Shafiq Morton

Media restrictions spurn democracy

Media bills threatening to restrict press freedom will only stifle the grassroots where media diversity, much needed in South Africa, will have to take root.

I THINK it was Aristotle who said that republics become democracies, and that democracies can become dictatorships. As a South African I’d hate to be so pessimistic. Our nation has suffered too long and worked too hard for us to be left holding a banana as our national symbol.

But I must admit that recent events have shaken my confidence. Our government’s threats to institute a state-controlled Media Tribunal and the ambiguous, but sinister Protection of Information Act, remind me too much of the apartheid era.

These are the cloaks behind which the likes of PW Botha used to hide his professional killers, sanctions busters and illegal arms dealers. These were the veils that the Nationalists used to dance behind whilst the country burned and activists were tortured and detained without trial.

I know that the ANC gets offended when these allusions are made – but what guarantees do we really have? Is the government in a position to do better at “regulating” the media than anyone else?  I doubt it.

The bizarre arrest by the Hawks of Sunday Times journalist, Mzilikazi Wa Afrika, for possessing a set of allegedly “forged” documents, is a case in point. The last time I saw six vehicles and a squad of policemen surrounding a journalist was in 1985 under the State of Emergency.

Wa Afrika’s stage-managed arrest, a blatant act of intimidation if there ever was one, was just enough to rekindle a smidgen of the fear and paranoia that used to reign in those very ugly days.

I’m a working journalist. I’m what you call a hack, or a media journeyman. My experience at grassroots in the newsroom is that most South African MP’s, most public officials and even some of our Cabinet Ministers, have little idea of the media.  The soap-opera of woes we’ve seen at the SABC is an eloquent enough example of their media skills.

The truth is that the Media Tribunal and the Protection of Information Act boil down to manufactured fear, which is a convenient tool to execute a political agenda of silencing uncomfortable criticism. That – whether government likes it or not – is exactly what the Tribunal and the Act imply, despite the sweet non-seqetuir of government spin doctors.

The point is that restrictions on the South African media will affect everybody, not just those of us in the newsrooms. And having been fortunate enough to have covered stories in the Middle East, the Far East, Europe, Africa and the US, I can vouch that freedom of speech and press freedom are absolute integrals to any successful democracy.

In every country I’ve been to, the media has been a mirror of that society. And wherever the press has bent to government, there’s been a strangulation of freedom of speech – and a despot in power who physically threatens or imprisons his journalists.  

Much of the political schizophrenia, religious extremism and conspiracy theory that exists in the 21^st century emanates from communities festering with frustration at a lack of basic freedoms. Freedom of expression is an outlet, like the valve on a pressure cooker. Block it and the lid blows.

It’s freedom, and not necessarily the vote, that sustains the spirit of the ordinary citizen. Freedom of expression gives voice and hope. It’s the freedom to create, to protest, to expose injustice and to cry out in pain that keeps a society ticking – not media bills. Media bills don’t solve problems, they merely hide them away.

That is why a free press is so vital to the make-up of South Africa, a country of diversity and difference, but facing daunting challenges. A free press, unrestricted by government ordinance or censorship on critical issues in such testing times, is a non-negotiable.

A free press holds not only government, but also the private sector and errant citizens in check. A free press, whilst not being a praise singing exercise, also extols the virtues of a society. It contributes towards nation-building by not being fawning, but by being constructively and fearlessly critical.

Of course I would be arrogant, if not naïve, if I said that the media was a perfect institution. We do make mistakes, and we do have our own challenges – such as shrinking budgets, rogue reporters and overwhelming information overload. But if we make a mistake, it is equally our responsibility to set matters straight, as it is to expose the truth.

A growing phenomenon today is that younger journalists see the media merely as a job. The Iraqi journalist, Zuhair al-Jezairy, complains that reporters no longer come into the newsroom through the door of literature and culture.

Their basic material, he says, is the simple story devoid of political understanding or historical background. Technical skills such as how to build a sentence, or structure a story or feature are also lacking. Talk to any news editor in South Africa today, and I bet they will have the same observation.

The other problem – and here I agree with the ANC – is that our country does need more media diversity. Space does not allow us to outline how it could be more widely defined, but suffice it to say that it’s not a question of current monopolies. It’s more a case of creating more opportunities, and using the space that is already available.

