Sean Jacobs's Blog, page 415

#WhiteHistoryMonth: Thank God, you were born white

On one of the last days of AIAC’s first #WhiteHistoryMonth, I found myself getting increasingly annoyed in the queue to board the last flight from Murtala Mohmammed International Airport, Lagos to Johannesburg. Behind me stood two South Africans, who were giggling and entertaining each other in a way that had they been ten, or in their teens, an accompanying adult would have asked them to take it down a notch.

Theirs was a performance, intended for everyone’s ears, by two men drunk on supremacy. As they observed young Nigerian men being pulled to the side by a uniformed official for their passports and visas to be scrutinized, the pair laughed, joked and praised both the equipment and the efficiency of the Nigerian border control.

I too was impressed, but not amused, by how consistently this man checked his compatriots’ and other black paying customers’ documentation for almost exactly twice as long as their white co-passengers’. The two men behind me, on the other hand, seemed so pleased and proud to be untouchable, you’d think they had become white the day before and still couldn’t believe their luck.

On my way to the next checkpoint at O.R. Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg the morning after, I walked past another man who caught my attention. He was rocking a T-shirt that I had, prior to that moment, only seen worn by white men as (according to my understanding) a post-racial gimmick designed to deflect accusations and confirm the privilege to joke about themselves in a controlled and safe manner (“I’m aware of my whiteness, end of discussion.”).

I wish I had taken a photo of this thirty-something black man who had the word “Mlungu” (“white person” in Zulu) written across his chest.

In the early 1990s, when racism (both the violent kind and the one disguised as truth), just like today, was rife in Sweden, I once saw a man in Stockholm wearing a T-shirt with the message “Thank God I was born white”. Under any other circumstances, the sight would have made me sick. When worn by this black man, however, the T-shirt became wonderfully subversive and liberating.

Without adding one word to those printed on their T-shirts, the man at the Haymarket Square in Stockholm and his younger brother in Johannesburg, pinned down and mocked the privilege and pretentiousness of the T-shirt designers and the intended buyers, be they bona fide racists or cool dudes acknowledging whiteness. A condition they comfortably carry on their chest, in a gesture that isn’t necessarily an invitation to discuss the accompanying unearned privilege. (Image-google the T-shirt texts and the word “T-shirt” if you have doubts about the target groups.)

By appropriating symbols of whiteness for other purposes than aspiration, these two men, together with the two South Africans and the Nigerian airport official, reminded me that, apart from the violence perpetrated by a minority of the beneficiaries, there’s not much to fear and everything to be angry about when it comes to white supremacy. Just by wearing their T-shirts, they also reminded me that ultimately white supremacy is nothing but a devastating scam and a joke.

There’s a fine and sometimes blurry line between sincere self-reflection on whiteness and self-satisfied introspection. A couple of years ago T-shirts with the text “I benefited from apartheid” caused heated discussions between South Africans. Some saw in them a genuine effort by young white South Africans to come to terms with the country’s legacy and its long-lasting effects. Others thought the whole exercise insincere and meaningless.

Part of the problem with T-shirts intended to stimulate critical thinking about whiteness is the exclusivity, which mirrors the essence of the racism the designers ultimately (I suppose) aim to combat. T-shirts that only make sense on white bodies easily become whites-only anti-racist projects similar to the 1980s campaign “Hands off my pal”, which made racism an offence against white Europeans whose best friends were black.

Another problem is the imbalance that enables a white man to wear a Mlungu T-shirt without losing his dignity, but not really a black person to wear a T-shirt with the text “Darkie” with the same ease. Whiteness is associated with transgressions like chauvinism and subordination of others. Though unsympathetic, these are ultimately characteristics associated with power. Blackness, on the other hand, tends to be associated with connotations of weakness. These are the same dynamics that make American comedian Louis C.K.‘s self-deprecating anti-racist comedy powerful, and Dave Chappelle’s ditto a lethal weapon when some laugh at his black caricatures instead of the ludicrousness of racism, as intended. This is not to say that Louis C.K. is to blame (and certainly not that Chappelle is less sophisticated), but to point out white privilege where it’s easy to miss it.

To be white is partly to be damned if you acknowledge your whiteness and damned if you don’t. It’s tough, but perhaps as much a part of the white burden as the better economy, the benefit of the doubt and (as eloquently written about by Sisonke Msimang) the freedom of disassociation with Oscar Pistorius or other compromised card-carrying members of one’s own race.

