. But that, like all killjoys, can wait until the morning.

Reading is the best teacher

In my quest to become a serious writer, I’ve discovered somewhat late in life what every serious writer knew practically from birth - that reading is the best teacher. 

• Read out of your comfort zone. 
• Read omnivorously. 
• Read voraciously. 
• Read the classics. 
• Read the modern classics. 
• Read fiction.
• Read non-fiction. 
• Read poetry and plays.
• Read science and philosophy, anthropology and sociology.
• Listen to the written word.

The poet, Nikki Giovanni recently said that the education system needs a rethink:

I’m really just so against grades. …We now are in a fight for grades which means that … a kid like me today would not take a class in physics because I would not do well and it would bother my GPA. That’s crazy. …I’m a poet, I should be taking physics, I should be taking astronomy,… chemistry for sure.  I should be taking things that I know I can’t get an A in but that will enhance my learning.  So if we can move ahead into the 21^st or actually 22^nd Century and say okay, grades are going to be different. [Source]

This is true. Education should be wide-ranging and holistic. Children should be encouraged to learn for the sake of expanding their store of knowledge and opening their eyes to the world rather than learning by rote simply with the aim of passing exams. 

In a culture where the practice of reading is second to video games, television and the internet, statistics show that many children no longer own books let alone read them. Which is why libraries remain an absolute essential, a non-negotiable part of our cultural offer. Libraries are a lifeline for those who can't afford to spend £20 on  new release, or wouldn't otherwise


I've just ordered this:

 It may be in danger of preaching to the converted but we all, even the bibliophile among us, need a reminder that there's no substitute for the art, practice and simple pleasure of opening a book and becoming lost in its words/worlds.

Writing tips from Christopher Isherwood

Please bear with me while I continue to indulge my Isherwood obsession... Having read and re-read the Berlin Stories (Mr Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye to Berlin) and Christopher & His Kind here, condensed, are some words of wisdom regarding the practice of writing as gleaned from Isherwood himself:

• Be honest
• Write from experience
• Write from the heart
• Expose yourself / lay yourself bare on the page
• Feel the fear and do it anyway
• Use real characters as the basis for fictional ones
• Take a brain dump – shame yourself and give yourself something to work with
• Write in public
• Take inspiration from the everyday practice of life
• Make the mundane interesting, make the interesting mundane
• Revel in the company of other writers

More to come on a new subsite soon.

The Helped

Last night I went to see the much buzzed about movie, The Help with great reluctance. The film is based on the best-selling book by Kathryn Stockett, which was a literary phenomenon when it was published in 2009. It tells the story of a young white woman, Skeeter, who sets out to document the stories of black maids working in white homes in Jackson, Tennessee. The purpose is to expose the hypocrisy of how atrociously they’re treated.

Sure enough, within the first five minutes, every fear I had about the film was confirmed in the opening scenes. And throughout, every stereotype about black people was put on view - from fried-chicken eating, fat mammies to physically abusive husbands and impoverished wives with multiple children.

There were, however, some redeeming features. The relationship between the boisterous maid, Minny and Celia, the ‘white trash’ outcast, was endearing if not an obvious narrative device designed to once again reinforce the mammy stereotype and the bond between two undesirables who find their strength in their friendship based on exile. There was also the relationship between Skeeter and her mother and Aibileen and the child she was employed to look after, a parallel that tied the threads of a multi-layered story. The Help was helped by its excellent ensemble cast, which included stellar cameos from Sissy Spacek and the almost unrecognisable Cicely Tyson. Which leads me to another point…

The film should really have been called The Helped. That would have been a more appropriate title since it wasn’t so much about The Help as those they Helped, those who were the perpetrators rather than those who were perpetrated against. How much did we really learn about Aibileen, Minny and Yule-May in comparison to what we knew and were made to feel about Skeeter, Hilly and Celia? What we learnt is that stereotypes persist in the movies and to present anything different would be a challenge too far, taking the audience out of its established narrative comfort zone. Was it a surprise that, at the end of the screening, the audience broke in to spontaneous applause? Why? Because they got what they came to see. They left redeemed and restored, with their consciences intact knowing that they were good guys, really, despite it all. They will overcome someday and, thanks to the movie, they have.

