The 07-07-07 Campaign

“Sizakele and Salome should have been here.”

This was the slogan embalzened on the t-shirts on marchers at Soweto Pride last weekend. It adorned signs and banners at the parade yesterday, too.

I realize that I’ve been mum about my actual research agenda here, and there have been a number of reasons: First, it’s shifted a bit as I’ve made myself available to what I’m experiencing. Second, though six weeks away from home can feel like a very long time, six weeks in a new cultural context, in a new community of people, in a new place- well, it’s actually not much time at all. I am almost four weeks in and I feel very green, and I’m still working on getting the lay of the land.

I can say this - there is an epidemic of horrific violence against black lesbians in South Africa. On July 7th, 2007, two lesbian women were raped and murdered in Soweto. A few weeks later, a 19 year-old lesbian was killed in KwaZulu Natal. Recent statistics from some community-based research show that astronomical levels of homophobia are experienced by LGBT people here, but black lesbians, in particular, are increasingly the targets of gruesome, often sexualized, violence and harassment (often from members of their own families and communities). Pride photos from yesterday show signs for the 07-07-07 Campaign- a coalition of activists and organizations here working to end this rampant homophobic violence.

I’ve been working in and among many of these activists during my time here, and I’m bearing witness to incredible spirit in the midst of daunting obstacles. South Africa has a deeply ingrained culture of patriarchal violence, in general- and a big, big crime problem. As we know from many examples from all over the globe, there is often a rise in crime and violence that accompanies the aftermath of democratic transitions- but the deeply gendered nature of what’s going on here feels, to me, particular to this time and place. Many people here fear violence, carry that fear with them daily- but the burden that rests on black lesbians, and in particular, masculine women, is deep and heavy.

This story seems to have galvanized people across the globe. Do a Google search for “Sizakele and Salome” and you’ll find articles and blog posts from the US, Europe, the UK, Africa, Asia… Marches and demonstrations have happened in many cities. People are touched. I find myself also deeply affected by it, even as I stand in solidarity and in wait for my return to a place where I feel mostly safe on the street. And, it goes to the heart of so much of what I do in my life and my work- which is to think about the ways in which our ideas of gender matter, what happens when we deviate from those norms what are the prices that we pay, emotionally, bodily, materially.

Anyway, for those who are interested, there is much to be found on the web about the campaign, including info on some of the more than 20 organizations joining together in protest of the police inaction on their behalf. Read up on it- I imaigne you'll be moved, too.

What is a "researcher" anyway?

So, I know I’ve already posted a about the scary discourse around violence in Johannesburg, but I feel I need to revisit the topic in light of my first few days actually being here. (Any, by the way, I’m certain my daily blogging will wane a bit in the coming days, as my course begins on Tuesday and I hope to actually start my interviewing shortly thereafter).

So, it isn’t only Americans who talk incessantly about safety issues. It feels like everyone here is in constant dialogue about what they have experienced, what they’ve heard has happened recently in their neighborhoods, in the neighborhoods of friends and colleagues, to people they know and people who know people they know. I feel as if I’ve spent my first two days here bearing witness to overwhelming anxiety about the risks people perceive to be a fact of everyday life here. At the same time, nobody talks explicitly about being frightened. It’s the proverbial elephant in the room. They certainly own their experience – talking about “my mugging” or “my smash and grab” (when someone breaks your car window to snatch a purse or bag lying on a seat). But the fear seems to get externalized in this really interesting series of warnings and observations.

For example, it seems like everyone here has a different theory about who are the most likely targets- and that theory is often based on their own location. South Africans will tell you you’re more likely to be targeted if you look foreign, if you stick out. Americans will tell you it is Africans who are more at risk. White people tell you it’s blacks. Lots of folks think it's about being the wrong sort of person in the wrong sort of neighborhood. It also seems to be one of two ready conversations with which to greet strangers- the other, of course, being Rugby. (Joburg itself almost shut down the other night, because there was a match on. Something tells me I'll know a lot more about the game by the time I leave!)

