If I was to chart a chronology of my education on racism, based on my childhood memories, I would say the racists were my first educators.  Sadly this is not a unique experience.  In my case, it was the National Front who brought the message home – literally.  Within a few days of moving in to our apartment in Hounslow,  we found a Union Jack and the words  “Go home P**i” spray-painted on our door . My parents knew it was the National Front because they initialed the message with the letters “NF and for further clarity, their message was uncensored.

This was not an isolated incident. The harassment continued, it intensified and it metamorphosised into more confrontational and dangerous forms of abuse. I had a sense that what was happening was wrong, not least because my parents would often inform the police but being a child I was more pre-occupied with what was happening at school.

I had just become the new girl at school and one of only two black children. Alison. That was her name; the other black girl. I knew that Alison and I were similar because only Alison and I were referred to as “doo-doo face” by the other children.  Alison and I were the only ones who would stand at the very back of the dinner-time queue, a safe distance apart from all the other children who refused to stand next us because they didn’t want the brown dirt on our skin to rub off on to theirs.

I told my parents about the name calling, not because I knew it to be racist. I just knew name calling was bad. I also told my parents about the children not wanting to stand near us, or wanting to play with us. This was a daily occurrence and my mother’s visits to the school were almost as frequent. In spite of my mother’s involvement the behaviour did not change.

Eventually (though not necessarily because of the racism at home and at school) we moved out of Hounslow, to South London; a new neighbourhood and a new school, both more diverse.

If my telling of all this seems a little disjointed, it is in part to do with my own memory but also a reflection of how, at that young age my mind processed things. I saw no connection between what the National Front’s harassment of my family and the behaviour of my classmate other than that both of these were wrong and that my parents’ did everything they could to tackle both problems. What stuck in my mind, especially in relation to the racism I experienced at school was that my parents insisted that I report every incident to them and my teachers. Even after I told my parents that I was now a “doo-doo faced tell-tale” the message remained the same; don’t put up with it, report it. While my teachers did very little, my parents took action every time I told them.

I do sometimes wonder about the other children who were at my school, the ones who were being racist, what did they learn? What conversations were taking place in their households? While I was learning “don’t put up with it” were they learning “don’t do it”?  Why is it that is often people of colour who have to find ways to deal with and prepare for racism?  I’m not sure what the answer these or to Gunaratnam’s questions are. I am not a parent, and even if I was, I still don’t think I would have an answer.  All I have are the valuable lessons passed on to me from my parents. I should not ignore racism. I do not have to accept racism and even when the act is of resistance is met with further abuse I should not be deterred. Tell someone, challenge it –whatever is in your power to do – but never put up with it.

This means, at least for me, that while the racists may have been my first educators, it is the lessons from my parents that has endured.

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Photocredit: A thumbnail image associated with this post appears on the site’s front page.  The picture is from Dominic Jacques-Bernard‘s  (jacquesy_m) Flickr stream and is published under a Creative Common’s license.

In case you missed it; the first story is about Mary Bale or “Evil Cat Woman” as she is known all over the Internet. She gained this name due to CCTV footage that records her placing a cat in a wheelie bin. It is an act of senseless cruelty that deserves condemnation. Mary Bale received more than condemnation and ended up being placed in protective custody.

The second story involves musician Morrissey, who in response to China’s mistreatment of animals stated,

Absolutely horrific. You can’t help but feel that the Chinese are a subspecies (source: The Guardian)

There is some furore in the papers regarding this racist statement but Morrissey is not in protective custody.

The message that seems to be coming out of these stories is that any violent, malicious, or offensive action is justified if the intended victim has violated the rights of an animal.

This really does not sit well with me but I think at the root of all of this is the fact that we live in a society that seems comfortable with the idea of assigning personhood to animals even it results in our dehumanisation; and I witnessed this first hand last weekend.

Background

It is no secret that I am not a fan of dogs. I don’t hate dogs. I do however have a healthy fear of dogs, especially big dogs. I am not scared of all dogs; in fact once I spend time in the company of a particular dog I find that I can get on quite well with that dog. This makes sense to me because all animals are different; some are friendly, some are not. I have had a hard time explaining this distinction to certain dog lovers and dog owners who seem aghast that I will not join them in their public display of affection for a dog whose owner’s name they do not know.

“Oh but he looks so cute”; they say, as they proceed to ruffle the fur of this stranger’ pet. This is often followed by many questions about why I do not like dogs. I must have had some traumatic experience to explain my irrational fear of an animal that has the capability to maul a person to death.