This new, proposed title also adequately covers those that the film was aimed at – white women. The Help is essentially a chick flick. I’m still unclear about what the merit and purpose of the film ultimately is? Can anyone offer any Help?

Following in the footsteps of Christopher Isherwood

22 rue Adolphe Max, Brussels: sometime home of Christopher Isherwood

The photo above is of 22 rue Adolphe Max in the centre of Brussels. Nothing distinctive about that, you might think, except if it was in England it would certainly be graced with a blue plaque in honour of its one-time inhabitant. The late, great British writer Christopher Isherwood briefly lived here in 1932. Isherwood is probably best known for the adaptations of his beautifully written novella, Sally Bowles, which became Cabaret on film, starring Liza Minelli and a successful Broadway production, starring Julie Harris. Recently, the Oscar-nominated film adaptation of A Single Man, starring Colin Firth in Tom Ford’s directorial debut, brought Isherwood’s work back into the spotlight.

Having recently read Isherwood’s Berlin Stories - the subtly sinister Mr Norris Changes Trains and the surreally evocative Goodbye to Berlin - I am officially in thrall to his genius. A master of prose, his delicate re-creation of character and events makes the reader feel as if they, too, have lived his life and been a party to his times. This feeling of intimacy is further enhanced on reading Christopher and his kind, Isherwood’s autobiography of his Berlin years, from 1929 to 1939. Against the encroaching political backdrop of Nazism, and in the final days of the Weimar Republic, Isherwood captures a period of decadence and impending, unstoppable loss. Rather than joining any of the political movements that were prevalent at the time (although he flirted with Communism, he was never really committed), Isherwood contributed to the cause and halted time the best way he could - by documenting it in his inimitable, timeless style.

An honest, unselfish writer, Isherwood gives us an insight into how he used the people and events of his life by explaining the fictionalisation of his novels in Christopher and his kind. The sections that explain his creative and literary process are invaluable to the novice who, like me, is struggling with the indistinct line between truth and fiction. The struggle continues but, thanks to Isherwood, the line is a little bit clearer.

Scene on a train: a short play

On Platform Two of Seven Sisters overground station. It’s seven twenty-two on a crisp December night. It’s dark and cold and there’s a buzz in the air. Christmas is but days away and, what with the bleak economic outlook and the exertions of the riots, it seems everyone is looking forward to a well-deserved break. People are in good spirits but there’s a hint of edginess in the air.

The platform is crowded. The 19.14 to Enfield Town is eight minutes late. People are checking their phones and watches with increasing frustration. They’re speaking into mobiles loudly and berating the unreliable service. Some of them have come from West End, having taken the Victoria line from Oxford Circus to Seven Sisters. Many of them are black, many of them are young.


Finally, the train pulls in to Seven Sisters, ten minutes late. It’s already full and those waiting to board are laden with shopping bags, making the usual jostle for position fiercer. When the doors eventually open, the usual etiquette is done away with. Those wanting to get off the train are swamped by those desperate to get on as everyone crowds in in a mad rush for seats.


People deposit themselves wherever they find space. Passengers shuffle in their seats to make way for those who are determined to sit down despite the overflow of people and bags. Some place their goods in the overhead luggage racks; others place them on the floor or even on the seat beside them.


In the four seats nearest to the door in the first carriage is a white woman in her mid-thirties, who is sitting against the window facing the direction in which the train is travelling. Resting against her arm is her son, who is about eight or ten years old. He is asleep. Opposite her is an older white woman, in her late sixties or early seventies. Her head is deep in an Evening Standard, although she is aware of the commotion going on around her and the scramble for seats. Her bags are placed on the seat beside her. She makes no attempt to move them to make way for someone to sit down (and feigns blissful ignorance with the aid of her paper).