* Image: Rhodes Memorial in Cape Town, Wiki Commons.

What they don’t tell you in the brochure about Stellenbosch

Stellenbosch strikes me as one of those places that got put on the table by the National Party during the negotiated settlement pre-1994, something the ANC conceded in exchange for democracy. In fact, there’s a joke with more than a single grain of truth that the design of apartheid was conceived in one of the student residences of Stellenbosch University, where the young “architects” lived together. The divided socioeconomic structure of Stellenbosch is a living testimony to the long-term objective of apartheid.

In Stellenbosch, Coloured farm workers’ lives still matter little to the White landowners, as this community is in a wretched state of violence and drug abuse. Yet, driven by addiction and poverty they provide a constant supply of cheap labour. African people matter even less but have the benefit of relative sobriety and as a result can be trained faster and are easier to manage as labourers. The problem with Africans however is that they don’t all speak Afrikaans, and some don’t speak English either because they come from the Eastern Cape. This is considered a threat to Afrikaans hegemony in Stellenbosch because African communities in the area are growing rapidly as those arriving from the Eastern Cape, looking for work, also find a relatively functional public health service. Through democratic processes, the new threat of the Swart Gevaar is in being out-voted in your homebase. As for Indians, we may as well not exist. I know this because I spent 6 months leading an almost invisible life in that town.

As one enters the town off Baden Powell Drive on the N2 out of Cape Town, there’s an observable difference between White-owned and White-frequented establishments compared to those with Coloured and African customers. The reason I separate these two groups is because Coloureds don’t identify themselves as Black or as part of the Black majority and it’s evident in their interactions with African people. This is the legacy of apartheid and a failure of the new government to create a lasting unity. It’s similar to Indians in Durban who don’t identify themselves as Black either.

In Stellenbosch, as in the rest of the Western Cape, the ongoing perception of difference based on race or ethnicity reproduces separate development and segregation. Expensive restaurants and shops are located on the side of the town where the roads are lined with trees, and parks are filled with fit, young White university students, while tourists roam freely. And on the outskirts of the town, there are shops catering to the needs of workers. Every day thousands of African and Coloured people enter Stellenbosch in taxis, buses, trains and open top bakkies. They come in for work and then exit back to their homes at the end of the day. For those who have no place to go, there is a range of decent shelter in the centre of town which is safe, clean, well lit and has a number of solid buildings with dark corners. But for the most part, security guards won’t allow the unsightly presence of homeless people get in the way of the town’s cafe culture.

Tourists in Stellenbosch get to experience the world famous wine and complementary artisanal food that goes with it, while conveniently avoiding the dark reality of the labourers that toil to construct and maintain this picturesque fantasy. Again, I speak from personal experience because for 6 months I did just that. Except that I was confronted with the horrifying reality of the working class and the poor every day that I worked at Stellenbosch district hospital. It’s not that different from any other public hospital in South Africa: tuberculosis, cardiovascular disease and trauma, lots and lots of trauma.

On weekends and pay days, the incidence of violence and injuries peaks. Since Stellenbosch still bears the brunt of the legacy of the “dop” system, alcohol abuse amongst farm workers is endemic and every alternate weekend (which correlates with pay days) communities descend into a stupor of alcohol-induced self annihilation. Their self-destructive behaviour is likely a product of systematic dispossession, marginalisation and social isolation but is now driven by addiction. At a certain point in the collective stupor, they turn on each other and on nights like this, the emergency centre is a blood bath. Paramedics drive back and forth between locations picking up bleeding casualties and dropping them at the hospital to have their wounds sutured and cleaned.

This is the reality for Coloured and African communities of Stellenbosch; violence, alcoholism and drug abuse is part of life and being passed on from generation to generation with no end in sight. As for the farm and business owners, they don’t give a shit. As long as their separate lives are untouched by the brutality of the natives, they can enjoy the paradise of the Cape Winelands. Should something unforeseen spill over and disturb an owner’s manicured existence, workers are swiftly reminded that there is no place for anything other than servitude and respect for the boer and his business. For example, I’ll never forget the story from a sober young woman who was reprimanded by her employers after she was stabbed by her psychotic boyfriend in the reception area of a Franschhoek guesthouse where she worked.