Disclosure:
Yes as a young child in Kenya, while walking home from school, I was chased by a pack of dogs and the owner stood there and watched. But…even before the dogs chased me, I remember seeing them, feeling very scared and then running for my life. So it wasn’t the dog chasing incident that made me scared of dogs, all it did was prove me right that some dogs are vicious and it is far easier to avoid them all then to risk life or limb trying to work out which ones are not.

Last Weekend
I was at a pub that is a favourite for dog owners and I endured my regular grilling on why I am not a dog lover. I then asked a few questions of my own such as why would anyone take a dog to a bar? The discussion went on for a while until we reached the point that I always dread. The part where someone will argue that owning a dog is no different to being a parent and that children and pets are not only the same thing but interchangeable.

A parent is NOT the same as a pet owner.
I cannot understand how anyone can argue that dog and baby equals the same thing. In my mind babies and by extension human beings are not the same as animals and I often use a simple test.

If I had one plate of food before me and I had a hungry dog and a hungry child I would feed the child. If I had to save a drowning man or a drowning dog, I would save the drowning man.

Why? Because human beings are not comparable to animals.

I am not condoning the abuse of animals. I am also not arguing that every person who cares for an animal will take to attacking the likes of Mary Bale. What I do recognise however is a connection between how easy it is for Morrissey to dehumanise an entire nation and how easy it is for an individual to dehumanise a baby all in the name of animal personhood.

reconnect people’s everyday lives with politics through collecting and sharing stories of when people first became aware of the bigger world around them.

I grew up in a very political household so trying to identify my first memory is complicated. When I look back to my “politically formative years”, which I place somewhere between the ages of 4 and 7 all I see is a kaleidoscope of memories.

Is my first political memory to be found in the pages of my book collection that included titles such as “Nelson Mandela for Kids”, “Harriet Tubman for Kids”?

Or did it start with the curtain call that preceeded my role in the Wazelendo Players’ production of Ngugi Wa Thiongo’s The Trial of Dedan Kimathi?

Perhaps it is in the tune of Bandiera Rossa; a song I learned to sing without so much as knowing what language it was in!

Maybe it lies within the pixels that made up the was the framed poster of Malcolm X in our living room?.

I was about six years old at the time and I was used to going on both leisure and protest walks with my parents, which often ended with me eating an Orange ice lolly (if the weather was nice) or a pack of Opal Fruits and/or Jaffa Cakes. For the most part there was nothing special about this particular walk until we got to Number 10. The crowed stopped and in unison began a call and response chant that went like this:

Caller: Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!!
Crowd: Out, out, out!
Caller: Botha, Botha, Botha!!
Crowd: Out, out, out!!

At the age of six, to be part of the 15,000 people who chanted in unison was an amazing experience. At the time I must admit that I thought we were calling for them to open the door and step outside. It was only as I grew older, as I started to learn more about Apartheid and Thatcherism, that I was able to connect the dots. It was this demonstration that helped me understand that Apartheid as an ideology and as a regime did not exist in isolation. In 2010, as the Conservative Party rolls out its “I’ve never voted Tory before” campaign, I can respond and say,

I’ve never voted Tory because they supported Apartheid

What is your first political memory? Get sharing!
—
With thanks Mark Pack for his LDV post – ‘cos that’s how I learned about this!

The North West win has not come as a surprise. In the run up to the election nearly every other party tried to convince the electorate that a vote for them would count as an anti-BNP vote. The threat of a BNP win was real. What is unreal is this seeming unwillingness to accept that there are racist people in the UK (at least 132,094 live in the North West) and that on June 4th these racist people exercised their democratic right and duly sent not one but two -Nazis to represent the rest of us in Brussels.

Apparently all this is the fault of the mainstream political parties. It was they who alienated and excluded “regular voters” from the political and democratic process. That the BNP win is a direct result of the frustration that “regular voters” feel and have felt for a long time – they have expressed this frustration by way of a protest vote.

Rubbish. Utter rubbish.

Firstly, if Labour, Conservatives and Liberal Democrats are deemed mainstream political parties, the remaining eight options on the North West ballot paper should have provided sufficient choice for those seeking an alternative view. Failing that, the right to invalidate one’s ballot paper is the ultimate protest vote but it comes as no surprise that BNP voters did not take this course of action. Those who voted in favour of Griffin’s party were not protesting; they were endorsing a hate group that has unfortunately been allowed to masquerade as a political party.

Secondly, to assume that a sense of disillusionment and disenfranchisement is reason enough for a “regular voter” to lend his or her support to a hate group is a leap in a logic that I am unwilling to take. Unless of course regular voters” is code name for “racist, homophobic and xenophobic white voters.”