An old white man in his late seventies gets on the train at Bruce Grove. He’s stooped but nimble on his feet. He’s wearing a grey flat cap and a fur-lined, camel coat. He shuffles into the carriage and hunts for a seat. All eyes are on the old woman with her bags on the only free seat.

This time, she reluctantly concedes and moves her shopping bags on to the floor in order to let the old man sit down.

Old man: Thank you. Thank you, dear, that’s very kind of you.

He takes a seat as the train starts to move off. There’s a brief silence. Rubbing his gloved hands…

Oooo, it’s cold today, innit. Freezing! Still, not as bad as last year. Last year was terrible. This year’s been quite good.

The old woman sitting next to him briefly averts her gaze from her paper and fakes a smile while the mother sitting opposite produces a genuine grin.

Mother: You wouldn’t think that Christmas was only a couple of days away.

Old man: Oo, Christmas. Doesn’t feel like does it. I remember when I was a kid it would be guaranteed snow. Now everything’s changed. You can’t tell whether you’re coming or going.

The mother smiles and there is a brief moment of silence as the train pulls out of Bruce Grove and Tottenham High Street comes into view as the train passes through it.

Old man: It’s terrible. I used to go to that post office in Bruce Grove before they burnt it down. Now I have to go all the way up to the post office at the Sainsbury’s in Edmonton. It takes me ages. Do you know the one?

Mother: No, I don’t.

Old man: The one by the big Sainsbury’s. I have to take the bus or get the train up cos I could never walk there. It’s too far to get to by foot. I used to like walking to the old post office in Bruce Grove. It was a nice bit of exercise, you know. Now, I don’t really get out much.

Silence.

There was a lovely woman who used to work at the Post Office in Bruce Grove. A little Indian lady. Do you know her?

Mother: No, I’ve never been there.

Old man: I wonder what happened to her? She was lovely. Really good at her job. I haven’t seen her since. I thought they might have moved her up to Edmonton but I haven’t seen her there. She’s the kind of person I feel sorry for. She didn’t deserve to lose her job cos some no-good kids decided to burn down her place of business.

All eyes shift towards the old man. The tension is palpable. Lowering her paper…

Old woman: That’s just an excuse. They would have closed them down anyway. The government was planning to shut down most of the Post Offices around here. The rioters did them a favour. Gave them a get-out clause.

Old man: Is it really?

Old woman: Yes it is. The government don’t care one bit about the likes of you and me. They were going to put you out of your post office regardless.

Old man: You’re right, you’re certainly right. But that’s no excuse for them burning down all those buildings.

Old woman: It wasn’t all of them. Some of them are good kids but the media tarred everyone with the same brush. None of the kids where I live were involved.

Old man: Fair point, fair point.

Hastily changing the subject…

Mother: Are you doing anything nice for Christmas?

Old man: Nah. My daughter lives in Essex and she’s got her kids to think about. She’s divorced, see, so she’s got her hands full. I’ve got a son too but he’s taken his family off on holiday. Gone off to the Caribbean for some winter sun, Gambia, or somewhere, he says, so he’s doing better than we are. It’s all about the kiddies anyhow. Got any plans for the little lad?

Mother: Oh, he’s spoilt enough. Nothing special. But he’ll know it’s Christmas.

Old man: That’s right, he deserves to be spoilt, don’tcha lad?

He ruffles the sleeping boy’s shoulder playfully, rouses the child but doesn’t wake him. The mother smiles.

When my kids were little ‘uns we used to really treat them at this time of year, me and the wife. We never had much but we made sure that they knew it was Christmas. We did our best.

Mother: I’m sure you did.

The train stops at White Hart Lane.

Old man: I’ve lived here going on fifty years. Used to take my boy to watch the football every Saturday when there were home games. It was safe as houses then. So much’s changed but I wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is England, warts and all.