In my previous job, I witnessed the inhumane living conditions that migrant farm workers on Limpopo farms bordering Zimbabwe experienced. And although they too were at the bottom of the food chain as a result of unfair labour practices and frank violations of human rights that persist in the agricultral sector, there was hope. There was a sense of motivation and a feeling that farm work was just a nasty yet necessary part of the journey on route to a better life. This doesn’t exist in the Cape Winelands as the poor and working class communities, trapped in a cycle of violence, are effectively at war with themselves, while the white farmers continue to reap the profits of their labour.

For me, the most horrifying part is the indifference towards it from the privileged White folk of Stellenbosch. How is it that in this university town, with an artist’s tribute to Nelson Mandela in the centre, there is no visibly active civil society speaking out against the unjust state of affairs, no one questioning the ongoing exploitation of farm workers or the lack of dedicated social programmes to alleviate the suffering and break the cycle of violence? What is the excuse now that apartheid is over and the “dop” system is illegal? Is it a case of “out of sight, out of mind”? Because it does go easily unnoticed when you spend your time between the university and wine tasting. The white people of Stellenbosch, clearly those with the means to affect change, don’t identify with the problem, don’t take any active responsibility towards it and hence are unable to condemn themselves for their part in it. Their attitude is likely an extreme version of what is generally true of the majority of white South Africans who could care less about what their privilege is built on. Perhaps if they “were to condemn themselves, they would have to inflict punishment on themselves”. And so the effect of the theft of self-determination that took place decades ago, continues unabated on its own momentum. But in the end it is highly unlikely that they will take the initiative in any sort of transformative project in Stellenbosch.

If boycotting Stellenbosch wine is a little too extreme, then try this: next time you’re admiring the legs of one the Cape Winelands’ finest exports, take a moment to reflect on the blood, sweat and tears, the violence, abuse and exploitation of women, men, families and communities that go into making that wine. As with the farm workers strike of January 2013, it’s obvious that this situation is ripe for revolution. Call me romantic, but soon the day will come when the anger and frustration of workers is no longer haphazardly hurled at each other, but organised and directed at their oppressors.

* This piece is published here with the kind permission of Amandla Magazine. The new issue is now available.

What they don’t tell you about Stellenbosch in the brochure

Stellenbosch strikes me as one of those places that got put on the table by the National Party during the negotiated settlement pre-1994, something the ANC conceded in exchange for democracy. In fact, there’s a joke with more than a single grain of truth that the design of apartheid was conceived in one of the student residences of Stellenbosch University, where the young “architects” lived together. The divided socioeconomic structure of Stellenbosch is a living testimony to the long-term objective of apartheid.

In Stellenbosch, Coloured farm workers’ lives still matter little to the White landowners, as this community is in a wretched state of violence and drug abuse. Yet, driven by addiction and poverty they provide a constant supply of cheap labour. African people matter even less but have the benefit of relative sobriety and as a result can be trained faster and are easier to manage as labourers. The problem with Africans however is that they don’t all speak Afrikaans, and some don’t speak English either because they come from the Eastern Cape. This is considered a threat to Afrikaans hegemony in Stellenbosch because African communities in the area are growing rapidly as those arriving from the Eastern Cape, looking for work, also find a relatively functional public health service. Through democratic processes, the new threat of the Swart Gevaar is in being out-voted in your homebase. As for Indians, we may as well not exist. I know this because I spent 6 months leading an almost invisible life in that town.

As one enters the town off Baden Powell Drive on the N2 out of Cape Town, there’s an observable difference between White-owned and White-frequented establishments compared to those with Coloured and African customers. The reason I separate these two groups is because Coloureds don’t identify themselves as Black or as part of the Black majority and it’s evident in their interactions with African people. This is the legacy of apartheid and a failure of the new government to create a lasting unity. It’s similar to Indians in Durban who don’t identify themselves as Black either.

In Stellenbosch, as in the rest of the Western Cape, the ongoing perception of difference based on race or ethnicity reproduces separate development and segregation. Expensive restaurants and shops are located on the side of the town where the roads are lined with trees, and parks are filled with fit, young White university students, while tourists roam freely. And on the outskirts of the town, there are shops catering to the needs of workers. Every day thousands of African and Coloured people enter Stellenbosch in taxis, buses, trains and open top bakkies. They come in for work and then exit back to their homes at the end of the day. For those who have no place to go, there is a range of decent shelter in the centre of town which is safe, clean, well lit and has a number of solid buildings with dark corners. But for the most part, security guards won’t allow the unsightly presence of homeless people get in the way of the town’s cafe culture.

