I put my recipe for culturally competent reporting to the test last night, at a Ramadan feast staged at the Canberra Islamic Centre.



There was competition for seats in the jam-packed community hall where hundreds of people gathered to break their fast at sunset. Traditionally, Muslims fast during daylight hours in the Islamic calendar month of Ramadan as an act of submission, solidarity, and to reflect on the suffering of others. The daily breaking of the fast is a time of replenishment, community and celebration. And yesterday was a particularly significant Ramadan date – many Muslims mark it as the day on which the Quran was revealed to the prophet Mohamed. So, a special feast was organised by the Canberra Islamic Centre and I was invited to attend by a young Muslim woman – a former student, Fatima Ahmed – to experience the event first hand.



My first impression was a revelation: it was essentially like a multicultural version of a Catholic Church-sponsored World Youth Day event I attended with friends in a Bungendore school hall earlier this year! It was a friendly and open crowd where people, speaking in their mother tongues and dressed in traditional finery, blasted away the stereotypical representation of Muslims as mono-cultural and ubiquitously veiled. They came from Asia, the Middle East, Africa and the Subcontinent. Young and old; men and women; family groups; friends and strangers; they talked animatedly as they jostled for space and waited for the call to prayer that would signal the end of the day’s fasting. Children sat patiently in front of their rosewater-infused lassis and individual plates of foods traditionally eaten to break the fast – predominantly dates and portions of fresh fruit.

Then came silence, with the signal of the call to prayer. A man with a beautiful, resonant, voice that filled the hall and sent shivers up my spine, began singing - arms raised heavenward: “Allah u akbah…” The prayer, recited in Arabic, is called the Adhan and it’s words are translated into English like this:

God is the greatest
I bear witness that there is no deity except God.
I bear witness that Mohamed is the messenger of God.
Make haste towards prayer
Make haste towards welfare
God is the greatest
There is no deity but Allah.

The words Allah u akbah (God is the greatest) have been associated in Western media discourse with the September 11th attacks, due to the adoption of the mantra by the terrorists as a call to battle. But last night, hearing those words sung was a soul-soothing, calming experience. The chant evoked peace, not hostility. When the prayer ended, the chattering resumed and people began eating the food on their plates. When this ‘first course’ was polished off, they made their way to the first prayers of the evening.




This is a progressive Muslim community on Canberra’s southern outskirts, but the prayers were sex segregated. The men prayed together in the main hall, while the women and children moved to a private prayer room. And I have to confess, it’s hard for me, a Feminist who, in a ‘previous life’, campaigned for women’s ordination and equality within the Anglican church, to accommodate such gender based separation – it makes me uncomfortable…personally and politically. But many of the women I spoke to last night appreciate the female solidarity and spiritual space provided by segregated prayer.






My reaction to sex-segregated food lines for the feast that followed was similar. But I had more trouble appreciating the benefits of this approach for women…their line was longer, swollen by the children in their ranks, and I couldn't help but ask the friends I was sitting with: “What would happen if I joined the male queue?” Although they encouraged me to feel free to do so, it was clear to me this would be perceived as provocative and potentially insensitive behaviour.

My young friend’s mother generously lined up and brought me a plate of delicious Iranian stews which I ate with my friends at a table where the conversation moved from the stuff of life, to politics and an academic discussion of Muslims and their relationship with the mainstream Australian media. The discussion was intelligent, thought-provoking and entertaining. Children ran back and forward from the table excitedly, and strangers came to meet and greet me. There was much laughter and I was warmly welcomed, being shown great courtesy and respect by everyone I met. I report this, not because I expected it to be otherwise, but because of the fears haboured by some, that such gatherings would be bastions of Islamic extremism.

After dinner, I joined the women in the prayer room for their next devotional session. After nearly inducing a heart attack in my friend, fellow writer and academic, Shakira Hussein, by absent-mindedly heading towards the door to the prayer room with my shoes on (I reassured her that, of course, I intended to remove my shoes in deference to tradition. But I suspect she still believes she narrowly averted a major faux pas committed by a journalist promoting culturally sensitive reporting :). I slipped off my heels and sat against the wall of the prayer room with camera in my lap. I was invited to photograph the women as they prepared to pray. While many of them don’t wear headscarves in everyday life, most of them choose to cover their heads for prayer. They lined up quietly, variously standing and kneeling in prayer on cue, with signals emanating from the men’s prayer gathering outside. At the back of the book-lined prayer room, children played quietly and posed for my camera.


There’s something beautiful about this style of prayer and devotion. It’s in the supplicant faces; the synergy of words and movement; the quiet unity.

Frequently, stories about terrorism are inter-cut with, or accompanied by, images of prostrate men engaged in Muslim prayer. And this constant association of religious practise and violence has undermined the peaceful nature of this basic devotional activity – the hallmark of daily lived religion for millions of Muslims around the world. I was glad to experience the sense of peaceful spirituality which accompanied these women as they prayed.

They met one more time for prayer before the social gathering in the main hall was replaced by a shopping bonanza, as market stalls were set up in the courtyard outside. There were brightly coloured and beaded kaftans and Salwar Kameez from Bangladesh, Pakistan and the Middle East; beautiful, soft pashminas; handmade leather shoes colourfully decorated with pom poms and embroidery.

And, in one corner were women queued for henna tattoos to be painted on their arms and hands. I’ve always admired the henna coloured swirls on other women's bodies, and I’d never be brave enough to get one done in permanent ink, so I joined the line and chatted with other women as I had my arm laced with paint. The tattoo I chose begins with a dove on my left forearm and heads down to the middle knuckle, flourishing with floral emblems, feathers and curls.
On my ultra-white skin, the orange ink is stark and beautiful in the light of day. I could get addicted to this beauty regime!

In my experience, and according to my research, the best way to subvert media stereotypes, and encourage culturally sensitive reporting, is to expose journalists personally to alternative perspectives, practices and experiences. At a human level, it’s much easier to empathise with people and circumstances through lived experience. Empathy breeds sensitivity, and insensitive reporting is a problem frequently highlighted by journalism scholars in connection with the coverage of complex social issues.

My aim, last night, was to briefly embed myself in Muslim ‘culture’ and experience the religious practice of this community. I thoroughly enjoyed the exposure and learned things about myself in the process. I was more unsettled by the sex segregation than I expected to be…it was confronting for this Feminist. But no where near as confronting as being told by the minister of my former church that I should stop asking impertinent questions during sermon Q & As. He also told my husband "It's time you learned to control your wife!".

There was open-mindedness, and tolerance expressed towards me by people with open hearts, last night. And my overwhelming feeling was of being embraced, rather than repelled. I felt joyful, rather than fearful on the long drive home.    [read more]

I’m celebrating my first bloggerversary – it’s exactly one year today since I uploaded my first post to J-scribe. So, it’s time to take stock and look to the future of this little Web 2.0 journalistic enterprise.

It began with a bang – well, more of an explosion of anger in text, really, in response to 11 years of Howard Government socio-cultural ‘retroform’ - and politics has proved an enduring theme here. Racism, xenophobia, issues of social justice (see also 'Begging for a Future'), national identity and culture, journalism(see also 'The ABC of Comedy' and 'Jihad Sheilas or Media Victims?'), sexism (see also 'The Shrew who Won't Be Tamed'), academia and social media have also regularly propelled my fingers to keyboard.

But J-scribe's also emerged as a repository for my musings on life, love (see also 'I do, I do'), loss (see also 'Over the Rainbow') and laughter (see also 'Spa-in Partners'). It’s part diary, part political column, part observational reporting and part academic reflection. And it’s 100% me…a sort of ‘me media’ platform that reflects the complex life, thoughts, ideas, passions, experiences, travels, adventures, domestic doings and observations of one woman.