The train passes behind a house with a huge St. George’s flag billowing in its garden. They all look at it.

Old woman: In all its ugliness and its glory.

Small acts of kindness

I’ve been back in London less than twenty-four hours and I’m heartened to have borne witness to small acts of kindness that exemplify that, in north London, at least, we really are all in it together. Whether or not we’re part of the Big Society as expressed by the prime minister is another story but we’re certainly part of society as it exists for us in our local communities.

It’s been interesting to compare today with this time last year. The scenes that I recorded in my diary last winter were of a Dickensian gloom, a very individual despair. Times are harder than they were twelve months ago yet spirits are definitely higher. There’s been an almost imperceptible sea-change that has not gone unnoticed.

As my friend and mentor, Natalie, observed, we’re currently on a spectrum of extreme intolerance and small acts of kindness. At the opposite end, we, and millions around the world, see what transpired on a tram in south west London and a similar event on a bus further east. Some people no longer feel the need to conceal what they’re thinking when it comes to race and pointing the perceived finger of blame at people of colour and immigrants, whether they were, in fact, born British or whether they were newly arrived last week. At the other end, it is a pleasure to watch a stranger help a blind man board a busy Victoria line tube train. Not only did the sighted man discretely assist the blind man, but he also stood chatting to him for the length of his journey as if they were old friends. I only realised that they had just met when the sighted man helped ‘his friend’ off the train when he reached his stop and steered him in the right direction. It was at this point that the blind man thanked him for keeping him company and shook his hand saying, ‘Nice to meet you.’ Hardly Miracle on 34th Street but notable, nonetheless.

The following day, another incident occurred that restored my faith in Londoners. A man held a bus for me, a bus that I was certain to miss had he not intervened by standing half in and half out of the door as insurance while asking the driver to wait as I ran. It’s been a long time since that has happened since everyone is in a perennial rush these days, Christmas notwithstanding. But this gentleman didn’t stop there.

As we both ascended the stairs to the top deck of the overcrowded bus, we – and everyone else – noticed the shadowy, hunched figure of a young male stood on the stairway. He wore a dark hoodie and loose, cotton trousers and his face was covered by his hands, which were small and gloved. He was clearly distressed though silently so. We all ignored him, including myself. When the bus reached its terminus, everyone passed this figure on the way down, just as we had done on the way up and no one said anything.

It was at this point that the man who stopped the bus for me put his arm around this enigma, who turned out to be a young boy, no more than fourteen, and asked him, ‘Are you alright, brother?’ The boy looked up at the stranger, perhaps fifteen years older than himself, and said, ‘I’m alright, thank you.’ He clearly wasn’t but he looked grateful that someone had taken the time to ask. At a time when young people are falling prey to all kinds of temptations and tragic fates, sometimes all it takes is a small show of interest to reassure them that someone cares. I felt quietly rebuked.

These were the main episodes that struck me but by no means the only ones, including the young mother in a store in a notoriously deprived area who informed me that my bag was torn and offered me a carrier by way of substitute lest I fall victim to a thief. A small thing but then in our twenty-four hour, consumerist society every little helps, including small acts of involuntary kindness.

Sunday praise: Giving thanks for Amiri Baraka

Amiri Baraka and Saul Williams

In yet more evidence of God fulfilling dreams that you didn’t even know you had, last night saw the realisation of a latent desire to be in the company of great men who have contributed significantly to our world and our lives today. 

Last night I had the privilege to spend time with legendary poet, playwright and activist, Amiri Baraka formerly known as LeRoi Jones. 

I was honoured to be able to see Baraka perform with legend-in-the-making Saul Williams at the Black Power of Speech event at KAAI Theater as part of the brilliant Spoken World Festival. I even dared to hope that I may be able to get my book signed, which would have been good enough. Watching Baraka, age 77, interacting with Williams, 39, was a lesson in contemporary black history and intergenerational dialogue and taught us all just how much we can learn from our elders and wisers. 