Tourists in Stellenbosch get to experience the world famous wine and complementary artisanal food that goes with it, while conveniently avoiding the dark reality of the labourers that toil to construct and maintain this picturesque fantasy. Again, I speak from personal experience because for 6 months I did just that. Except that I was confronted with the horrifying reality of the working class and the poor every day that I worked at Stellenbosch district hospital. It’s not that different from any other public hospital in South Africa: tuberculosis, cardiovascular disease and trauma, lots and lots of trauma.

On weekends and pay days, the incidence of violence and injuries peaks. Since Stellenbosch still bears the brunt of the legacy of the “dop” system, alcohol abuse amongst farm workers is endemic and every alternate weekend (which correlates with pay days) communities descend into a stupor of alcohol-induced self annihilation. Their self-destructive behaviour is likely a product of systematic dispossession, marginalisation and social isolation but is now driven by addiction. At a certain point in the collective stupor, they turn on each other and on nights like this, the emergency centre is a blood bath. Paramedics drive back and forth between locations picking up bleeding casualties and dropping them at the hospital to have their wounds sutured and cleaned.

This is the reality for Coloured and African communities of Stellenbosch; violence, alcoholism and drug abuse is part of life and being passed on from generation to generation with no end in sight. As for the farm and business owners, they don’t give a shit. As long as their separate lives are untouched by the brutality of the natives, they can enjoy the paradise of the Cape Winelands. Should something unforeseen spill over and disturb an owner’s manicured existence, workers are swiftly reminded that there is no place for anything other than servitude and respect for the boer and his business. For example, I’ll never forget the story from a sober young woman who was reprimanded by her employers after she was stabbed by her psychotic boyfriend in the reception area of a Franschhoek guesthouse where she worked.

In my previous job, I witnessed the inhumane living conditions that migrant farm workers on Limpopo farms bordering Zimbabwe experienced. And although they too were at the bottom of the food chain as a result of unfair labour practices and frank violations of human rights that persist in the agricultral sector, there was hope. There was a sense of motivation and a feeling that farm work was just a nasty yet necessary part of the journey on route to a better life. This doesn’t exist in the Cape Winelands as the poor and working class communities, trapped in a cycle of violence, are effectively at war with themselves, while the white farmers continue to reap the profits of their labour.

For me, the most horrifying part is the indifference towards it from the privileged White folk of Stellenbosch. How is it that in this university town, with an artist’s tribute to Nelson Mandela in the centre, there is no visibly active civil society speaking out against the unjust state of affairs, no one questioning the ongoing exploitation of farm workers or the lack of dedicated social programmes to alleviate the suffering and break the cycle of violence? What is the excuse now that apartheid is over and the “dop” system is illegal? Is it a case of “out of sight, out of mind”? Because it does go easily unnoticed when you spend your time between the university and wine tasting. The white people of Stellenbosch, clearly those with the means to affect change, don’t identify with the problem, don’t take any active responsibility towards it and hence are unable to condemn themselves for their part in it. Their attitude is likely an extreme version of what is generally true of the majority of white South Africans who could care less about what their privilege is built on. Perhaps if they “were to condemn themselves, they would have to inflict punishment on themselves”. And so the effect of the theft of self-determination that took place decades ago, continues unabated on its own momentum. But in the end it is highly unlikely that they will take the initiative in any sort of transformative project in Stellenbosch.

If boycotting Stellenbosch wine is a little too extreme, then try this: next time you’re admiring the legs of one the Cape Winelands’ finest exports, take a moment to reflect on the blood, sweat and tears, the violence, abuse and exploitation of women, men, families and communities that go into making that wine. As with the farm workers strike of January 2013, it’s obvious that this situation is ripe for revolution. Call me romantic, but soon the day will come when the anger and frustration of workers is no longer haphazardly hurled at each other, but organised and directed at their oppressors.

* This piece is published here with the kind permission of Amandla Magazine. The new issue is now available.

#WhiteHistoryMonth: How Unexpected

From this week’s Washington Post Travel Section:

How unexpected: There was more modernity than I expected, such as extremely modern infrastructure (roads, etc.) in many places, although there is still poverty there. Also, the rate of exchange, coupled with the reasonable prices, meant that meals (and wine) were a fraction of what they are here in the United States. The quality of the beef was outstanding — and we’ve tasted beef from Argentina, Brazil, Chicago, etc. This was the best!

How unexpected. Roads.