If the BNP’s relative success in the European Parliamentary Election shall be discussed along the lines of finding fault and apportioning blame then I have no problem in placing all the blame on the BNP voters around the UK but in particular those in the North West and York and Humber region.

Whatever forms the discussion will take; there is no room for those who argue that the BNP supporters are unaware of the party’s racist, homophobic and xenophobic beliefs, or that BNP voter is well meaning but ill educated person who has been duped. If condemnation for the BNP party is (almost) universal then the same should be true of its supporters.

We certainly should not attempt to portray them as victims; they seem to be doing a good job of it themselves. Listening to Nick Griffin citing the Race Relations Act as the basis of potential law suits against employers who sack BNP supporters is reason enough for us to raise the level of the debate surrounding the BNP and its existence as a political party.

One reason why I detest the BNP so much is because I, like so many others, can see through the name change that transformed the National Front into its present form. Comparisons have been made between the BNP and the Ku Klux Klan and I could not agree more with these comparisons. Yet unlike the KKK, the BNP has been granted political party status, which has resulted in what Mshairi describes as a schizophrenic relationship between the rest of the nation and the party and its supporters.

That is why on the one hand the BNP can appear on a ballot paper yet its members are denied the right to openly associate with their party of choice. It is the same flawed logic that saw the other North West MEPs refuse to share a stage with Nick Griffin as he gave his victory speech despite the fact that they will be sharing a forum in Brussels.

I think our leaders and law makers need to decide where they stand on the issue of the BNP and should that day ever come, I hope they are bold enough to place BNP in the same category as all other hate groups and revoke their political party status. Until that time our discussion of the BNP and its increasing support be limited by this rather bizarre cycle of misplaced blame and unwarranted empathy.

As someone who loves to talk it is only natural that I find myself engaged in the all sorts of conversations. This in turn has exposed me to weird questions, annoying phrases, and strange words most of which I let slip by. There are however a few things that people have said/asked that have had me vowing never to speak again. These are my top three.

1. ‘So, how do you know so-and-so?’
This question can be heard at parties, especially birthday/house parties with the host’s name replacing ‘so-and-so’. The guest who asks this question is usually one who feels that they have known the host that much longer than you and by extension have more right to be there than you have. In the same way one will observe a dog lifting up its leg at every other lamppost as it goes about its daily walk on a familiar route; the guest who asks this question can be seen moving from person to person marking out those faces he or she does not recognise. If this guest stops at you and this is the first question they ask; you are the lamppost.

2. Use of terms of endearments by total strangers
I miss the days when Routemasters filled the streets of London and bus -conductors would struggle to keep their balance as they churned out tickets from what looked like a rather old cash register dangling from their necks. What I don’t miss is how every conductor would conclude their sentence with the words such as ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’. I could never understand what it was about asking for a single to Covent Garden that would inspire such affection from someone I did not know. This behaviour is not just limited to bus conductors. I had a Design and Technology teacher who would say things like ‘Alright sweet-pea?’ or ‘How are you doing my sweet and sour?’

As if this is not enough, the use of these phrases is not standardised. So for instance in Yorkshire one can be called ‘love’ by a stranger, in the West Country do not be surprised if someone refers to you as ‘my lover’. Here in Nigeria it is ‘baby’ or ‘babygirl’

What I dislike most about this sort of talk is that it is contagious. I have noticed that I now refer to anyone and everyone as ‘my dear’. Why I do it, I do not know. What I do know is that 99% of the people I use it on are not dear to me. It disturbs me greatly to know that I am part of the problem.

3. Archaic words/Big grammar* used in everyday conversation
I know exactly when my hatred for this behaviour began. It was when a security guard at work said to me;

‘Kui, are you ok? You look ee-MASH-EE-ated’

After he wrote it down for me I discovered the word was emaciated, which according to Mshairi is pronounced ee-may-see-ated. Whatever! The guard meant to that I had lost weight yet what he said to me was that I looked “thin or haggard, especially from hunger or disease.” Was there ever a greater conversation killer?

Since I have been in Nigeria I have heard people speak of ‘paucity of funds’ when what they mean is that they are broke, or ‘my peculiarities’ when everyone knows that is a nice way of saying ‘ I have issues’

While these sorts of words may have a place in written texts or even speeches delivered to a particular audience, in everyday conversation I find it breaks the flow. I end up focusing on the word itself and not what the person is saying. Lord help both of us if t is a word I have never heard of before because whatever story was being told shall have to be interrupted while I ask endless questions about the words meaning and origin.