J-Scribe was conceived with a prod from a fellow journalism academic; birthed in collaboration with my talented web-designing partner; cheered on by my network of friends, colleagues and former students on Facebook and it entered mainstream journalism through a story on web 2.0 political advertising during the Federal Election campaign.

This week I’ve spent a few hours looking back at some of my posts – tracking my life and the issues that pressed my buttons over the past year – and I’m proud of this flawed (but surprisingly entertaining - even if I do say so myself!) archive of my life. It’s personal, reflective, human, passionate, informed and, frankly, quite funny at times :) It demonstrates, through flurries and wanes in posting, the ebbs and flows of time and the lack of time I’ve had to devote to this project in recent months. It’s my attempt to engage – with issues, debates and ideas; with friends, colleagues, students and random visitors to my site who talk back and sometimes back-chat; with my desire for creative expression and with new models of journalism.

I was afraid of starting a blog for a number of reasons 1) I'm essentially a technophobe who needs to be pushed past her fears 2) I'd been influenced by the "blogging isn't journalism" brigade and my inner journo worried about issues of credibility and professionalism 3) Outside of the traditional publication and delivery mode of news, I figured I wouldn't find an audience and what's the point of talking to yourself?

But, in starting a blog I 1) discovered blogging and social media tools are a great vehicle for conquering a creative soul's technological trepidations, 2) quickly realised that journalists and academics can and should blog and that blogging can be a legitimate form of journalistic output 3) have not only found an audience (albeit a small one) but one that talks back! And that engagement (brief periods of vilification aside) has proved enriching - personally and journalistically.

My most recent Web 2.0 foray is into the world of Twitter - a micro-blogging platform that shares the frenetic pace, reactive tone and shrill pitch of birdsong. I resisted the temptation to Tweet (yep, it's a whole other lingo you need to get down with, folks!) until my (hollow) protests made me look like a twit (get it? :) and I feared my reluctance would lead me to be judged a twat (yep, hilarious with the puns aren't I?) So, for those of you with short attention spans, I'm now disseminating status-updates on steroids (limited to 140 characters) via Twitter whenever I feel the urge to share, and sharing there in other people's observations on news, life politics and society. Believe it or not, Barrack Obama started following my Tweets (don't get too excited, I suspect anyone with a Twitter profile that references both politics and journalism was a prime target!) and he's among the 50-odd fellow Twitterers I'm now following. These include micro-news posts from the New York Times, the ABC, PBS and the observations of a host of journalists, cartoonists, social media addicts and academics.

Blogging, Web 2.0, social media, Twitter, Facebook, citizen journalism…all these terms have one common theme – engagement and connectivity with citizenry. Traditionalists, fear-mongers and curmudgeons declare these modern communication tools and modes of journalistic practice hostile to quality, independent journalism - a threat that must be contained. But, rather than being viewed as the death knell for professional journalism, they need to be appreciated as an opportunity for journalists to connect with one another, with sources and with their audiences, in a way which has has the potential to broaden their reach, increase their status with audiences and empower communities. They are also essential tools for journalism educators seeking to connect with their students in a relevant, stimulating way.

I'd like to engage more deeply with these debates here and share some insights I've recently gleaned via experts in the field, but my life calls - so I need to sign off for now.

Before I go, though, here's my 'new bloggers-year' resolution: aim to enrich my posts with more audio-visual content and upgrade from plain old blogger to podcaster/vodcaster/vlogger. And your job is to keep feeding back. You can start by offering your assessment of a year in the life of J-scribe and bidding for the sort of content you desire.

Tweet ya later!    [read more]

Your clock's still ticking but time stands still here.

The dressing table tells your story - favourite cards; faded photographs; symbols of your faith; dried flowers from wedding bouquets; sentimental gifts and memories of yesterdays.

Outside, the birds still flock to the garden you loved. They wake me early.

On a lemon tree branch, a dove sits singing your song. A bittersweet goodbye.

The phone just rang. My sister was sobbing “She’s gone”. My grandmother had just died. Granny made chicken soup to comfort us and ward off the cold...I was making chicken soup when I took the call.

Mabel Elizabeth Sewell was an amazing woman who fought valiantly to live in the face of myriad illnesses that destroyed her body but left her mind and wit intact to the end. But it was time for the suffering to stop in her 90th year.

I'm crying tears of grief but also tears of relief. The grief is for my loss and the pain I watched her endure this week while sitting at her bedside. The relief is in her liberation from bodily struggle and the peace her spirit will now find.

She was like a second mother to me and my shelter in fierce storms. As a little girl, I climbed through the hole in the fence that separated our houses when I was unhappy or in need of a treat. As a teenager, her home was a refuge for my mother, sister and I when we sought escape from my violent stepfather. Whenever we landed on Granny's doorstep in search of safety, she would invite us in, envelop us in protective arms and share her strength - she had ample for all of us.

Grandma was comfort food and cosy flannelette sheets, favourite old books you never tire of reading, birds on the windowsill and a garden full of roses. Her home always smelled of baked dinners and pumpkin scones and I don’t ever remember feeling cold there.

She lived for her family and cared for her chronically ill husband with devotion and loyalty unsurpassed in my experience. Grandad died 22 years ago and she missed him terribly but she loved life too much to rush to join him.

Her home wasn’t her entire life: she had a rich social and work life…volunteering tirelessly for the Royal Blind Society and working as a Wollongong hospital aid known as a ‘mauve lady’ – her favourite colour. Her hospital job involved making patients and their carers as comfortable as possible…running errands, lending an ear and making cups of tea. Those years of devotion to others were repaid ten-fold in recent years by my mother who selflessly tended to her every need, but dependency caused by physical limitations didn't come easily to Grandma.

Grandma grew up in a tiny dairy farming town called Berry on the NSW South Coast and only left these shores once, on a trek to Papua New Guinea with Grandad to share his wartime experiences on the Kokoda Trail, but she was worldly-wise.

Pragmatic, diligent and thrifty, she was also the first environmentalist I knew – she was still recycling Alfoil and reusing tea bags up until a few months before her death. Her sharp wit and delight in laughter sustained her and kept the rest of us amused…and amazed. Even on her deathbed she was making quips during moments of clarity.

She had the spirit of a wartime heroine – plucky, opinionated, stubborn and courageous she was determined not to be beaten. She was so feisty she even staved off death which the doctors predicted would come much sooner than it did. She fought fiercely against so many illnesses – her biggest enemies being the vascular disease that long ago robbed her of her mobility and the cancer which she battled for 14 years.

She sucked joy out of life with every breath and tried courageously to mask the pain. But it was time for her to go…to join Grandad who she still missed so much two decades after he made his own journey to heaven.

And there she’ll wait for the rest of us…pain-free; making cups of tea; doing crossword puzzles and going for brisk walks with Grandad through gardens…picking roses without fear of thorns.

Musical Dedication: Longtime Traveller by The Wailin' Jennys Grandma    [read more]

I'm at the South African National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, South Africa. But I nearly didn’t make it. A fortnight before I left, in the wake of the outbreak of Xenophobic violence that claimed more than 60 lives, the Australian government issued a “do not travel alert” for all South African townships which my employer threatened to read as a total ban on travel to South Africa. They were, of course, concerned about my safety (as was my mother – don’t get me started!) which is measured via insurance risk.

Like most of the rest of the West, Australia sees South Africa through a distorted lens of crime, violence and political disappointment...in the dark, rather than up in lights. But I was determined to see a different country. This town, its people and this festival have offered me that perspective.