Image: Africa is a Country

Let’s talk about #cancelColbert

This week’s internet controversy over Stephen Colbert’s ‘satirical’ take on Redskin’s owner Dan Snyder’s incredibly disingenuous move to curry favor while resolutely investing in settler racism has left me more irritated than usual.

Snyder, who has consistently doubled-down on his continued investment in the “Redskins” nickname, has set up the “Washington Redskins Original Americans Foundation,” a ridiculous sop to indigenous peoples while still using their name and racist imagery.  Colbert’s send-up involved referencing a 2005 racially-offensive comment he made about Asian-Americans and then offering smarmily to start a charity to the “Ching Chong Ding Dong Foundation for Sensitivity to Orientals or Whatever.”

Following that up, the Colbert Report (from the show’s account) tweeted about the new charitable foundation, which quite understandably pissed the hell out of some Asian-American readers on twitter, most notably Suey Park, one of the founders behind the #notyourasiansidekick campaign.  Thus, the #cancelColbert hashtag was born.

I think Colbert’s stunt itself was incredibly annoying especially as his satire is often based in a smug ironic whiteness–and yes, smug people, I get that it’s a character and that’s how it’s being presented. This doesn’t mean that as a person of color I have to like it or that I can’t feel that it’s problematic or alienating.

Regarding the #cancelcolbert campaign I have felt that much of the Asian-American critique of the racism managed to completely ignore Native Americans and original context which was frustrating and disappointing. That said, I’ve read a lot of conversations over social media from white men in effect telling people of color (POC) how to react to racist discourse.  These conversations have predominantly been smug lectures that tell people ‘offended’ by ‘racism’ to get over it or to lighten up or get that it’s satire.

The most egregious and entitled of these came from Tommy Craggs and Kyle Wagner over at Deadspin with their ever-so-cleverly  titled “Gooks Don’t Get Redskins Joke.”  Craggs and Wagner summed up Park and others as having “riled up the perpetually riled-up segment of Twitter, and the #CancelColbert hashtag was soon flooded with a mind-warping mix of left-wingers and Asian activists refusing to understand satire.”  While Craggs and Wagner did point out how the #CancelColbert campaign actually erased the original critique of anti-Native American racism—and indeed dropped out Native Americans all together—they continued a larger conversation of explaining to people of color how to understand comedy which presumes that the people of color responding to this are ‘ignorant’ or incapable of understanding how ‘satire’ works. Really, it’s actually white people not understanding the multiple levels that POC can experience these racist images.*

Part of what really frustrates me about this is the white privilege that structures it. To say that there is only one way to view Colbert–as satire–presumes that one can see racist imagery and not at all feel hurt by the racism but instead it must be seen only in one context. But what about POC, particularly Asian Americans, who are tired of seeing such stereotypes even if they’re being mobilized in theoretical pursuit of critiquing the Redskins racism?

Ultimately, I think that the #cancelcolbert campaign was hasty and also a problem–because it decontextualized the imagery and it completely dropped out the original conversation Colbert was intending about anti-Native American racism. However, I also understand that deploying racist images of you/your people is going to sting and is not going to be okay or simply laughed off or told to be understood just as a form of satire. I agreed in principle with what you’re arguing–that the campaign is misguided in that it focuses not on the intent of the joke, but I deeply resent the phrasing of it I have read on multiple social media outlets–telling POC “to get a grip” or understand satire is fucked up. As if humor–and particularly Colbert’s–isn’t informed by a structural white supremacy where to totally ‘get’ the joke you have to be removed from ever seeing yourself in racist imagery, and instead should just take it as cool in pursuit of the comic’s larger ‘point.’

* Deadspin: While the authors of the Deadspin piece identify as Asian American, that doesn’t excuse or justify either the substitution of a racial slur for another, nor does it change the main issue of telling people of color how to respond to satire.

The Expat

Wayna flopped down onto the brown couch, exhausted, after a high-energy performance in New York City. Her high cheekbones and large brown eyes stared out from a frame of wild, curly hair. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, which she wiped away before resting her hands on a large pregnant belly. The Ethiopian-born American singer is expecting her second child and her recent show at Harlem’s Apollo Theatre was her last for a few months, while preparing for the birth of her daughter in April. However, her bump did not diminish her powerful voice or lively dancing and jumping on stage.