Media bills restricting press freedom will only stifle the grassroots where media diversity will have to take root. If our life becomes governed by ambiguous and all-embracing media restrictions, those precious roots will simply die.

Therefore, the Media Tribunal and Protection of Information Act must be consigned to the dirt-bin. There is too much at stake. We starve ourselves of freedom of expression at our own peril.

I’VE just finished reading a book by the BBC journalist, Jeremy Bowen. Entitled “War Stories”, it deals with his career in hotspots such as Sarajevo, Salvador, Grozny, Lebanon and Iraq.

Bowen has enjoyed an exciting career, and his book details his experiences as one of the BBC’s front-men. Like his “Beeb”colleagues John Simpson and Rageh Omar, who’ve also penned their biographies, he doesn’t romanticise the life and times of a newsman.

I found Bowen disarmingly honest in his writing, and when I put the book down, I realised that it had brought back a lot of memories. I haven’t covered the bang-bang that he has, but I’ve dealt with just enough in my career to emphathise with his fatal attraction to news.

The most profound moment is when Bowen witnesses his Lebanese driver burn to death after an Israeli tank shells their car. Bowen and his cameramen were monitoring the Israeli withdrawal from southern Lebanon, and on that particular day, had not been interested in seeking danger.

Their driver had stayed in the car to make a call while Bowen did a stand up to camera. Their actions were innocent enough, but the Israelis on a neighbouring hill had thought otherwise, and had taken a pot-shot at their Mercedes.

Troops had prevented them from retrieving the body for hours, even shooting at an ambulance. It brought home to Bowen how mortal we all are, and that chasing the adrenalin of the combat story is a real life addiction that can exact the ultimate price.

He’d seen so many people die, but it only struck home when it was somebody close to him. He felt responsible for his driver’s death. The event changed Bowen’s perspective, and after learning that his wife was pregnant, scaled down his war-chasing.

As he relates, it was an agonising process. Cutting edge journalism is addictive and the withdrawal symptoms can linger for years.

Bowen’s narrative reminded me that I’d had a similar kind of career epiphany. It was when I was laying face-down in a muddy Cape Flats field just over 10 years ago. Bullets were whizzing over my head from three different directions as gangsters, vigilantes and police exchanged fire.

I remember saying to myself in the midst of this madness: Shafiq, this is bullshit, you don’t need this anymore. I was older, slower, and in such situations you have to be in the right place – which I wasn’t. I wanted to see my children grow up.

Of course, that experience still didn’t stop me from going to Lebanon in 2006 with an aid organisation. And in spite of one’s nervousness – and the realisation that you could come home zipped-up in a body bag – the chase for the story is as alluring as ever.

Bowen also brought home to me that it doesn’t matter how much suffering you see, but when it affects people close to you, it’s different. I’ve been a voyeur of more misery and human suffering than I’d care to remember, but when my father died two years ago, I felt it like anybody else.

Psychologically, covering conflict, corruption and world affairs does take its toll. Those around you often don’t understand. Whilst I’m no longer much in the field, I still deal with international affairs – my work diet is Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine, Africa and Asia. I have the world’s problems in my face every day.

Bowen admits that after nearly twenty years he didn’t suffer from too much post-traumatic stress disorder. He could go to a bar after a hard day and get drunk.

I can remember that during the apartheid years, the bottle was the psychologist. The bar was where a lot of networking was done, but as non-drinking Muslims we never suffered too much difficulty. In those days we worked together. Going solo during the State of Emergency wasn’t a good idea. And whilst Jack Daniels and Charles Glass comforted many hacks, I de-stressed by going surfing.

I also think people have forgotten that the South African apartheid story was often as brutal, deadly and dangerous as any other.

I can remember when the “Witdoeke”, migrant vigilantes working hand-in-glove with police, turned on the young ANC comrades in Cape Town’s Crossroads squatter camp. Some sixty people, including ITN cameraman George De’Ath, were killed.

One morning we were taking pics of a section of the camp that had been burnt down during the night. Major Dolf Odendaal and Warrant Officer “Rambo” Barnard of the riot squad were already on the scene. Their smugness told us that something wasn’t quite right.

When we went on a walkabout, I could have sworn I heard them sniggering behind their Casspir. As I headed into an alley I bumped into a group of “Witdoeke”, their pangas already drawn. I took one frame and then ran for my life.