I’m in Grahamstown to work on the Rhodes University School of Journalism and Media Studies Cue journalism project which incorporates a daily newspaper, radio and TV output along with online publications and a pictures agency. It’s a remarkable series of productions – existing on blood, sweat and, from what I’ve observed, the requisite tension and gallows humour that go with deadline pressure and creative energy. Radio students are filing stories on social and political issues revolving around the festival, and emanating from performances, to a national audience on the SABC and collaborating with photography students to create multimedia output for online; TV students are vod-casting creative coverage of festival life; there’s a convergent blog being overseen by visiting academics from the Netherlands while contributing editors from established publications join Rhodes staff in burning the candle at both ends on the Cue newspaper produced every day of the 10 day festival. That’s my view of "Fest"(as it's known to it's attendants who are called "Festinos") from inside the Cue media production hub – prodigious effort; creative drive and loads of overtime. No wonder you lot won the Rugby World Cup!

My view from outside the walls of production is even more inspiring. I’ve seen performances that have stunned me, moved me, enthralled me, underwhelmed me and left cold…literally. The Dance Factory’s astounding production of Romeo and Juliet utterly enthralled me. It was the first event I attended at Fest and it set the bar very high. My heart pounded in tune with thumping feet, and plasticine bodies turned my head askew as this tragic love affair was played out on an understated stage. The star and choreographer, Dado Masilo, stunned me. She took the stage with a rare boldness – shaved, proud, head and bare feet that stomped out the rhythm of her soul.
Then there was Umrhube – Indigenous Music. What a spectacle! Traditional costumes, songs, dance and instruments merged in this raw, powerhouse performance which literally blew out a speaker! The joy and sense of celebration characterising this performance underscored the hope and resilience of South Africans as I’ve observed them.

At the other end of the spectrum is my most bizarre Fest experience - which falls into the “it’s so bad, it’s laugh out loud funny” category. Grahamstown “identity” Basil Mills’ creation, Impundulu, staged outdoors in freezing conditions by Dogs’ Dam, was a hoot! It had everything…from fire-eating to belly dancing (performed by the Lower Albany Turkish Delights who bravely combined sequined bra tops with thermals) and a children’s dance troupe. Don’t ask me what the story line was, but the objective seemed to be to incorporate every quirky act and character known to Grahamstown into a multicultural, mythical tale with absolutely no attempt to segue way seamlessly from one theme to another. It was…truly unforgettable.

But the major highlight of my visit was breaching the Australian government’s township travel ban. With the National Arts Festival as the backdrop, I made my way to the township ‘Kings Flats’ this week for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in the interests of reflecting a different picture of township life to my country. I was taken to Kings Flats by Rhodes University student Asanda Ntame. Asanda, who is studying journalism in the hope of better representing his community’s interests, lives in Kings Flats with his extended family.

Despite the warnings and the statistical evidence of rampant crime and violence, my experience of visiting Kings Flats was ultimately inspiring. The poverty was visible – on the streets and in the simple character of the home I visited – but, as a foreigner, I was warmly greeted and welcomed. Children played on the streets, animals roamed freely, women washed together in their yards with stereos playing loudly. These were scenes far removed from the images of horrendous xenophobic violence Westerners have recently come to recognise as visual shorthand for township life in South Africa.

As Asanda Ntame told me “we are people just like Australians. We go about our daily lives here. People greet each other on the street. They love you, they want to get to know you. People need to remember that while other people may be different they are still people”. He described the Australian government’s travel ban applying to all South African townships as “ridiculous, based on a complete stereotype”. Every other South African I’ve raised this with concurs and that view is being reflected to the ABC audience in Australia.

During my visit to Kings Flats I was, however, struck by the absence of evidence of the festival that was enlivening Grahamstown in the valley below. I asked the shopkeepers I interviewed what their experience of Fest was. One of them, Mohamed Ali, a Pakistani refugee who fled the Free State after his shop was burnt to the ground four times in acts of xenophobic violence, said “I don’t even know Fest is on except when I go to town to buy supplies for my shop”. So life goes on as normal in the townships that wrap the hills of this city I’ve grown to love and respect in the few short weeks I’ve been here.

Despite its crazy weather, Grahamstown, with its quiet pre-fest streets and dilapidated colonial architecture, the many friendly people I’ve met, and the way the festival has absorbed and entertained me – from the main stage to the Village Green which showcases arts and crafts - have gotten under my skin. I heard Africa infects people like that…evidently, I’m not immune. People in Australia were worried I wouldn’t make it home alive. I will make it home alive…more alive than ever.

Note: A version of this article first appeared in Cue newspaper on July 5th, 2008    [read more]

I felt myself leaning forward in my seat as the cast of Rome and Juliet backed-up on stage in step with grief. The Dance Factory’s astounding performance of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy on show at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, South Africa, is literally enthralling.

Passionate performances with sweat-inducing energy are underscored by raw recordings of Vivaldi and Bach interspersed with evocative silence. My heart pounded in tune with thumping feet and plasticine bodies turned my head askew as this tragic love affair was played out on an understated stage.

While the troup entire is inspiring, the energy and passion behind this production is personified in its star and choreographer, Dada Masilo. The winner of the 2008 Standard bank Young Artist Award for Dance, 23 year old Masilo began attracting attention as an eleven year old jiver in the Joburg township where she grew up.
When she takes the stage now, it’s with a bold rawness – shaved, proud, head and bare feet that stomp out the rhythm of her soul.

She told Cue Radio “A lot of people get to see the work that I’ve made and I think that it’s gonna push me also in a different direction in terms of exploring, how to make work and choreography. It’s gonna help me grow as a dancer and choreographer. I’m just going with the flow, I’m letting what I do guide me I don’t really have any expectations at this point, I’m just going with my passion.” And that passion takes its audience hostage.

This a a powerful woman who delivers a powerhouse performance in a production with such heart that it left me shivering and drew me to my feet, along with many others in the audience at its conclusion.

I’m already looking for an excuse to enjoy an encore performance of Romeo and Juliet. Don’t miss it...if you're in the land of biltong and boerewors!    [read more]

Poverty is in your face in South Africa.

When you step off the plane you are immediately confronted by people begging – open hands; scams at the ready; people offering to carry your bags, watch your car, watch your back.

My experience of this poverty is grounded in Grahamstown – a city of 70,000 with 70% unemployment and a community divided between the affluent mostly white residents of a pretty, historic town and the black masses who live in the Apartheid-era townships that sprawl across the hills on the city’s fringe.

Sure, I’ve been exposed to beggars and abject poverty before – homelessness and drug-related crime are significant problems confronting Australia’s big cities and many other global cities I’ve visited. But it’s the scale, age and colour of the poverty that confronts and challenges you in South Africa. The problem looks exclusively black. Young children and teenagers approach you with folded bits of paper and elaborate stories – “I’m raising funds to go to a track meet in Cape Town”; “Please mother can you help me? I fight the good fight” - appealing to your compassion and sense of social justice. And, they frequently work in pairs or teams, targeting those of us with pale skin, cars and other marks of affluence in this divided society.

The knowledge that it’s this widespread poverty that fuels the extraordinarily high rates of violent crime in this country affects my responses. I find myself feeling fearful and defensive when alone on the streets. I walk quickly; eyes alert; lock the car doors while driving. I’m annoyed with myself for behaving this way – but this defensiveness is not just the product of hysterical media coverage. The statistics on rape and murder in this country are genuinely alarming and demand self-preserving behaviour. SA has the highest rate of reported rape in the world; violent assault and murder are associated with petty theft; and crime figures released last year revealed that people were less safe in their homes in some districts than on the streets due to a sharp increase in home invasions.