“It’s the musicians. Once they start playing it hits us and we go for it. That’s the purest moment because you’re just free, you’re not self-conscious, you’re just in the moment,” she says. “These are the moments you relish, it’s the release for all the hard work that goes into behind the scenes.”

Wayna’s latest album, “The Expats” is a delicate blend of Rock, Reggae and Soul. Her lyrics reflect her drive to be a “message driven artist” as she explores issues including police brutality, disenfranchisement, race and identity, which she said became even more significant when performing in Harlem.

Even though I’m an immigrant, it mirrors what a lot of African Americans experience because it’s such a black story. I’ve found inspiration from that community and they embrace me and allow me to do their art form. But at the same time I recognise that it’s very much an African rooted genre so in a way it’s giving and taking from each other.

MTV Iggy recently featured a piece by AIAC’s Sarah El-Shaarawi on Wayna about her identity as an artist, woman and immigrant, which can be read here.

The Grammy-nominated musician moved to the US with her family at the age of six. After college she worked in the White House during the Clinton administration but soon decided to change career paths. Even though she considers herself a ‘world artist’ Wayna believes that growing up as an expat heavily influenced her music and identity, which she described as “a buffet of traditions, values and beliefs” that is a constant work in progress. “I think it’s always looking at the things in the culture are beautiful and freeing, and identifying with those things; so it’s a constant pick and choose,” she said.

Wayna had the opportunity to do just that when she spent three months in Ethiopia as an artist in residence, which greatly influenced her approach to music. She described a scene at a traditional festival called ‘The Festival of One Thousand Stars’ held in the Southern City of Ethiopia, Arba Minch. “There were all these regional performers playing these intricate rhythms, melodies and the counter melodies. I imagine that if they were to replace those traditional instruments with the clarinet, trombone and drum set, it would have sounded like jazz,” she said. “I had always thought of myself as an African doing American music but I realized then that I was an African doing African music.”

Wayna is currently working on her fourth album “Expats Deluxe,” which will be out this summer. Keep an eye out for her next performance at the Essence Music Festival, New Orleans in July 2014.

Follow Wayna on Twitter. Images Credit: Leila Lee Dougan.

#WhiteHistoryMonth: When the FBI set-up a Chicago street gang to be tried as a terrorist organization

As depicted in the recent film “American Hustle,” throughout U.S. history the FBI has involved itself in certain investigations for sometimes dubious motivating factors. However, beyond being source material for a cutesy romantic comedy, a White supremacist political establishment has often used the FBI to carry out targeted campaigns to marginalize the aims of self-determination by communities of color in the United States.

Living in Rio de Janeiro now, and witnessing the pacification of the favelas by Brazilian federal troops from a close(r) distance, I can’t help but think back to my faded memories of the ‘war on drugs’ while growing up in the U.S. So when–in the wake of the occupation by the Army of the Maré Complex in Rio’s North Zone–I went online to read a little about the history of Rio’s gangs, I noticed some mention of populist roots in the beginnings of the Commando Vermelho, which is quite similar to the history of the gangs that occupied the Midwest American city I grew up in. I hit Wikipedia to refresh my knowledge of the Almighty Black P. Stone Nation–a gang whose name rings clear in my memory from adolescence.

The Almighty Black P. Stone Nation and its Islamic offshoot El Rukn were two organizations with roots in the Black American empowerment movements of the early 20th century – inspired by such organizations as the Black Panthers and the Moorish Science Temple of America. Although they became involved in drug trafficking and violent crime, their ideological roots served as a strong draw for marginalized Black youth in American cities.

Then in 1986 Jeff Fort, the co-founder of the Stones and founder of its El Rukn offshoot, attempted to meet with Libyan representatives of Muammar Gaddafi’s government, allegedly to purchase weapons. It turns out that the Libyans were actually FBI agents, and Fort and his partners were immediately arrested. Natalie Y. Moore, co-author of a new book on the Stones writes about the trial on The Root:

The U.S. government contended that they heard Fort on tape belittle Nation of Islam Minister Louis Farrakhan for getting money from Qaddafi. In turn, Fort yearned for some of that Libyan largesse for the El Rukn Nation. Farrakhan had received a $5 million loan from Qaddafi in the early 1980s to start a line of black personal-care products.

The feds set up a sting in which an undercover agent approached a group of El Rukns with the prospect of selling an M-72 Series Light Anti-Tank Weapon.

For many, the consensus was that Fort wanted to find a way to procure, or con, money from Qaddafi. But the El Rukns gave the feds fodder by having contact with a country on the enemy list. The 1987 terrorism trial proved to be highly sensationalist.