*Baba Willy’s Pidgin dictionary defines big grammar as ‘long and difficult English words’

———–
Thanks to the Dr for his input on regional variations of the use of the word ‘love’.
Thanks to JKE too for helping me organise my thoughts.

A 15-year-old boy [from Manchester] is fighting for his life after he was shot five times by a masked gunman in a targeted attack [on Saturday night].

(Via The Guardian)

Unlike the Guardian whose headline for this story was: Boy fights for life after shooting; The Times Online ran the story under this headline: Drug gangs’ turf war blamed for shooting of boys.

Well, this does not sit right with me.

It is a lazy headline. An easy get out clause. The headline lulls us into a false sense of security because the phrases drug gangs and turf war do not constitute everyday parlance in the world of the average Times reader. We can read our broadsheets in peace because we law abiding citizens are not to blame. This type of drama will never seep into our cosy lives.

This glossing over does not work for me.

We are talking about (possibly) five men driving up to a group of school children and opening fire.

We are talking about a 15-year-old boy being shot:

In his chest

In his back

In his groin

In his buttock

In his thigh.

We are talking about a 13-year-old boy who was shot in his lower leg.

We are talking about all those other school children who fled the scene terrified.

We are talking about an incident that took place less than a mile south of the designer outlets, franchised coffee houses and five star hotels that line the streets of Manchester’s city centre.

When school children become the victims of attempted assasinations we have to realise that this problem is much bigger than alleged drugs and gang turf wars.

That this problem is not just about ‘them over there’. It is not about us making excuses.

While the police work to find the perpetrators and establish motive. We all need to do some serious thinking because this is just wrong.

While working on the first part of my Kenyan Bloggers’ Day contribution I came across Doodle 4 Google: my Britain.

[This is] a nationwide design competition open to the UK’s 10 million school children. Young people are being invited to design a Google doodle explaining what it means to be British today. The winning doodle, which will be displayed on the Google UK homepage for 24 hours, will be seen by around 18 million people.

[read more the full article]

Doodle for Google began in 2005 and the winner of last year’s competition was 11 year old London student, Lisa Wainaina (pictured below with Dennis Hwang and her wining doodle)

She designed a doodle titled ‘Day of the child’. Lisa’s creative theme and clever incorporation of childhood images into the Google logo contributed to her being named the winner of the London competition. Lisa’s doodle was hosted on the Google homepage for 24 hours for millions of people to see, including her very proud parents and schoolmates.

[Read more here]

As I read the 2005 Winner’s name, I felt in me an emotion similar to (but stronger than) the feeling I get when I first notice a stranger wearing a Kenyan T-shirt or carrying a kiondo. It matters not that I do not know the person, or they may not be Kenyan. All I see is a person carrying an aspect of my identity and often they do so with such pride that it makes me want to stop them and say,

“Because you chose to wear/carry X, every person you meet will be exposed to a part of my culture and identity. They will admire the beautiful X you wear/carry. They may even want to find out more. In short you are representing and for that I am grateful’

I have never had the courage to say all the above to a total stranger. Sometimes I wish I did have that courage. Especially since these happy thoughts are often eroded cynicism.

I begin to question the carrier’s/wearer’s identity,
‘hmmm….I bet he/she is not even Kenyan’.

I speculate on their motives,
‘hmm…I bet they wore X, carried X because the “Ethnic” look is in.’

I conclude that the stranger pronounces Kenya as Kee.ni.a, they have only visited Kenya once on a 10 day package holiday/safari. Based on this I convince myself that the stranger has no to right to lay claim to my heritage. It may be days later before I remember how upset I get when others attempt to redefine my identity and the ways I choose to display it.

Nobody has the right to decide the cultural signifiers that others may use to define their identity and I certainly do not have the right to define another persons’ cultural/national identity.

With this in mind I approach the issue of Ms Wainaina and her outstanding achievement with a certain degree of caution.

I do not know Ms Wainaina and the articles that document her win make no reference to her national identity. I do know however that Wainaina is a Kenyan name.

Actually, that is all I need to know.

Through her name, Ms Wainaina carries an aspect of my cultural/national identity. Through her success she has exposed an aspect of my identity to millions of people. People all around the world will admire her work and will congratulate her on her win. They may even ask about her name. In short she is representing. And for this I am grateful.

As I think of Lisa Wainaina and her online achievements I am reminded of something the Acrobat said in his Kenyan Bloggers’ Day post.

Kenya was not a house we moved into, it was a house which they started building, which we will complete and which our children will furnish. In that sense we mould it in our character. It is a reflection of us. The good and the bad. But it is us.