But fearfulness also fuels a climate which subjects the bulk of law-abiding black residents of this town to suspicion. I heard a moving piece of reporting about this experience from a black student here at the Rhodes University School of Journalism and Media Studies. He produced a radio monologue in which he described what it felt like to be a poor alien in his own town. To him, Rhodes was a world far removed from his own life in the township on the fringe. Here, he said, everyone has a car; food to eat and basic needs fulfilled. To him, life on campus was like a wealthy parallel universe to his own existence and experience of life in Grahamstown. His voice cracked when he talked of being confronted twice by the “Rhodes Police” (campus security guards who patrol the grounds) who assumed he was a threat because he was dressed like a township resident. He felt like a criminal because he was poor and didn’t easily fit into the affluent and prestige-conscious Rhodes community. This experience clearly angered and unnerved him. The humiliation in his voice was palpable.

Poverty alienates. Poverty allows crime to thrive and drives fear. Here, poverty is inescapable but its victims are too frequently made to feel invisible. They’re there in the statistics and the media sub-texts, but their voices are too rarely heard. Next time I’m asked for money, I shall ask for a name and a story in return.    [read more]

I’ve never been so stimulated in a public toilet. Get your mind out of the gutter! I mean intellectually. There I sat…on the loo, reading quotes about journalism from Nelson Mandela and Oscar Wilde inscribed on bathroom tiles that covered the walls of the cubicle.

The toilets in question are housed in an extraordinary building in a provincial city in the poorest region of South Africa. The Africa Media Matrix is home to Rhodes University’s School of Journalism and Media Studies in Grahamstown.




Built at cost of 26 million rand (approximately A$4million), and on the back of extraordinary vision, it melds state-of-the-art technology with African culture and journalism history. And wittily, at times irreverently, it tells the story of South African media struggles and champions media freedom through clever interior design that makes you gawp…particularly while using the ‘facilities’.



Let’s start the tour back in my favourite toilet cubicle…yes, I have a favourite loo here. It has tiles that quote both Nelson Mandela the founder of the Rainbow Nation and Matt Drudge – the founder of online gutter journalism. Mandela’s tile reads: “Freedom of expression is not a monopoly of the press: it is a right of us all”… appropriately, Matt Drudge’s says: “I go where the stink is”.

I was busted by a student while photographing these tiles. She said: “Wow, I’ve never seen someone take a picture of a toilet before”. I responded with the obvious: “I’m Australian”. She looked at me with judgemental understanding. Australians are the butt (a little toilet humour :) of many South African jokes. Another tile quote from Alfred Eisenstaedt seems appropriate at this s-bend (yep, more toilet humour!): “When I have a camera in my hand, I know no fear”.



OK, let’s leave the loos and take a walk around the building. In the vibrantly coloured foyer is a Venda drum – made of clay, its skin-covered top is gonged to announce functions and gather staff and students. It sits beneath a mosaic wall which spells “news” in sign language and Braille. This wall houses video screens that channel student-productions, promote the School’s activities and carry and news from around Africa. Tall tables used for feasts and talk-fests are also covered in mosaic tiles portraying proof-reading symbols and carrying more inspiring quotes from journalism history, including this one from the crusading anti-Apartheid editor, Donald Woods, who was forced into exile in 1978: “Why was I, a fifth-generation white South African, Editor for 12 years of one of the country’s longest established newspapers (Daily Dispatch), escaping in disguise in fear of political police?”



Media Freedom is a major theme of this building. Behind the reception desk hangs a cloth printed with section 16 of South Africa’s constitution which guarantees free speech. Elsewhere in the building, curtains are printed with the text of Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights: "Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers" ; a copy of the 1991 Windhoek Declaration, which called for an independent, pluralistic and free press, hangs on a wall; and newspaper flyers and front pages relay flashpoints in South Africa’s struggle for democracy and an unfettered media.



The tea room is a slice of 1950’s activist journalism - it’s a tribute to Drum magazine, the publication which gave a platform to many influential black journalists including Nat Nakasa, who wrote: “The writer can make his choice. Bow to the social conventions and the letter of the law and keep within the confines of the white world. Or, refuse to let officialdom regulate his personal life, face the consequences and be damned”. Nakasa suicided while exiled in New York in 1965.



But this building isn’t just about symbolism and story-telling: here, art intersects with state-of-the-art technology. Colourful baskets woven from telephone wire adorn one wall of the foyer – they’re strung with a piece of thick blue high-speed cabling that represents the 35km of the stuff that weaves throughout the building, making it the ‘fastest’ edifice in Africa. This is contrasted with quirky wire radios, made by a local trader, which are triggered by sensors near the entrance to the radio studios. The building also houses a television studio and production labs adaptable for convergent journalism operations. They’ll be in full swing later this week when the AMM becomes the hub of radio, print, TV and online coverage of the National Arts Festival.





And the high-tech isn’t restricted to the building’s interior. Wrapped around the exterior is a Times Square-style electronic ticker which transmits local headlines to the Rhodes community. Yes, it’s totally OTT, but it laughs in the face of Africa’s tech-challenged, disconnected status and brashly signals the readiness of this institution to meet the future head-on.



Juxtaposed against the ticker is a rusty pre-World War One printing press which decorates the garden. Visitors are invited to cross the garden via stepping stones made from brick tiles extracted from the floor of Grocott’s Mail – the oldest independent newspaper in South Africa. The paper is now owned and operated by this journalism school and used as a training facility for its students. Shredded Grocott’s printing plates are woven around pots at the building’s entrance and, back inside, old printing blocks and trays from the paper decorate the walls. This is a building that looks to the future without forgetting the past.

Eight degrees and more than a dozen outreach-projects are driven by the people of the AMM. There are some 50 staff and over 500 full-time students attached to this place and at the healm is the zeal behind the AMM, Head of School, Prof. Guy Berger.



Other AMM highlights include:

• Teardrop shaped lampshades made from woven 16mm film that light the internal stairwell



• The TV camera and tripod in the foyer painted in bright, traditional design by an Ndebele artist
• The banner at the entrance to student computer labs which bears the image of Thoth, the Egyptian god of writing, made from bottle tops
• The confidence of the building: it screams the successes of its occupants and graduates with their achievements and outputs proudly championed on its walls.    [read more]

While thousands of immigrants sheltered in pseudo refugee camps in Johannesburg, I ran the gauntlet between the international and domestic terminals in a city riven by violence.

I arrived in South Africa four days ago - trying to pretend I wasn’t afraid. Fear is the stuff of life here. I’d been warned – about rape; AIDS; Joburg airport gangs; car-jacking; being murdered for my mobile phone; home invasions; xenophobic violence. Only a week before I left, the violent attacks on immigrants that claimed over 60 lives in South Africa, threatened to ground me as Australia's Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade (DFAT) issued a ‘do not travel alert’ for Joburg entire and all SA townships. The central piece of advice I’d received was “whatever you do, don’t leave Joburg airport”.

So, when it became apparent that I’d have to collect my luggage and walk between terminals, amidst a construction zone, to catch my connecting flight upon landing in Joburg, I felt obliged to be scared. And I was apprehensive. But even before I got off the plane, I felt more alive.

Welcome to Africa – land of contradictions that swallows your soul whole and makes you bend to its desires.

I’m here for 5 weeks to work on a journalism project at Rhodes University in the sleepy provincial city of Grahamstown which bursts alive during the South African National Arts Festival. But I’m also here on a personal journey…to push my boundaries, challenge my preconceptions and confront my fears.

Grahamstown is home to approximately 50,000 people - only 6,000 of them white – where the scars of Apartheid still require acute care. It’s home to a world-class university; several prestigious private schools and many churches. But the city is crippled by seventy percent unemployment; rampant poverty and governmental neglect.