Metal detectors and a state police dog greeted entrants at the door. Some jurors said they received threatening phone calls and alternates had to step in. In and out of court, the El Rukns sported red fezzes, cornrows, fur coats and white flowing robes. “This case concerns organized crime, with a twist of terrorism,” the prosecutor said in closing statement.

The jury found all six defendants guilty.

The government effectively destroyed the El Rukns as an organization. But their ardency led to prosecutorial misconduct and the overturning of some of the El Rukn drug cases. Two witnesses were given preferential treatment and tested positive for drugs while in custody in 1989. Today the El Rukns still claim a couple of hundred loyal members, but they have aged and aren’t involved in criminal activity. They also don’t have any power on the streets.

The biggest lessons come from the War on Terror banner under which we now live.

United States v. Jeff Fort et al. laid groundwork for the government to link street gangs to radical Islam and terrorism, even more so after Sept. 11. Two decades after the El Rukns trial, another South Side Chicago man, charged with plotting to work with al-Qaida operatives to blow up the Sears Tower, ended up with a similar fate to Jeff Fort’s. In fact, prosecutors evoked Fort’s name during the trial, comparing Narseal Batiste to the convicted Fort.

Like the El Rukns, Batiste fell into an FBI trap. This time a man claiming to be an al-Qaida operative from Yemen who met with the bankrupt Batiste was actually a paid informant. Although Batiste wasn’t in a gang, his boasting fit a certain profile for which the feds searched. This nerdy kid-turned-community organizer ended up in the crosshairs of a federal government wanting to allay the nation’s fears of homegrown, radical terrorism.

I appreciate Moore’s drawing a connection to the trial of Batiste and the Liberty City Seven. To me, this is one of the most shameful displays of American hypocrisy in the post-9/11 era. A group of disaffected young Black men were targeted and set-up in a witch hunt, solely to put mainstream America’s mind at ease about the capability of their government to fight domestic terror. The public wanted to see the monster, so the FBI fabricated a bogeyman. In the process they provided justification for the further stripping of citizens’ civil rights.

However, that’s not the only interesting connection to be made here.

In a NY Times article on El Rukn from 1985 (H/T @Oldmoneycrime), Jesse Jackson is mentioned as having praised the organization, for helping in voter registration efforts during his bid for the presidency in 1984. This was two years before the organization would be set-up by the FBI for trying to purchase weapons from Libya.

Ironically, it was also Jesse Jackson who was to play a central role in the failed negotiated settlement during the Sierra Leonean civil war, by advocating for leaders such as Foday Sankoh and Charles Taylor who themselves were trained in Gaddafi’s Libya. I’m not trying to suggest that Jackson was doing anything more than reflecting official policy of the Clinton Administration in Africa at the time. However, these cases are just more evidence of the contradictions inherent to the U.S.’s domestic and international policies in its wars on drugs, terror, and its Black communities.

Image Credit: The Root.

Cricket in America

It’s futile and perhaps just a little odious to compare cricket with football (soccer), but like all cricket-lovers, compare I must. While football’s fizz serves it well as a commoditised distraction of corporate capital, cricket for the most part resists the big money phantasmagoria. Cricket – even in its glitzy made-for-Bollywood 20/20 form – does not yield easily to the sponsored shrinkage of space into time. The openness to the elements, of earth and cloud, together with the combination of a team setting and moment-by-moment individual drama (ball vs. bat) lend themselves to strategy, long-form thinking and to depth psychology.

Football at best is about tactics – formations, substitutions and the like – and is pure surface. This depth-of-field difference is reproduced at the level of discourse. Men compete in their talk about soccer to avoid discussing each other. In contrast, people talk of cricket as a way of being together. In drinks terms, football is at best a Belgian speciality lager – a Duvel or a Chimay – while cricket is a Bordeaux or a Barolo.

I came from a cricket family: Dad played on the weekend; the family trouped along to away games. It was a Polaroid era of deckchairs, windbreakers, Ford Cortinas and everyday sexism: wives on a rota to make lunch. It was also a world in white: flannels, mayonnaise, white bread sandwiches, white people. As soon as I could hold a bat, I could. However, a spurting height pushed me into dreams of being a “quick”. I had county trials, was observed at Edgbaston, but alas, something in the musculature or the action was missing.