While his remarks are in reference to the building of a nation, I feel it can also be applied to the building of a nation’s online identity.

A short while back, it was almost impossible to find news, opinions, gossip, facts and stories on Kenya written by Kenyans/friends of Kenya. In the recent months, through the proliferation of Kenyan/Kenyan friendly blogs we have started to shape Kenya’s presence on the net.

The Kenyan Blogsphere was not a house we moved into, it is a house which we are still building, the Lisa Wainana’s are already working on the interior design and by the time her children move in they will be adding loft conversions for our ever growing family.

In this sense, through our blogs, we are moulding the Kenyan Blogsphere and in turn Kenya’s identity on the internet. It is a reflection of us. The good and the bad, but it is us.

And damn! Am I proud of us!

Happy Madaraka Day

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Lisa Wainana image from Doodle 4 Google’s publicity page.

I appreciate that calling someone ‘prophet of doom’ is a rather harsh accusation. I also know that casting aspersions on one’s character especially on my blog is irresponsible, likely to get me sued and downright stupid so I have taken time to provide three reasons in support of my claim:

1. On 9th April 2005 he promised us that we would win big if we bet our houses and life savings on any or all of these three horses: Strong Resolve, Clan Royal and Forest Gunner. I believe our friend placed a bet on Clan Royal, in any event none of those horses were in the top three.
2. He returned a year later, denouncing the favourite and claiming that Garvivonnian was a sure bet. On the day of the race I was the one who picked up the phone and informed him that his horse didn’t even make it to the finish line.
3. Today he claims to have advice for the Gooners and pleads that this advice is heeded because he’s got “two quid riding on this!“

Twice in a row he has placed a bet and lost! Today he announces that he placed money on my team!! I can’t even begin to think of the consequences of his actions.

I am not sure what one has to do to break his curse but I reminded of this story:

Uri Geller, famous for bending spoons with the ‘power of his mind’, asked everyone watching to place their hand on a picture of David Beckham’s foot on the TV screen.
He then asked them to concentrate on mending the England star’s foot, in the hope that all the positive mental energy will speed up his recovery. (the rest of it here)

For ages I have wanted to post a picture of Thiery Henry on my blog because has Va Va Voom and this gives me a perfect opportunity. It even allows me to repeatedly touch and stare at my screen…and if anyone asks….I’m breaking a curse!

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* Photo from ITV.Com
* I just want to say that the whole Prophet of Doom title – it was Mshairi who came up with it. I am not shifting the blame….just crediting my sources.

Thursday 18th May, 9pm Channel 4. For those who want to get the most out of the whole experience – look out for Gold!

* Image from thisisbigbrother.com

In many instances, national treasures are better off outside their countries of origin – better cared for, receiving more attention, and more accessible.

Hensher does note that;

• These items are in fact stolen treasures; and
• Sudan is a war torn country.

Unfortunately, Hensher’s acknowledgment of these two facts make it even more difficult for me to accept his argument.

Having never witnessed a war first hand I may be wrong (but I doubt it) in my assumption that most Africans, when faced with death, would opt to save lives at the expense of a monument. Certainly as an African woman, who values human life above all else, I would make sure that my family members, neighbours and friends were safe before I searched for any heirlooms.

I think it insulting to label us incapable of looking after our own treasures on the grounds that in times of crisis we seek to save our people first. What seems to escape Hensher is that during and after times of war when we fail to label the items in our museum it is not because we do not value them as individual items but because we value our entire history. This history includes the lifeless heirlooms and the people who contributed towards their creation and those who maintain their existence. Irrespective of how valuable these items are; they are worthless without a people, alive, fit and well who can narrate the histories that these artifacts represent.

As for attempting to justify why the West should keep these pilfered goods; what can one say? It is this same warped logic that the colonialists used when they first arrived in Africa. While preaching to us that all are equal in the eyes of the Lord, they forced us to accept that we were inferior to them. Hensher, on the one hand kindly acknowledges that the West has no claim to any of these items but at the same time is forcing me to accept that because he has decided that we are incapable of looking after what is ours, it is in everybody’s interest if they do so on our behalf. We didn’t believe it then and I am certainly not convinced now.

What I would really like to know is where does one draw the line? At present this argument is limited to those items that can be moved but what about those treasures that can not moved? What happens when some Western country decides that we can not care for Mount Kirinyaga and decides to send over some of their people to ensure its maintenance and upkeep? What if they decide that we have incorrectly labeled the mountain and it should in fact be called Mount Kenya?