It’s also a town whose landscape bears a striking resemblance to my own little village of Bungendore via Canberra. Rolling hills, colonial architecture, even gum trees appearing in the Rhodes grounds unexpectedly between the flaming aloes that colour the bush. But there the similarities end. Here, life is cheap and the battles for justice which found their armoury in this Eastern Cape region during the Apartheid years are not yet over.

I’m writing this at the end of National Youth Day on June 16th – a day which commemorates the anniversary of the 1976 Soweto student uprisings. On that day about 200 young people gave their lives in a protest against forced instruction in Afrikaans which turned violent when security police opened fire on the uniformed students. Ahead of the protest, one student wrote in The World newspaper: "Our parents are prepared to suffer under the white man's rule. They have been living for years under these laws and they have become immune to them. But we strongly refuse to swallow an education that is designed to make us slaves in the country of our birth”.

Tonight the anniversary is marked by poignant advertisements on the SABC in which little children say they dream of a day when they don’t have to fear rape and murder and xenophobic violence. It’s a wake-up call for dreamers like me who would like to believe Nelson Mandela’s Rainbow Nation vision is still an achievable reality. But the extraordinary capacity of South Africans to laugh in the face of adversity, and persevere in the presence of hardship, provides real inspiration and gives this interested observer hope.

As I explore this city and the township on its fringe, Joza, listening to myriad voices and looking below the surface dirt of violence, crime and poverty that stereotypes South Africa, I'll do my best to pedal that hope to you.    [read more]

I have a confession to make…I wear Britney Spears’ “designer” scent. There, I said it. Embarrassed for me? So am I! But before you judge me too harshly, consider the power of this little pink bottle (diamante encrusted, of course) of “Fantasy”.

I have been chased out of lifts, poked insistently in the chest, and watched women, noses imitating Bewitched, cross the room to demand I identify my scent. I usually pretend I can’t remember: “Not sure, sorry. I think it’s in a pink bottle” in preference to confessing my association with the celebrity tabloids’ favourite delinquent mummy.

But this weekend I gave in when two women tapped me on the shoulder and asked, like kids in a lolly shop, “What is that delicious smell? It’s like chocolate mixed with vanilla and jasmine…yum!” I tried to deflect them, but they were persistent and my efforts, futile. I coughed “Britney Spears” into my hand and cringed, awaiting their reaction. Their response: “Who cares? You smell divine!” When I walked past them out of the gallery we were cruising, one of them said “You’d better be careful or some man will come along and eat you up, you smell so good”. "Britney" has apparently entered my bloodstream: I flicked my hair over my shoulder and quipped, “He can be my guest”. “Good for you!” they cheered.

So, what’s so special about this perfume named for the chanteuse my eight year old niece calls Britney Smears without a hint of irony? It’s not particularly pricey; it’s marketed to teenage girls; and it’s incredibly gimmicky…but it does smell edible. An Elizabeth Arden production, it has the backing of an established cosmetics house. They describe the fragrance like this: “Fantasy unfolds with lush red lychee, golden quince and exotic kiwi. It continues with the scents of cupcakes, sexy white chocolate (white chocolate is sexy? JP) orchid and jasmine petals and draws to a close with the scents of creamy musk, orris root (what’s an orris? JP) and sensual woods.”

So, that explains it! I smell like a cupcake…which makes sense. I’m drawn to cupcakes…something about the colourful icing, customised toppings, petite sizing, and those little paper wrappers they nestle in. Case in point: my favourite PJ’s are fuchsia flannelette, coated in chocolate cupcakes and the message: “I’m the cherry on top”. More silly than sexy, but if smelling like a cupcake equates with magnetism…

For the record - I also own and wear other similar smelling, but vastly more sophisticated (read for: over priced), scents.

And, no, I’m not on Britney’s payroll! (Britz: best send those free samples to my PO Box)

“Ooops, I did it again…”

Note: I wanted to write something about Zimbabwe or Rudd’s first hundred days in office but I’m down with the flu and a head full of phlegm means a mind ill-equipped to deal with anything deeper than cupcake-scented whimsy. So, you’ll just have to make allowances.    [read more]

It was billed as a gab-fest and a platform for Prime Ministerial egotism by a nay-saying Opposition, but the main achievement of this weekend’s 2020 summit in Canberra was listening.

In the face of growing political apathy and community expressions of disenfranchisement, Kevin Rudd decided it was time to acknowledge Australians’ right to be heard. And, in a move even the cynics have acknowledged as a deft political act, he gathered 1002 community representatives at Parliament House to harness ideas and crystal ball-gaze.

There were disagreements and disappointments expressed at the end of the two-day future summit but there was also a palpable sense of community-building and
democratic engagement…along with several big ideas.

Among these ideas was the revival of the Australian Republic, with a five year transition from a constitutional monarchy proposed, along with a review of the taxation system and an overhaul of Federalism, with a view to streamlining state-state relations. Improvements to Freedom of Information access in the interests of more open and transparent governance; constitutional recognition of Indigenous rights in the Constitution; automatic voting enrolment at 18; and a plan for a youth volunteer corps which would allow university students to work off their HECS (Higher Education Contribution Scheme) debt through social service, were some of the other propositions.

Some of these are old ideas given new breath – including the proposal to refer to Aboriginal Australians in the preamble of the Constitution, which was controversially proposed by John Howard in the dying days of his government. But there were fresh ideas too – including a bold scientific goal to develop a bionic eye (to mirror the Australian achievement of the cochlear ear) by 2020 as a cure for blindness and the plan to fund cheap loans for the poor – an idea which won corporate backing before the convention concluded with a National Australian Bank delegate putting $30 million dollars on the table when it was proposed by World Vision’s Tim Costello.

There has been some criticism that the delegates were restricted to, and influenced by, a Rudd Government agenda and it’s true there was a preponderance of Labor representatives, but there was bi-partisan political input too – with Malcolm Fraser and Tim Fisher among the delegates. There were also senior representatives of corporate Australia mingling with anonymous community members who’d come to contribute their ideas.

Yes, there was a degree of predictability about the selections – for example, the ABC old guard was represented by the broadcasters Phillip Adams and Geraldine Doogue along with Managing Director, Mark Scott. It was good to see journalist Leigh Sales there, but where were the Triple J delegates? Indeed the absence of a strong youth voice at the convention (a separate youth summit was held the preceding weekend) and the side-lining of youth issues were valid criticisms levelled against organisers. Prominent youth worker, Father Chris Riley lamented the downplaying of what he termed the continuing crisis of child sexual abuse in Australia.

But despite its obvious limitations, the 2020 summit was a vehicle for social inclusion – not only for the delegates, but for the thousands of Australians who tuned into the two-day deliberation which was broadcast live on Sky News and ABC 2 with cameras in every session, capturing debate, consensus and disagreement in an innovative exercise in listening to the national voice.

The importance of listening in public conversation has been highlighted for me an academic context in recent weeks as I've embarked on research (in collaboration with Jacqui Ewart from Griffith University)about the motivations and experiences of talkback radio listeners and callers who are, in effect, saying to broadcasters and the power-brokers they influence: "We listen to you, you should listen to us!". I also attended a seminar at the University of Technology in Sydney last week on the theme of listening in the context of journalism and Multiculturalism. I spoke and listened to a number of other academics, community workers, journalists and translators about notions stemming from the media theorist, Charles Husband's, concept of the "right to be understood". In a stimulating discussion (during which I was conscious of talking far too much!:) we considered the implications for the media of an audience which increasingly demands not only the right of reply, but the right to be listened to and understood. This concept has real resonance politically, too, and I think the electoral desire for social connectedness and agency is what Kevin Rudd is successfully tapping into. The PM is being seen to listen and the 2020 Summit was a vehicle for a two-way national conversation.