To be able to sit down with the great man over a beer (his) and in the collected good company of old friends and a new one was an education and a privilege. Baraka spoke to us about his life and times and expanded on some of the topics he’d raised in his performance and during his conversation with Williams and Flemish journalist, Frank Albers.

He spoke about how he was kicked out of the US Air Force and thrown in prison for one of his poems; about how he and African-Americans in the civil rights era looked up to African leaders back in the day but now there’s no one left to look up to; and about how African-Americans need to learn to be more sophisticated in their critiques of the first black president (although he's not feeling Tavis Smiley and Cornel West at all!). 

He told us how, in the Sixties, he empowered his New York community by sending out buses loaded with books, art and music to make culture accessible and engender pride in culture; his experiences of speaking his truth around the world and performing his poetry to diverse and, on rare occasions, hostile audiences; and his run-ins with the establishment even to this day.It was a revelation and a pleasure and we talked long in to the night, eventually leaving the theatre at just after one in the morning. The show officially finished at ten forty-five. 

I’m often asked why I don’t go into politics given that the political interests me. My reply is always that I’d like to contribute to changing the world and engaging in the political discourse in ways that are more natural to me. Last night, Baraka and Williams reinforced for me that my way is through words, written and spoken. Not that I was in any doubt but they served as a timely and powerful reminder. The event also reminded me - us - that living in Brussels has its benefits. The opportunity to get close to renowned international artists is definitely one of its lesser known advantages.

I thank God for the opportunity to engage in conversation with someone who has lived a life and did something with potent it and I pray that I take from this encounter the lesson I was meant to take. I pray that there are many more opportunities to learn from the wisdom of elders.

Read Somebody Blew Up America, the poem that got Baraka fired from his Poet Laureate position in New Jersey after 9/11.

Africa rising: The hopeful continent

From this week's Economist:

THE shops are stacked six feet high with goods, the streets outside are jammed with customers and salespeople are sweating profusely under the onslaught. But this is not a high street during the Christmas-shopping season in the rich world. It is the Onitsha market in southern Nigeria, every day of the year. Many call it the world’s biggest. Up to 3m people go there daily to buy rice and soap, computers and construction equipment. It is a hub for traders from the Gulf of Guinea, a region blighted by corruption, piracy, poverty and disease but also home to millions of highly motivated entrepreneurs and increasingly prosperous consumers.

Over the past decade six of the world’s ten fastest-growing countries were African. In eight of the past ten years, Africa has grown faster than East Asia, including Japan. Even allowing for the knock-on effect of the northern hemisphere’s slowdown, the IMF expects Africa to grow by 6% this year and nearly 6% in 2012, about the same as Asia.

The commodities boom is partly responsible. In 2000-08 around a quarter of Africa’s growth came from higher revenues from natural resources. Favourable demography is another cause. With fertility rates crashing in Asia and Latin America, half of the increase in population over the next 40 years will be in Africa. But the growth also has a lot to do with the manufacturing and service economies that African countries are beginning to develop. The big question is whether Africa can keep that up if demand for commodities drops.

Read more...

Where are our Walker Evans?

Much has been written over the last few months about the lack of writers documenting the human impact of the financial crisis. The names most often brought out in these debates are Steinbeck and Orwell, two towering figures in the literary-documentary tradition against which no writers today justifiably compare.

But it occurred to me while walking around the Jeff Wall retrospective at the BOZAR in Brussels that, not only is it legitimate to question the dearth of literary chroniclers, we might also pause to consider the absence of photographers capturing the essence of the new great depression. Where are our Walker Evans? Where are our Cartier-Bressons?

The argument could be made, as it has about writers, that in the midst of the worst financial crisis in a generation, people don’t want to read, or see, their suffering reflected in their entertainment. The purpose, they argue, of literature and film and any other of the arts, is to take the consumer into the realms of fantasy not force them to wallow, to live, in their reality. This is a one-dimensional analysis. Surely, the job of an artist is to capture reality as well as help create it? And if, as is often said, the media set the agenda, then surely our writers and photographers are in a unique position to document the social and economic decline at the human level and give voice, shape and form to the suffering.