As I inched towards six feet and beyond, I sensed the subtle complications of the game, reaching beyond the familiar. I remember gulping through a pulp novel about a rural English (white) team playing a city (black) team, recoiling subconsciously at the language. I thrilled at seeing the West Indies in their prime: Holding’s not-touching-the-ground run-up, Marshall’s sheer can’t-see-the-ball pace. By fate of ticketing, we found ourselves alone in a stand full of West Indies supporters: the bells, the chanting and wit carried us into a merry welcome. Another time: standing behind the nets and pretending to face Patrick Patterson as he practised against a stump (the ball came at you like a bullet train), and then watching Lara, without pads, dispatching his team’s bowlers with silken disdain. It was a high voltage thrill to be just feet away from the fire in Babylon. Around 14, I borrowed Beyond a Boundary by CLR James from the library. The signature question of the book: “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” haunted me. It pulled me towards an understanding that was yet beyond my reach. And so the summers faded away, and I cast cricket aside for the study of philosophy. But cricket never travelled far. The parents of my girlfriend in Hull were friends with CLR James; her Guyanese mother – a teacher – once knitted him a woolly jumper (it appears in several photographs), while her Norwegian-American father wrote “Black Intellectuals Come to Power.” In the book-lined tranquillity of their home, cricket assumed the level of concept, of resistance to power and of a critique of Empire.

By this time, I was therefore conscious of the divided perspectives on cricket: the “gentlemen’s” world of Lords membership, the city and aristocracy – Jardine – versus the “player’s” world of the club, the commoner and sometimes the pit - Larwood. It was while reading the American Anglophile Mike Marquesee’s absorbing Anyone but England that I finally was able to place cricket fully in its poco setting – beyond its boundary – and to understand cricket as a form of political contestation. I saw finally that the question of belonging forever looms large over cricket – a conversation with the other that ensures that race, nation and class are just one layer below the surface at all times. I realised something those who only know of cricket  - the Terry Aldermans, the Mike Gattings, the Colin Crofts (a tragic figure in the game) – will not see. On one side of the boundary we find Stuart Hall, CLR and the Black Atlantic; on the other side are corporate away days, Geoffrey Boycott and the white gaze.

It was Joseph O’Neil’s 2008 novel Netherland that alerted the world to the strange possibility of cricket in America. Netherland is a beguiling novel about Hans, a Dutch oil and gas analyst lost in New York and his friendship with Chuck Ramkissoon, a naturalised American with grand dreams of establishing New York’s first purpose-built cricket pitch. Among other things, it turns out that cricket is older than baseball in the US. Does cricket then offer a promise of a return to another America, less in hock to corporate intentions and a thousand whispered historical denials? An America that remembers – through sport – its magnificent landscapes, its underdog heroes and a non-instrumental sense of time? Those who love cricket sometimes dream of such things.

And so to A Gentleman’s War, a documentary film project about cricket in New York, centred on the Metropolitan Cricket League. The story begins in real life where the fictional Ramkissoon’s life ended: black cricket on the edges of the urban. Anyone who has read this far will give thanks that this project exists.

Africa is a Country Radio

We’re live on Groovalizacion. The host is our own Chief Boima, presenting from his new base in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. (BTW, check out his first piece of writing from there: on Brazilian popular music) The format of Africa is a Country Radio a monthly round up of audio treats from around Africa and its diaspora with occasional commentary from the community of writers from Africasacountry.com.

The first episode went up on Groovalizacion this afternoon.

The wisdoms of Akon

The Senegalese-American singer Akon may be a very talented musician, but he has terrible politics. And he likes to share them. Remember when George W Bush was still President in the United States and Akon opined to rap magazine, “The Source”: “… (Black people in the US) can nag about the president all they want and how the system is against black people, but if they saw how other people lived (in Africa) they would see how blessed they really are. All the decisions they think the government has made against black people really are for black people here.” He later defended Barack Obama against Lupe Fiasco’s criticisms of the President’s Middle Eastern policies.  Then there was his association with the very unpopular Senegalese President, Abdoulaye Wade (who was eventually voted out) or the government of Gabon and that party anthem he wrote for Michael Bloomberg’s doomed presidential run. 

Now, this from a few weeks ago–on Larry King’s show on some obscure cable channel to promote Akon Lighting Africa Project–when Akon spoke from “an honest male’s perspective”:

He also had this to say about the use of the N-word in the NFL:

We just can’t anymore with Akon.