For this 2020 observer, it was also inspiring to hear the social-justice underpinnings of the new government’s policy agenda through politicians speaking candidly and often off-the-cuff about their ideals and motivations. Housing and Status of Women Minister Tanya Plibersek’s address to the Community and Social Cohesion stream she co-chaired was a case in point for this observer. She spoke with passion about the need for people to feel connected to one another and her belief that “birth should not be your destiny”, telling the story of a woman from her electorate who gave birth to a girl on the same day the MP had her daughter, in the same ward of the same hospital. She pointed out that the two children went to the same early childhood centre and would attend the same infants school but their life prospects were vastly differentiated because the other girl’s mother was a crack addict. She finished by putting poverty alleviation on the agenda and quoting the South American Bishop, Helder Camara, who said: "When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a Communist."

It’s early days for the Rudd Government and this national conversation has only just begun, with the real test being at the stage of policy development and implementation. And, yes, the 2020 summit may ultimately be recorded as little more than an early example of a savvy political stunt. But the good news is, the Rudd rhetoric isn’t just rhetorical…this government appears to have a genuine interest in purposeful listening. This was a view echoed by one Aboriginal delegate from Western Australia who, when asked about the failings of the gathering, told media at the summit that he was just glad his black voice was finally being heard after 12 years of being ignored by the Howard Government.

Note: The Prime Minister has announced he’ll be opening up the 2020 website to continue the dialogue about the future with the broader community. So don't be shy!    [read more]

If you were in Melbourne in the middle of last month and watching National Nine News, you could have been forgiven for thinking you’d been transported to Middle Earth.

Increasingly shallow, banal and celebrity driven, the commercial network which, for decades, prided itself on its news service, plumbed new depths of irrelevance, when a story about missing bridesmaids gowns ran third in their prime-time Melbourne bulletin.

Slugged "Dressing Down", the story was billed as a "heartbreaking" expose on the destruction of 'bridal bliss'. In truth, it was a pathetic excuse for a news story and a sad indictment on society and the Nine News brand: tearful family members (cast as news sources) re-telling their "traumatic" tale of discovering the bridesmaids' dresses weren't ready in time for an average suburban wedding. Shock! Horror! The “broidsmaids” were “forced” to don tracky-daks and thongs and witness the wedding from the sidelines because they were too embarrassed to join the bride at the alter. I've rarely witnessed such "tragic" television.

This is what happens when news is dumbed down and soft news, driven by lifestyle imperatives, sets the agenda. This diminution in quality, and the elevation of flim flam, undermines the professionalism of journalism. It's the stuff of tabloid TV current affairs infiltrating news agendas. And there are echoes here of the debate over online print content being influenced by "clickworthiness" (an issue for another post).

This story highlights the importance of embedding hard news research, gathering and writing - theory and practice - in tertiary journalism courses as a means of combating the trend towards dumbing down...especially as Australian commercial TV news now struggles at times to achieve an IQ in double digits.

This doesn't mean we teach only bland, traditional story-telling techniques - but that we teach students how to tell original, newsworthy stories in relevant, engaging ways. They need to graduate prepared to combat shallow, entertainment-driven news values and fulfil their democratic role of keeping governments and businesses accountable through the essential task of hard news reporting.

At the University of Canberra, where I lecture in broadcast journalism (radio and TV) at second and third year level, we prioritise the teaching of the concept of hard news – news that reflects serious issues affecting society; that encourages investigation and revelation; that challenges authority.

Some journalism lecturers argue that this approach fails to meet students "where they’re at" and one, at Rhodes University in South Africa, has even gone so far as to suggest hard news be abandoned in their introductory journalism course and replaced with soft/creative forms like personality profiles, news features and colour stories focused exclusively on university life. With a post titled “Let's chuck out hard news!” on the Rhodes Journalism School New Media Lab blog, Rod Anmer has sparked an interesting debate about the issue of introductory journalism education.

His argument is that the course needs an increased focused on theory at the expense of practice: “maybe there is one way to incorporate a bit of history and methodology and sociology and media studies into the Introduction to News course. Simply chuck out hard news! Replace it with personal narrative, profile writing, news features and personal reflections on media texts.”

The Head of the School, Guy Berger, has forcefully disagreed with this approach: “Understanding hard news - and following it (something Rod is terribly silent about) - is the key to students beginning to understand that journalism is not about "I specialist" work, but ways of transcending identity to narrate the wider world to various publics. Informed consumption is surely key to critical production. Way too many students are blinkered about the wider world - unexposed to hard news, indeed even have their prejudices against the intrusions of the wider world being reinforced by us sometimes. Rod seems to want to run with student self-interest - but where to? What price popularity?” Berger advocates a ‘tough love’ approach “You want to be a journalist: there’s a side to the world you need to learn to play in – and you have to know the rules if you want to tweak or twist them. In a word: “Learn to engage with it from early on, or decide rather to go into Public Relations.”

My take goes like this: Much as I agree that alternative/creative journalistic forms (e.g features; biography; autobiograpahy; blogging; opinion; documentary; commentary; activist journalism and so on) should be acknowledged as legitimate journalistic forms, explored, and incorporated into teaching within journalism courses where possible, I really couldn't come at the idea of starting with such forms in a first year introductory journalism unit. I hate to resort to cliche, but it's risky to introduce students to walking before crawling...I think hard news is where we must start - it allows for appropriate introductory education in research/investigation and interview techniques which form the basic infrastructure of journalism.

By all means, get students blogging about the news as part of their critical reflection - perhaps they could even blog about the processes of investigating and reporting their first hard-news assignment. But make the hard-news gathering process the focus of the first-taught skills set. We have enough ill-informed opinion and bad prose masquerading as journalism... What we need most is well-informed journalism graduates who understand how to uncover facts and piece them together in a digestible and engaging way. Writing hard news is hard...hence the need to begin with it, and thread it through the course entire, to ensure strong underpinnings in graduates' practice.

But starting with what interests students does work as a means of engaging them in hard-news pursuit. For example, I get students to collectively discuss what news grabs their attention and teach them how to think deeper about the substantive news/issues connected to the flim flam (in a tutorial that resembled an editorial meeting) before embarking on a news assignment built on the principles of enterprising reporting.

For example, Lindsay Lohan is done for DUI (again!). No, her story isn't newsworthy outside of the tabloids or the entertainment sections but there's meat there to chew on...Is there any evidence that such behaviour is contributing to the phenomenon of teenage binge-drinking? Is there a story around young women's identity or the poison of celebrity? The local high school may be running an anti-binge drinking campaign targeting young women and engaging positive role models to counter the effect of Lindsay, Paris et al, for example. So, Lindsay may be the hook to the harder news story, but she ain't the main game! This process teaches students to think critically about the news, but also to think outside the box in a way that inspires the pursuit of original, enterprising stories which reflect their interests - at the gateway to hard news. In my experience, this is the best way to cultivate that elusive journalistic attribute - news-sense - in students. And hard-news writing is rarely achievable in the absence of a good nose for news.

Of course, hard news can emerge from themes often perceived by old, male news editors as soft, ‘chicks' news’ (e.g. social affairs and arts) but it has to have a hard edge. If a student tells me they want to be a fashion journalist, I say - "maybe you should go to fashion school, but I can teach you how to report the industry. See that Oz designer jacket you're wearing - it was probably made by impoverished Asian workers - bring me a story about the rag trade that makes people think and has the potential to make an impact on policy and practice". Of course, I'd also entertain a story about a local designer making it "big" or lamenting the difficult path to success in a tough business.

My third year TV students filed their first assessable news packages last week, demonstrating their capacity to report hard news in an engaging way and providing evidence that the UC model of embedding hard news theory and practice throughout the three year course is a success.