While many striking images have come out of Detroit, and there have been inevitable accusations of 'poverty porn', the new voyeurism, it may only be years from now that we come to rue the consequences of the suffering we chose to ignore.

Giving help and hope to children in need

From The Courier, Sept 2011: Safeguarding the rights of Ghanaian children is the preoccupation of Afrikids, a unique British charity which aims to put itself out of business through the development of sustainable enterprises.

Georgie Fienberg and Afrikids Ghana director, Nich Kumah

When Georgie Fienberg visited Ghana on a gap year fifteen years ago, she couldn’t have known the impact it would have on the rest of her life. Not just hers, but those of thousands of children in northern Ghana whose lives she would touch through the work of the charity she would create. Now, fifteen years later, Afrikids is a salvation for many young people who would otherwise be living without hope.

In 2001, Fienberg started Afrikids, a child rights organisation based in Ghana’s Upper East region. Inspired by the resourcefulness of those she met while travelling around the country, she felt compelled to do something. Contrary to the images shown on television of helpless natives, Fienberg found a creative and determined people who were making the best out of difficult circumstances.

Rather than go in and tell them how to do things, Fienberg worked with local people to help them improve on what they were already doing. In the process, she created an organisation which now employs 150 staff in Ghana with just a small, supporting team of four in London.

What distinguishes Afrikids from other development charities is its approach. It works to solve the root causes of children's problems, by improving community support services and by providing access to basic education and primary health care. “Our mission has always centred on children,” says Andy Thornton, Director of Afrikids UK. “We recognise that, in order to change the lives of children, you have to work with all of the surrounding factors. So we work very inclusively and holistically.”

Read more...

Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars

Beautiful Thing: Inside the Secret World of Bombay's Dance Bars by Sonia Faleiro

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


This is a wonderfully engaging and elegantly written book that tells the story of Leela, a teenage bar dancer in Mumbai’s seedy, barely-concealed underworld of dance bars and prostitution.


I forgot that I was reading a work of non-fiction. The author has so skilfully crafted the story and the characters that you feel you know Leela intimately from the very first page. Later characters like Priya and the cleverly constructed Apsara are also brilliantly drawn.


Although the book covers a fairly short time span and is relatively short in length, this adds to the pace of the narrative, which was gripping throughout. Beautiful Thing is a page turner. The twist in the tale in Apsara’s story, in particular, was unexpected genius and the somewhat sudden and frustrating ending left me wanting more. If ever Faleiro was to produce a sequel I’d be eager to read it. Leela is a character that stays with you long after the final page. There are many questions that remain unanswered, many fears for Leela that remain unassuaged.

Faleiro is subtle in her revelation of the prejudices that exist within the world of the dancers themselves. While it would be easy to focus on the obvious injustices the dancers face in the outside world, Faleiro succeeds in highlighting the bigotries that consume Leela and her cohorts, revealing a moral hierarchy within an immoral world.

My one criticism about the book would be the use of long strings of Hindi, which had the tendency to disrupt the flow of the narrative rather than add to it. But this is minor. Faleiro has created an endearingly solid work that was five years in the making and is as beautiful as its title implies. Beautiful Thing is a sensitive, often shocking and moving insight into a world that most wouldn’t want to be a part of but one which we’re hooked on discovering more about, however uncomfortable it is. That’s the writer’s ultimate talent in producing this gem of a book.

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Goodreads review of Siddhartha Deb's latest book

The Beautiful and the Damned: Life in the New India by Siddhartha Deb

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


An intriguing journey through the India you don't see in the Incredible India mass tourism marketing. Deb goes behind the veneer of life in the New India and lays bare the contradictions that exist between the image and the reality. Told through the lives of five main characters, these well-researched and well-told stories together make up a narrative says more about 21st century India than anything I've read to date and in such a subtle and darkly comic way. Deftly constructed and thoroughly engaging, Siddhartha Deb's first foray into long form non-fiction is highly recommended.