Another time I ran was in Botswana when an elephant mock charged me. Someone filmed it, and my elephant escapade became a party piece.

One of the curious things about journalism is that you always remember the little incidences. Forget about the broken bodies, smashed buildings or charred ruins. It’s a small detail that sets off the association; or an unexpected moment that catches you off guard.

I remember in Beirut in 2006 we’d gone to the hospital to check on war casualties. Hospitals are always the most accurate barometers of disaster, and doctors and patients are usually keen to tell their stories. It had proved to be no exception.

Nurses had taken me to a 16 year old girl who’d lost her family when their family home in the south had been flattened by a “smart” bomb. Her body was covered in burns, and she was groaning in pain. The doctors hadn’t yet broken the news to her that she was the only survivor.

That was heart-rending. But what really got my attention that sultry afternoon was a sixty-five year old woman in another ward, who’d insisted on telling me her story.

She’d lost her husband in the rubble of her home. But when the translations had been done, all that the bereaved widow wanted to ask me was why the Israelis had bombed her cow.

I think it’s the really human stories behind the headlines like these that make news the intoxicating drug that it is. To be allowed to stare humanity in the face may be daunting, but it’s a rare privilege.

I SHOOK my head in amazement at Isma’il’s antics. Street savvy and outgoing with a rough-edged charm, Israelis seemed to instinctively like him. Israel is a brash country anyway, and my extrovert Memen friend never seemed to offend the Israelis – even when bargaining for an Orthodox Jew’s hat at the western wall.

But as I wended my way back to the Hashimi hotel via the Jewish Quarter and the Suq Khan el-Zeit, I kept on thinking about a quote by Maimonides1. He’d penned in 1180:

‘There was a stone in the Holy of Holies, at its western wall, upon which the ark rested. In front of it stood the jar of manna and the staff of Aaron. When Solomon built the Temple, knowing that it was destined to be destroyed, he built underneath, in deep and winding tunnels, a place in which to hide the Ark…’

This clearly explained the motivation behind the archaeology of the Zionists; an archaeology that has resulted in such frenetic digging since 1967. For the Temple Mount fanatics, who exist on the fringes of Israeli politics, a discovery of the Ark of the Covenant in Jerusalem would mean a major political windfall.

But life is never so simple. The notion of political advantage is more the idea than the reality. The hard fact of Israeli partisan politics is its stronger desire not to upset the status-quo, an uneasy balance of power between religious and secular forces – inside and outside of Israel.

In any case, the Knights Templars who explored under the Sanctuary in the 12^th century found little to change history. And neither after four decades have the Israeli archaeologists and Rabbis come up with any convincing evidence to suggest that the Ark of the Covenant is still hidden underneath the Temple Mount.

What makes a Jewish search for the Ark so curious is the view of its Orthodoxy that the Ark of the Covenant will only re-appear after the coming of the Messiah. Until 1967 those hunting for the Ark had chiefly been Evangelical Christians. Jews looking for the Ark is a modern accretion, spurred on by right-wing Zionism.

It has to be noted that few of the Rabbis, journalists, Noahides, Evangelicals and adventurers have taken Muslim traditions – which are an integral part of Ark lore – into serious consideration. Rabbi Yehuda Getz, Ron Wyatt, Graham Hancock, Bob Cornuke, Tudor Parfitt and Vendyl Jones have all chased the Ark rainbow in places such as the Dome of the Rock, Ethiopia, Zimbabwe and Qumran.

Their neglect – and sometimes disdain – of Islamic sources is indeed a pity, for they do enrich the quest. The Ark of the Covenant (the ‘Tabut fiha sakinah’ in Arabic) is clearly mentioned in the Qur’an2, and Muhammadan traditions strongly suggest that the Ark is not hidden in Jerusalem.

Furthermore, Islamic discourse on the Ark reveals an intriguing similarity to the Hebrew one. The Arabic word ‘sakinah’, identical in consonantal structure to the Hebrew ‘shekineh’ (the ‘Divine Presence’) is used.

It was the Shekineh ‘emanating’ from the Ark – a heavenly treasure chest used as a symbol of prophetic authority – that protected the Israelites. And curiously, the Qur’an refers on several occasions to the protective ‘sakinah’, a divine tranquility and peace, protecting the Muslims too3.

Sufis say that there is more to this than meets the eye. These gnostics describe the Ark of the Covenant as a vessel, like the human heart, which contains the ‘Essence’ of the Divine. The Ark might have been a gold-plated box, but the secret has always been in what powers the box has contained.