They were instructed to deliver 1.5 minute "hard" TV news stories. This was the first time in their university careers they'd been asked to converge their hard news research, writing and interviewing training with newly developed TV-package production skills. Several started with weak/soft options but these ideas were, through tutorial editorial meetings, translated into newsworthy stories. Three examples include a yarn about failed Canberra waste strategies, a story on new threats to endangered species posed by kangaroo over-grazing at a defence site, and a report on prescription drug overdoses. All were original stories and two of those have been picked up by other media in the past week.

Their stories are webcast on the University of Canberra student journalism portal: www.nowuc.com.au with their video reports linked via youtube.
You can see the aforementioned stories here, here, and here

The stories aren't perfect: there are flaws in construction; story-telling; scripting and production values of the sort you'd expect for their first engagement with traditional TV news story formats. But, they are, I think, an example of the capacity of students operating under heavy pop-culture influences, in the age of celebrity (note the Heath Ledger references as a hook in the overdose piece), to deliver engaging hard news stories under pressure. There are many similar high quality examples which we'll progressively upload to NOWUC in the coming weeks. And, later in the semester, we'll be producing a series of bulletin vodcasts drawing on assessable pieces like these. You can view more Youtube video stories here.

Further evidence of the success of the UC journalism approach is the response of employers to our students and graduates. Apart from having UC journalism alumni in senior journalism positions internationally, our third year students engage with industry through work experience and internships at the ABC. The ABC takes approximately 10 UC interns each year through an industry-modelled selection process developed collaboratively and commenced in 2004. Interns' work is regularly broadcast during their stints in the ABC’s tri-media (radio, TV and online) Canberra newsroom - it's an exciting opportunity for students and the chance to embed their education in reality. When I visited the ABC a week ago, the Chief of Staff and a senior producer made the following comments of UC interns when I asked for feedback about their performance: "not a dud among them!"; "they can all write"; "keep doing what you're doing – it’s obviously working"; "they have that good old fashioned ability to dig up stories and bring fresh perspectives to this newsroom”. That’s good news to my ears!

NOTE: I'll be joining the Rhodes Journalism team in June/July to work on an exciting convergent journalism production revolving around the South African National Arts Festival. Naturally, I intend to blog about the journey, so stay tuned!    [read more]

Being a woman is gloriously complex. Being a woman requires embracing the contradictory. Being a woman can also be dangerous.

Remember the putrid and widely condemned assertion expressed by Sydney’s Sheik Hilali, in the wake of a gang rape trial, that women who do not dress according to conservative Islamic standards are like uncovered meat which invites wild cats to devour it?

Across the Indian Ocean, in South Africa (SA), there are echoes of the Hilali controversy in the aftermath of the rape of a woman at Johannesburg’s central taxi rank by men who purportedly told by-standers they were teaching her a lesson for wearing a mini-skirt.

25 year old Nwabisa Ngcukana was walking with her friends through the Noord St taxi rank when she was set upon by taxi drivers and hawkers. They reportedly tore at her clothes and digitally raped her while bystanders abused her, some dousing her head with alcohol. “As they stripped me they kept shouting that this is what I wanted. Some were sticking their finger in my vagina while others poured alcohol over my head and called me all sorts of names,” she told the Sowetan. "It was terrifying, I was crying while they were swearing at me," she said.

Nwabisa Ngcukana was eventually rescued by security guards whose duty it is to patrol the notorious rank where three other women were similarly assaulted on the same day and a spate of attacks was reported in in 2002. But they were hardly sympathetic to her plight. “Instead they mocked me and asked what was I thinking parading around in a miniskirt at a taxi rank. They further told me that three other women were stripped naked earlier for wearing a short skirt,” she said.

“When my friends came into my defence saying I had a right to wear whatever I liked they just laughed at me and said this is the kind of attitude that makes taxi drivers do these things."

"They even refused to call the police saying that they did it the last time and police did nothing.” Such a lax attitude to rape is probably as much symptomatic as it is causative. SA has the highest rate of rape in the world according to Interpol – along with the highest rate of AIDS infection. According to some reports, one South African is raped every 26 seconds.

But Nwabisa Ngcukana is an extraordinarily brave woman, determined, even in the face of violation, to assert her claim to human rights under the lauded SA constitution. Freedom of choice to wear what she chooses is a symbolic right she was prepared to fight for. Instead of hiding from her pain, three weeks later, she led a march of hundreds of toyi-toying (traditional African protest dance ) women – many wearing mini-skirts - on the Noord St taxi rank. "I am beautiful and I am strong,” she said as she walked back into the lair of her attackers.



The Mail & Guardian (M&G)reported that the women carried placards which read "Humiliating a woman is a sin before God" and "So gcoka izigcebhe masifuna (We will wear miniskirts when we want)"

Earlier that week another group of marchers led by the Remmoho Women's Forum was confronted by recalcitrant men at the taxi rank who were determined to try to disempower them. During that protest, hundreds of taxi drivers and by-standers burst into the anachronistic ANC call to arms song, Umshini Wami (Bring Me my Machine Gun), which has been re-popularised by the polygamist President-in-waiting, Jacob Zuma, who was acquitted of raping a family friend in 2006. One of the arguments put by the defence during the trial was that the alleged victim had provoked the sexual encounter by wearing a kanga (traditional sarong) during a visit to Zuma's house. The men also vowed to continue stripping women wearing miniskirts, claiming a cultural defence, and flashed their genitals at the marchers.

A spokeswoman for the Forum, Nosipho Twala, told the M & G "They were saying, 'Nathi siyakwazi ukukhumula zifebe ndini (We know how to strip like these whores)' … they assured us that no one will enter the rank wearing mini-skirts and they even threatened to shoot us."

Female journalists attempting to cover the story reported being sexually harassed while using public transport on assignment, highlighting the widespread problem of sexual assault in SA. As Twala pointed out, it’s about power, not fashion “…this is not an isolated incident. Thousands of women travel by taxi daily. Many of us are treated badly and in many cases we are sexually harassed, abused and even raped."

Some attempts were made to defend the behaviour of the taxi-rapists on cultural grounds reminiscent of the Hilali controversy. Women should dress in a dignified manner out of respect for themselves, and to avoid provocation to rape, so went the argument. But this argument was never going to wash in a country where African cultural traditions which celebrate and parade female sexuality continue to be practised: some traditional acts require women to wear a form of mini-skirt and dance bare breasted, for example. "The National House of Traditional Leaders strongly condemns those who hide behind culture or exploit it to push their personal agendas," spokesperson Mandlenkosi Amos Linda told the M & G.

"At no point has culture dictated to young lasses to wear dresses that (go) below their knees and neither has it dictated to men to assault young women who choose to wear miniskirts," Linda said. He did, however, go on to say “it is culturally correct for married women to dress properly in respect of their husbands.” This sexist notion is presumably tied up with concepts of a man’s “ownership” of his wife and, of course, his ego. This attitude clearly needs transforming if married SA women are to be beneficiaries of the same legislative protection the Traditional Leaders claimed in defence of younger women’s right to wear a mini-skirt.

And this culturally entrenched sexism is far from exclusively African. Apart from the Hilali episode, the recent up-skirting of Maxine McKew comes to mind in the Australian setting. Apologists for the Canberra Times’ blatantly sexist coverage of McKew’s victory over John Howard were quick to resurrect the “she asked for it" defence. According to this reading, if McKew didn’t want to have a photograph taken from such an invasive angle, she should have worn pants. Such comments, along with incredibly vitriolic personal attacks launched against me by posters on this blog and Crikey!, highlighted just how far gender transformation still has to go to in Australia before equality between the sexes can be celebrated.