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From SiP: Starkey doesn't think imitation is the finest form of flattery

Historian David Starkey looking very much like...?

From Stupidity is Painless:

Starkey and his peers live in a segregated world. A collective culture with people bound by economic circumstance where race once used to divide, is confusing to him. Whether you call his views racist or dismiss them asmerely  a ‘senior moment’, you have to call them plain ignorant and wrong.

 Read more.

An anthem for our times

In these times of global social and political unrest, here's a little gem of a tune to soothe fraught minds.

The fallout: Michael Gove and Harriet Harman sparring on Newsnight

Classic!

The Repatriate Generation

From Time magazine.

By Vivienne Walt

The oil-rich African nation of Chad has rampant corruption, unclean water, few tarred roads and patchy electricity. It ranks as the world's second most dysfunctional country, after Somalia, according to the 2011 Failed States Index of the Washington-based nonprofit Fund for Peace. In short, Chad seems a nightmare location for business — unless, that is, you are Papa Madiaw Ndiaye, 45, or Patrice Backer, 44, of Advanced Finance & Investment Group, a private-equity fund-management company in Dakar, Senegal, that has so far invested about $72 million in African financial institutions, agriculture and mining. Ndiaye, the fund's CEO and founder, and Backer, the chief operating officer, have been plotting how to get rich ever since they became best friends as freshmen at Harvard University and worked together at JPMorgan. Decades later, their most lucrative prospect last year was a bank in Chad. "It's like low-hanging fruit," says Ndiaye, describing the investment climate in Africa. "There is no competition. If you know what you're doing, it is a bonanza." 

Such bonanzas — opportunities in troubled places with huge needs — are increasingly being sought out by a fast-growing group: Africans who have returned home after years of living, working and studying in the West. Though still a small subculture, African executives who have abandoned high-flying careers on Wall Street, in the City of London and in other financial hubs are becoming a force across the continent, their impact far outstripping their numbers. By moving home, they and others are bucking the trend of generations of Africans who headed west in search of brighter prospects, better education and decent jobs — and stayed abroad for good. Millions of African families have been kept afloat for decades by remittances from relatives working abroad as everything from street cleaners to physicians. Now with economic prospects and, in some cases, political stability improving in Africa while both are declining in the West, some of those relatives have concluded they are better off back home. "There is a momentum among young, upwardly mobile people to come home," says Rolake Akinola, a Nigerian business analyst with years of work experience in London. "We call ourselves the Repatriate Generation." 

The generation is a product of two colliding forces. The first is the global economic crisis of 2008, which resulted in millions of lost jobs in the U.S. and Europe and dampened employment prospects even for the best and the brightest. The other is the rocketing value of commodities, many of which are found in Africa. This has drawn new investment to the continent and pushed up growth. The upturn has been helped by deregulation in several countries, which has opened new industries to private investment, and also negotiations to end violent conflicts in places like Liberia and Rwanda. A report last year by McKinsey & Co. found that Africa's annual growth rate averaged 4.9% from 2000 to 2008 — more than twice the pace in the 1980s and '90s — and was likely to continue for some time as its middle class grows. Consumer spending on the continent could reach $1.4 trillion by 2020, the report claims. "If recent trends continue, Africa will play an increasingly important role in the global economy," it notes. 

Read more here.

Riots, racism and reporting: The Katrina Comparison

The leading article in yesterday’s Independent claimed that the English riots are Britain’s ‘Katrina moment.’ Others have drawn the comparison too. The media’s desperately trying to make sense of these unprecedented events. But having thought about it, I’ve come to the conclusion that the analogy to Katrina is deeply offensive to the people of New Orleans.