So what was in the Ark of the Covenant?

There are slight differences in tradition, but most agree that the Ark of the Covenant contained the Tablets of Moses, his staff, a pair of sandals, a robe, a jar of manna and a turban.

More esoteric account adds further items. It traces the history of the Ark back to Adam, who brought some of its contents with him from Paradise. These are: the Hajr ul-Aswad (the Black Stone in Mecca), a staff (now in the Topkapi Museum) and Solomon’s ring.

This narrative – even if it’s regarded as mythical – does suggest a prophetic chain which is symbolic of a unifying and universal message. For in this account Adam’s heavenly relics are passed from prophet to prophet, landing up in the possession of Abraham via the descendants of Noah.

It’s when Abraham rebuilds Adam’s Ka’bah in Mecca that he’s told to insert the Hajr ul-Aswad, the stone from Paradise, into its eastern corner. His eldest son Ishmael inherits the rest of the heavenly relics.

Moses, whom we will discuss soon, escapes the Pharaoh after accidentally killing an Egyptian. Moses seeks refuge in Midian where he meets the prophet Jethro, a descendent of Ishmael. It is from Jethro that Moses receives his spiritual schooling, and his prophetic staff.

According to Biblical accounts Moses is the prophet instructed to build a vessel to carry the relics, which would include the divine tablets revealed on Mount Sinai.

Records tell us that the Ark was made of shittin, or acacia wood, and was a chest of about 1, 5 metres in length. Built by the Israelite craftsman, Belazel, Biblical accounts indicate that the Ark was Egyptian in design4. It was plated in gold with two winged cherubim attached to its lid, and veiled in a blue cloth when transported5. It was housed in a special tent, the Mishkan, which was a portable tabernacle.

The Mishkan consisted of a sacrificial altar, a golden Menorah6, the Qalal (a copper urn containing the purifying ashes of the red heifer sacrificed by Moses)7, jars of anointing oil and incense. After the completion of Solomon’s temple by Hiram Abiff and the jinn, the Ark would have been permanently housed in the Holy of Holies.

However, Solomon knew that his temple would not last forever. And in 587 BCE this was proved true when the Babylonian monarch, Nebuchadnezzar, invaded Jerusalem. He sacked the temple and sent the Jews into exile. Since Babylonian times the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant has been a mystery.

When the Romans captured Jerusalem during the era of the Second Temple in 63 BCE, a curious General Pompey demanded to enter the Holy of Holies. His response to the priests was one of bewilderment. The room was empty, so why the fuss? The historian Josephus (37-100 CE) also records that in his time the Holy of Holies was empty, saying that it was ‘unapproachable, inviolable and invisible to all’.

Biblical authority concludes that the Ark disappeared shortly before 587 BCE at the hands of the prophet Jeremiah who, if the apocryphal book of Maccabees is to be believed, hid the Ark in a cave on Mount Nebo8. But there is also a general reference to the relics of the Temple being captured by the Egyptians9.

According to the Institute for Scientific and Biblical Studies, the 22nd Egyptian Dynasty under Shishak (or Sheshong I) invaded Jerusalem in the fifth year of King Rehoboam with 60, 000 horseman and 1,200 chariots and carried off all the treasures of the Temple10.

The fact that the Ark is not specifically mentioned doesn’t make the statement equivocal and leaves just enough room for speculation. It does lead to the question, though, whether tabernacle artifacts could have ended up in Egyptian temples as trophies of war. What lies in the vaults of Cairo museum? In collector’s cabinets?

The proclivity for ancient Diasporic Jewish communities to build Ark replicas (the Ark is an icon of Ethiopian Christianity11) has contributed to creating Ark legends throughout the Diaspora from Africa to India. Journalist Graham Hancock‘s claim that the Tablets of Moses are housed in Aksum is a case in point.

So too, is the saga of Tudor Parfitt, an academic Indiana Jones and former professor of Jewish Studies at London’s School of Oriental and African Studies. He discovered the remains of an Ark replica in Zimbabwe’s national museum. A radio-carbon dating of the Zimbabwean Ark, the ‘Ngoma’, revealed that it was probably constructed in 1350 CE12.