Anyway, my new IHRE colleague Tim made an interesting observation – this obsession about where not to go has become another version of the apartheid era idea of group areas. Though not solely structured by race now, there is this keen sense that certain people belong in certain parts of the city, and that there will be penalties for crossing over into the “wrong” territory.

So, tonight I feel confused about what it means to be a "researcher" in another culture. Does it mean maintaining this observant eye, which feels at times voyeuristic? In bearing witness to the fear of others, I'm also present, and attempting to negotiate my own feelings of anxiety over what I'm hearing. At moments, I feel hopelessly like a stupid American tourist, who just happens to have some sense she is here doing something work-like. As the NYLONers will no doubt perceive, I'm having little trouble "locating the researcher in the research;" perhaps, I'm still at work on locating the research outside the researcher...

An aside: I’m also experiencing the reality of my disability in a harsh, harsh way. For those of you who know me well, you know that the day-to-day reality of my life in NYC is quite navigable for me. Here, it’s a whole different ballgame. I’m utterly and completely dependent on others, because I can neither walk nor take public transport. And so, I’m in this constant state of confession about my vision, my limitations. And it feels burdensome, and people don’t understand. It has been a long while since I’ve felt this way…

On danger...

It’s T-minus 96 hours and counting… I’m filled to the brim with nervous energy. I’ve not slept through the night in days.

At about 3am last night, I lie awake reflecting on the idea of danger. It seems that I can’t tell anyone where I’m headed without immediately receiving a stern lecture about how dangerous South Africa is, how I need to be hyper-vigilant at all times about my safety. I’ve been told to hire a bodyguard, to never venture into downtown Johannesburg alone, not to walk on the street alone, and never to worry or feel “guilty” about being utterly and completely paranoid at all times. To my knowledge, every single on of these lectures was delivered by someone who has either never been to South Africa, or who went and left without incident.

I would be a liar if I said I won’t carry some trepidation with me onto the plane. And, of course, I will be vigilant about my personal safety. But I think this kind of obsessive focus on the possibility of danger and harm is timely and interesting. Social scientists are rapidly developing a literature on what they term “risk society,” this idea that we have become a culture obsessed with calculating risk. German theorist Ulrich Beck coined this term to differentiate the specific types of risks associated with late modernity. It goes something like this: human beings have always been vulnerable to natural disasters. Now we’re also vulnerable to risks and dangers associated with modernization, man-made risks. And part of the process of modernization has been to calculate the best and most efficient ways to respond to those risks. (These calculations are, in many ways, produced and mediated by the media.)

So, how is this relevant? Well, in the post-9/11 U.S., I think we’re acutely aware of our profound vulnerability, particularly to the acts of unknown others. It is a specific type of fear of other people we carry with us. Judith Butler wrote poignantly in her book Precarious Life about the ways America chooses to transform that fear into aggression and violence, rather than simply to mourn the fact of our fragility and work towards peaceful coexistence. I’ve been reading and thinking about these ideas- and about violence in general- lately. I think it’s all really interesting, when we fear violence, when we enact it, what violence can represent (the outward expression of political resistance, repression, desperation).

I’m not sure what any of this actually means in the practice of my life. But I did have a moment about a month ago, driving in our car down Flatbush Avenue, when I realized that we’re all profoundly vulnerable, every moment of every day. And I made a conscious choice to attempt to leave that fear in the back of my mind, not to give it airtime or attention. And so, while I won’t be adorning myself in gold leaf and walking half-naked through the streets of downtown Joburg alone after midnight, I also won’t spend the next six weeks of my life stewing in guilty paranoia about my personal safety. I’m reminded of the following Eleanor Roosevelt quote read by a remarkable woman named Joanne, with whom I sat on a “diversity” panel at GSAS new grad student orientation yesterday: “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ Do the thing you think you cannot do.” Perhaps this will be my mantra in the coming weeks…