An excellent blog post on the South African Thought Leader site written by Mandela Rhodes Scholar, Rumbi Goredema, about the Johannesburg taxi-rank rape elicited some similar responses. This is, in part, what Rumbi wrote:

At the root of the Noord Street march is this simple fact: women are tired of feeling that in order to gain acceptance (or, at the very least, respite from all the sexual innuendo), we have to regulate our bodies. We are afraid that in these bodies, which we want to be able to celebrate, we will never be seen as people…That humanity ought to extend to include our bodies. Our bodies are a part of us, and when you recognise us in your workplace, in your classroom, in your taxi as people, we demand (that’s right, I said it) that you recognise our bodies as part of our status as full human beings, and act accordingly.

Some days, I walk down my street to catch the shuttle to campus, or from the shuttle stop back home. Every time I do so, this seemingly mundane task is one that causes me great anxiety and righteous rage. I cannot walk down my street without some guy saying something. What should be a leisurely 10- to 15-minute walk from A to B has become an obstacle course in which it is my task to dodge solicitations and ignore cat calls and requests (if that, usually it’s demands) for my number from men I don’t even know, men old enough to be my father, men I have grown to hate.

Because I am female, I am, it seems fair game. Anyone who’s anyone can have a go, can yell obscenities at me and can remind me every day that no matter how smart I am, no matter what I achieve, I have breasts, and that makes me a piece of meat.

I wrote in reply:

The subjugation of women and acquisition of our bodies by men is indeed an international problem. I’m sitting at my desk in Australia – where the rape stats are no where near as alarming as those confronting SA – but I am also worried about walking to my car in a distant University car park now that it’s dark. …

(Your story) reminds me of the sexist premise that underpins the demand that women cover up. I was told by a church minister when I was 14 that I should dress more demurely because “men don’t have as much self control as women and women need to protect them from their sinfulness”. What a cop out! I responded: “Well if women are more responsible and powerful why is it that you only allow men to be in charge of congregations?” Suffice it to say he was stumped and I became a journalist.

There were encouraging posts in response to Rumbi's blog from men who reminded me why I continue to find their species attractive, despite the repellent activities of so many of them. Pheko wrote: “Women have a right to wear what they feel like without fear of harassment by men with low egos who feel better only after humiliating some powerless young woman”. And, Brent observed, “In the 50’s thousands of amazing wonderful women marched (unmolested) for the freedom of everyone and now one lady can’t even walk to a taxi rank, please political leaders tell us why not.”

But then came the posts from the ignorant, sexists flying the “she asked for it” flag. Lazola wrote “Wear whatever you like but you must not steal a limelight from the prostitutes because they might be angry at you thinking that you want to close their business down.” Someone calling himself "His Service" (whose service, I wonder? Delusions of Godly representation, perhaps?) “If you don’t want to be perceived as a slut you mustn’t be (sic) dress like one”

Being the baitable woman, I am, I replied:

To both of you: how would you judge someone who stole a tasty treat from the mouth of a child? Would it be the fault of the treat that you were tempted to act unethically and treacherously? Or, would it be a product of your basic indecency that you were unable to suppress desire unmatched by consent or invitation? And, what do you make of people being shot for their mobile phones or designer sneakers? The fault of the tempting accoutrements, perhaps?

“His Service” took issue with my reply and posted this comment addressed to me: “Your fantasy of walking the streets dressed almost with nothing without attention from the opposite sex is greatly unreal. Either you like it or you don’t what (sic) you wear will determine the number of dates you might get.” Ridiculous, illogical, sexist and without foundation – yes. But “His Service” did get me thinking about the perceived dichotomy of female sexual identity, and the apparent confusion still experienced by some men as they attempt to navigate modern male-female interactions.

On the one hand, women demand power over their own bodies – to determine with whom they have sex and on what terms. And bound up in this, is the freedom to choose how to dress – choice which spans the right to cover one's head with a hijab, in the context of secular laws that attempt to dictate women’s clothing, through to the right to wear clothing as scant as public decency laws allow.

But on the other hand, we acknowledge that our physical attractiveness to heterosexual men is also bound up with power. The femme fatale stereotype has its application. Yes, we want to be desired and the way we dress may reflect that yearning. We know a cinched waist, or a hint of cleavage, or the display of well toned legs is becoming…and we know it’s likely to attract the attention of interested men.

But here’s the catch, boys (lest there be any confusion about our intentions): we reserve the right to entertain or reject your advances. It is within our power to do so, and it is within your power to cop rejection without resort to assault and rape.

And, the bottom line is: women are more than meat. We are the sum total of body, soul, mind, heart, wit and many other characteristics that we want valued equally and collectively. We embrace the distinctions between the sexes, but we demand freedom of choice and freedom from fear in our interactions with men.

Cheris Kramerae, author of A Feminist Dictionary (1996), said “Feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings”. And we deserve and demand our human rights – it’s well past time they were recognised…all over the world.

Note: Despite multiple apologies from taxi organisations and promises to hand-deliver the assailants, along with commitments to action from government officials and police, no arrests have been made in connection with the Johannesburg taxi-rank rape.

Aside: Concurrently, as we women try to embrace our sexuality and gender specificity amidst Feminism’s Third Wave, we are accused by some members of the Sisterhood of betrayal. Last week my Facebook status read: “Julie is a feminist and she bakes. She’s also quite comfortable wearing her (ample) cleavage as an accessory: deal with it people!” Some older feminists’ suspicion of displayed female sexuality is, in effect, a form of pandering to chauvinism and it also offends me.    [read more]

Friday was the projected birth date of the baby boy I lost last year. It was a difficult day at the end of a difficult week.

My life’s been characterised by a period of emotional intensity, change and revival since I miscarried my baby last August - it was my third consecutive miscarriage. The love and care of family, friends and virtual strangers helped me survive the aftermath and the callous indifference of others.

I gave my baby a name when I lost him after carrying him in my womb for three months. He was part of me. To me, his mother, he already had an identity and I had ascribed characteristics to him...along with hopes and dreams for his future. Giving him a name has allowed him to live in my memory.

This approach to grieving for a baby lost in-utero is difficult for some to fathom. My own partner wasn’t comfortable with the idea of naming our baby - something I did quietly in my own heart. But for me, naming the pain, the grief, and the baby, aid the healing necessary for recovery from miscarriage - and, in particular, multiple miscarriages - both at a personal level and a societal one. That said, grief – particularly grief expressed for the unborn – is a very personal experience and every person responds differently to it. There’s no manual...no ten-step plan. And, in our culture, not a lot of ritual.

So, how have I coped with the sadness and sense of loss since I last wrote about my miscarriage in October? With a lot of distraction, denial and by focussing on my other identities: friend; sister; lover; partner; scholar; journalist; teacher. I’ve looked to the future; made plans; travelled – physically, mentally and emotionally. But, I haven’t been brave enough to re-visit the miscarriage medically. I underwent a barrage of tests in October and I’ve been referred to a specialist in fertility and recurrent miscarriage with a view to planning another pregnancy. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to make the appointment with her.

Yes, I’ve been busy with work...and busy focussing on me. Not in a selfish way – in a nurturing way. But the real cause of the delay has been fear...and unpreparedness. I think I needed time...for grief and to allow him to live in my memory and heart – at least long enough to have been born.

Now that his ‘birth-day’ has passed, I feel I can move on...maternally speaking. I consciously decided to give myself 12 months to recover from the miscarriage before trying to have another baby. Before the year’s up, I have 120 journalism students to get through the semester, PhD and other research to progress, and a teaching placement in South Africa to look forward to. Life is rich...I’m a multi-dimensional woman and the future is unknown. But, I’m excited by the unknown. Such possibilities; such opportunities; such hope...

Go with the angels, baby boy, and I’ll continue to walk where angels fear to tread.    [read more]