The story of the people who carried this Ark is as interesting as the search itself. In 1990 a young Venda man had come to my office claiming that his tribe, the Ba Lemba, had originally been Muslim. I was initially suspicious, but Saeed Sheikh seemed sincere, and settled down to relate a fascinating tale.

His people, he said, had always claimed that they were Jewish of origin. But having embraced Islam, Sheikh felt that the Ba Lemba had been Muslims who’d migrated from Yemen in the early centuries of Islam.

Sheikh showed me a list of Ba Lemba terms that enjoyed a remarkable resonance with Semitic root words. Even the prefix ‘Ba’ was foreign to local African language. ‘Ba’ means ‘tribe’ in Arabic, and is derived from the ancient word ‘Bani’, a prefix also used for the Bani Isra’il, the people of Moses.

He went on to say that his people had migrated to Africa from southern Yemen across the Red Sea. They’d traveled to Zimbabwe where they’d built a city. Facing hostile Nguni forces, the Ba Lemba had then been forced to flee into modern-day Malawi, Zimbabwe and South Africa.

Sheikh outlined many of the Ba Lemba customs: burial shrouding, the monitoring of the moon, the slaughtering of animals with a special knife, the observance of sacrifices, the abolition of pork and circumcision.

If these traditions weren’t Islamic, they were certainly ‘Abrahamic’. The Nguni, the forefathers of southern Africa’s tribes who migrated from central Africa, did not share most of these customs. I filed the story for Muslim Views, a local publication, and forgot about it13.

Some 18 years later I encountered Tudor Parfitt’s book about his search for the Ark. At the same time, I was exploring southern Africa’s unwritten history and the influence of the Phoenicians, who’d sailed up the Zambesi River well before the Christian and Islamic eras.

Nguni oral history mentions the ‘Arabi’, who were detested as colonisers and slave traders. Nguni traditions talk about ancient Zimbabwe as being a cursed city – possibly because it was a slave-trading capital. They also mention a siege that drove out its inhabitants. Could the Lemba have been part of the Arabi? I wish I had the answer.

But my Ba Lemba story hadn’t quite finished yet. A genetic study in 2000 revealed that 85% of male Lembas possessed the Y-chromosome marker of the Cohanim, or priestly Levites – the direct descendants of Aaron14.

Nonetheless, that still didn’t locate the original Ark. I followed a trail to the Negus of Abyssinia, a kindly Christian monarch who in 615 CE had sheltered about 80 Muslims from Mecca. A legend stating that Menelik, the son of Sheba and Solomon, had carried the Ark to Ethiopia from his father’s court is just that – a legend.

The one theory that the Ark – or its contents – came into the hands of Prophet Muhammad via the Negus is tempting, but unproved. It’s certainly not corroborated by any credible traditions. Then there is the stronger argument that the Queen of Sheba’s people, the Sabeans, hailed from Yemen. However, it doesn’t diminish Ethiopia’s links to the wandering Jewish tribes in any way, as they must have passed through centres like Aksum on their way to central Africa.

Islamic tradition is the most explicit on the whereabouts of the Ark, although there’s no spot X. This is because it’s believed that the Ark, after being hidden in Jerusalem, was taken further north to Tiberias or Antioch, or to a place between them.

Harun Yahya, the well-known Turkish scholar, quotes a Muhammadan tradition that states the ‘Mahdi’ will unearth the Ark of the Covenant ‘near Lake Tiberias’. The mention of the Mahdi, says Yahya, brings forth the eschatology of the end times. This is when all peoples on earth will be shown the truth of their books15.

Imam Suyuti quotes another Prophetic tradition: ‘The reason he (the Mahdi) will be known as the Mahdi is that he will show the way to a hidden thing. He will bring the Ark to light from a place called Antakya (Antioch)’16.

Islamic commentators are unanimous that ‘near Tiberias’ and ‘Antioch’ are figures of speech meant to denote a distance from Jerusalem. So, as hopeful Ark hunters crowd the room, it’s best to say that the last chapter of the Ark of the Covenant still has to be written – its destiny lies clearly not yet in a full-stop, but rather, in an expectant colon.

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1 F.E. Peters, Jerusalem, p. 227, Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1985.

2 Qur’an 2: 248

3 Qur’an 9: 26, 40; 48: 26.

4 A box discovered amongst Tutankhamen’s treasures by Howard Carter in 1922 has proved to be an interesting design replica.

