Last Sunday I
attended a service at the Park Avenue Methodist Church in New York.
The sermon, by the Reverend Cathy Gilliard, was based on the story of
the orphaned Jewish girl Esther, who was chosen to be the queen of
Persia. When the king's right-hand man devised a plot to kill all the
Jewish people because Esther's uncle, Mordecai, refused to bow down
to him, Esther continued to hide her identity. But Mordecai called on
Esther to stop playing it safe and speak out on behalf of her people:
"Who knows? Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such
a time as this."
It is a
poignant story that reminds us of the moral responsibility to speak
out against injustice and corruption. As I listened to Gilliard, I
recalled another woman's voice – one that has plagued me since the
launch of this year's "women's month" at the University of
the Free State. It was the voice of a member of the ANC Women's
League hero-worshipping President Jacob Zuma.
The occasion
was the fifth annual Charlotte Maxeke memorial lecture. If you were
at the university that day, you would have been forgiven for thinking
there was a film crew there, re-enacting apartheid-era scenes of
police violence. The large police van and other police vehicles
parked on the perimeter of the Callie Human Centre, where Zuma was to
deliver the lecture, ominously resembled a scene from the past.
Inside the
large hall, the scene was just as gloomy. Police in "riot
uniform", hands on their rifles, paraded along the upper level
above the stage. At strategic points and on the steps leading to the
upper level, to the right and left of the stage where Zuma was
sitting, conspicuously young-looking soldiers in camouflage gear and
maroon berets were standing watch in pairs, unarmed – or, at least,
with no visible firearms.
These young
soldiers were not the apartheid government's army of conscripts about
to be deployed to "the border" or "the townships".
The armed police on the upper level were not to be mistaken for
apartheid police, who were quick to shoot black demonstrators. Or
that is what I thought until the "script" of the military
forces around the president in the hall played out.
Zuma's
day
The Free State ANC Women's League had organised the event to honour the memory of Maxeke, but this script was not about her legacy. It was, rather, a chance for the league to show its adoration of the president. Every detail of the event was orchestrated as a build-up to his speech, which he delivered by reading Maxeke's biography. Nkosazana Dlamini-Zuma, recently elected as the first woman to lead the African Union, would have delivered a more profound message, but was only given time to "say a few words".
This was
Zuma's day – his day of being celebrated by the league. The league
member chairing the event came on stage to tell the audience that the
president would be entering the hall soon and there had to be
absolute silence when he walked in. We were given candles, which I
thought represented the light Maxeke shone selflessly to open the way
for the formidable women's movement against injustice. But a
different purpose for the candles was soon revealed.
Volunteers
went round the hall, lighting the candles. "Shhhhh, shhhhh,"
the chairperson implored the restless audience. "There should be
no noise when the president enters the hall. The lights will be
turned off and only the sound of the burning candles should be
heard," she said. As we waited, burning candles in hand, several
announcements about the imminent entry of the president were made.
Watching this
theatre and listening to the chairperson telling us about the "forces
of evil" raging outside (a reference to the anti-Zuma songs
being sung outside the hall) and urging us to "pray for our
president", it struck me that the league no longer embodied the
spirit of the noble fight against the injustices suffered by
marginalised women.
In
post-apartheid South Africa the league has lost the moral freedom
that defined it in the past, when it was driven by a desire to widen
the horizons of possibility for women of colour in our country.
Today's league is more concerned with fighting to save Zuma's
political career or the careers of members' comrades.
An uncritical
"love" for Zuma was unmistakable in the music performed
that day. At first, the songs were a mixture of light dance and
choral music with no real significance. But the music changed when
Zuma approached the hall, giving symbolic meaning to the quest to
save Zuma's political career by fighting the "enemy" –
the voices of dissent.
As Zuma's
procession entered the hall, a talented young trio sang the words
from Puccini's Nessun Dorma aria, often used at World Cup ceremonies
as an emphatic statement of victory: Vincerò! Vincerò! Vincerò! (I
shall win!).
Symbolic
imagination
This orchestrated symbolic statement glossed over the fact that, in the opera Turandot, the promised vincerò comes only after an act of mass death. Thus, in the terrain of the symbolic imagination, we might consider that, as Zuma's bid for another presidential term moves towards victory, there may be destruction along the way. Hence the importance of the prayers for which the league pleaded: "Please pray for our president."
This prayer
component was captured by the song It Is Well with My Soul, sung by
gospel singer Sechaba just before Zuma came to the podium. The song's
original meaning conveys an unwavering trust in God in the face of
life's challenges. Listening to Sechaba's voice booming through the
hall with so much power and emotion and watching him projected on the
large screen in front, I was left breathless. There was Sechaba on
the screen, in a pink golf shirt and khaki pants, singing "It is
well with my soul" with joy on his face – while at the same
time passing in front of two young "soldiers" in camouflage
uniform, wearing maroon berets and standing at attention, stern-faced
and hard-mouthed.
One saw then
that in reality Zuma does not put his trust only in God and that all
is not well with the president's soul.
These images
made a deep impression on me. The scripts created collectively by the
ANC and its alliance partners since the days of Zuma's legal battles
– scripts created to save him from rape and corruption charges –
have played out in a ceaseless spiral.
From the
public dramas around Julius Malema to Bheki Cele's militarisation of
the police, from the Marikana massacre and the arrest of student
Chumani Maxwele for allegedly giving Zuma the finger for the killing
of Andries Tatane during a protest in Ficksburg, to the looting of
public funds to transform Zuma's homestead into a palace complex –
all these point to the crisis of moral leadership in our country.
Bleak
landscape
It is a gruesome tale – how we have moved so rapidly from the era of hope to the bleak landscape ushered in by Zuma's ascent to power, how we find ourselves in a state characterised by poor service delivery, major corruption at all levels of government, increasing violence against women and many other problems that have torn apart the moral fibre of our society. What can it all mean?
What if it
all comes down to this – that at such a time we are all called to
step up, as Esther did when she saw the destruction about to befall
her people?
"When we
remember who we are," Gilliard said at the New York church,
"when we stand at the intersection where potential meets
necessity and necessity meets possibility – and we all will stand
there at some point in our lives – we stand there and search
ourselves. At best, we refuse – absolutely refuse – to live
beneath our potential."
We choose,
instead, to be courageous, to interrupt the spiral into the tragic
dramas playing out in our communities. How I wish the voice of the
ANC Women's League could be restored to that courageous place. How I
pray for South African citizens to march in step on the path that
leads to hope – hope that South Africa can regain the dignity it
had at the birth of our democracy.