While I take the article’s point in terms of the potential impact of the riots, the comparing of the aftermath of a wholly natural disaster that was a life-and-death situation to that of what amounts to no more than common criminality and opportunism is unfortunate.

If there’s any comparison to be made to the aftermath of Katrina, it’s in the way in which the media reported both events. 

Just as displaced and marooned New Orleans blacks desperate for food were deemed ‘looters’ while whites were simply ‘foragers’, so too the English Defence League, racist thugs, were referred to as ‘groups protecting their communities’ without any analysis of their motivations. 

The BBC interview with Darcus Howe, in which the presenter was hell bent on painting the distinguished, veteran broadcaster as some kind of rude boy apologist for criminal disorder, is also a case in point.BBC Radio 5 Live didn’t cover itself in glory either. The tone of The Victoria Derbyshire Show, which went out live from Tottenham yesterday, was wholly questionable and revealed the presenter’s clear bias about who was to blame and why.

To their credit, those media you would expect to take this kind of line haven’t done as badly in their own reporting.

The Daily Mail and The Sun have sought to highlight the diversity of those involved in the criminality, across race, class and gender. Both papers have focussed on societal moral decay rather than pointing the finger at specific communities.

The McPherson Inquiry following the murder of Stephen Lawrence highlighted the extent of British institutional racism. At the time of its publication, I wrote an article for the British Journalism Review which argued that the media, as much as any other institution, needed to review its employment practices and its lack of diversity.

This week, it’s again been pointed out that the only time we see black people on British TV (such as on Newsnight and other news and current affairs programmes) is when something like this happens. Indeed. The media plays a large role in dictating how we see things. Until they make a concerted effort to balance the scales of representation – behind the scenes and in their overall output – we’ll still be talking about ten years’ from now, just as we are about the missed opportunities of the McPherson report.

Click below to watch the Darcus Howe stitch-up.

Why can't we face the famine?

Oh, what the starving masses of East Africa would give to trade their life-or-death existences for those with bigger problems, like not having the latest trainers, mobile phones or laptops to pose with! You get me doh! In the midst of the madness in England’s cities, let’s not forget that people with eminently more critical problems are on the brink of starvation. 

Aid agencies have been saying for weeks that international governments have not been forthcoming with the much-needed assistance to alleviate the suffering of millions in Kenya. While they’re happy to stump up the money for the markets, as we’ve seen time and again in the last two years, when it comes to the people who are so often the victims of the market it’s a completely different story. 

Though the anguish of the people in the aid camps is due, in large part, to war and corruption, that doesn’t let the West off the hook. It’s rarely the fault of the people at the bottom that countries without governments or those with fraudulent leaders are where they are. The worst drought the region has experienced in 60 years has the potential to claim the lives of 13 million, two million of whom are children, according to reports. Thirty thousand have already starved to death.

Events of the last few days, if not months, have shown that governments, like those they purport to govern can’t always be trusted to do the right thing. Individuals, and communities of individuals, need to step up to the plate and take ownership of these causes that, in the midst of a global recession, are likely to be met with much resistance. That doesn’t make them any less worthy.

Unfortunately, many people don’t like to feel that they’re giving, especially to causes they have no natural affinity with. They’ll happily buy a charity single featuring their favourite artists without sparing a thought for the real reason they’re being asked to part with their cash. But that doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason people part with their cash, it’s the cash that counts. We can all take inspiration from the 11-year-old boy from Ghana who’s determined to raise an ambitious $13 million for famine victims in his school holidays and has so far raised a laudable £300. Compare Andrew Andasi to another 11-year-old who appeared in a London court this morning on riot burglary charges and it really is a telling story.

We need to come up with creative ways to raise funds for those in need, whether they’re our next door neighbours, as in the case of the donations that have been made to those displaced in English riot areas, or whether they’re further away. I don’t have the answers but the debate is necessary. That being the case, all contributions in the form of ideas are welcome. Actual donations can be made here.