5 Blue in Semitic tradition is said to represent the colour of Heaven.

6 The menorah, a candelabrum of seven branches, is the ancient Israelite symbol. The origin of the word is said to derive from the salvia, or wild sage plant. However, its symbolism derives from the Tree of Life and the Seven Days of Creation according to Genesis. Exodus 37: 17-24 gives a full explanation of how Moses was instructed to build the Menorah. Today it is remembered on Hanukah, the festival day (25 Kislev) that commemorates the victory of the Macabees over the Greeks in the 2^nd century BCE. The Greeks had stolen the Temple artifacts. To restore the purity of the temple, ritual oil had to be burned in its lamps. There was only enough oil for one day, but miraculously, it burnt for eight days, allowing the Temple to be re-dedicated and purified. Exact replicas of the original Menorah are not permitted, and on Hanukah candles are burnt in a nine-branched Hanukiyah (eight candles for each day of Hanukah and one to light the others). After 70 CE and the final destruction of the Temple, the Menorah was taken to Rome and paraded in the streets. There are some who believe that it is locked up in a Vatican vault to this day. See also: www.chanuka.com/history.shtml

7 The ashes from the red heifer were from a completely red animal, a genetic rarity. The heifer was sacrificed under the supervision of Moses as part of a ritual purification ceremony. The Third Temple movements say that this ceremony will have to precede the building of the ‘Third Temple’. Efforts to breed red heifers in Israel today have all failed. The red heifer is mentioned in Numbers 19.

8 Maccabees 2: 1-8

9 See: www.bibleandscience.com/archaeology/ark.htm.

10 1 Kings 14: 25-26, 2 Chronicles 12: 2-9. Sheshong 1 ruled from 945-924 BCE.

11 Ayele Bekerie, Hymns to an Ethiopian Religious Tradition, Tadias Magazine, December 21, 2009.

12 Tudor Parfitt, The lost Ark of the Covenant, p. 370, Harper-Element, London, 2008.

13 I have not been able to locate the original article, but probably Muslim Views, April 1990.

14 The American Journal of Human Genetics, Y-Chromosomes Traveling South: The Cohen Modal Halotype and the Origins of the Lemba, Mark G. Thomas, James F. Wilson, Tudor Parfitt et al. published online 11 February, 2000.

15 See: harunyahya.com/articles/32ark_of_covnenant.html

16 Another tradition states that the Mahdi “will have the staff of Moses and the ring of Solomon…Allah will keep him (the Mahdi) hidden from sight until He wills. Then he will appear and fill the earth with justice, in the same way it was formerly filled with oppression.” Bihar al-Anwar, Vol. 52, p. 32; Ithbat Al-Hudat, Vol. 6, p. 19. Harun Yahya cites these sources. Yet another tradition from Imam Suyuti says: “He is called the Mahdi because he is the key to something nobody knows. He will bring the Ark of the Covenant forth from the cave of Antakya.” Al-Hawi, lil Futuwwa, 2. 83.

IT comes as a surprise to discover that Ebrahim Rasool, former Western Cape Premier and next ambassador to Washington, is only 48 years old. It seems as if he’s survived a hundred years in politics.

A Young Turk from the UDF, a key member of the Call of Islam, one of the conveners of the National Muslim Conference in 1990 and the first Muslim provincial premier, Ebrahim Rasool’s CV bulges with achievement.

Something of an idealist who has managed to weather the cold fronts of political life, his ‘Home for All’ programme whilst premier, and his subsequent founding of the ‘World for All Foundation’, are cogent examples of a man with vision.

After the bitter acrimony of the ANC’s well-publicised infighting in the Western Cape, and his unceremonious axing as premier in mid 2008 due to the bruising conflict, most people in his position would have retreated to the political shadows.

Instead, Rasool has been re-invented as a Presidential advisor, a parliamentary back-bencher, and now, as ambassador to the United States. It’s obvious that his political nous is a talent too precious for the ANC to ignore.

But as Rasool was attending diplomatic school in Pretoria this month, a lingering old chestnut emerged as a full public confession: that two Independent Group journalists had been secretly paid to write stories to enhance his leadership in the strife-torn Western Cape ANC.

The charges came when former Cape Argus political reporter, Ashley Smith, admitted to penning Rasool-friendly reports for payment via a media company, Inkwenkezi Communications.

This was done in a sworn affidavit prepared by a Cape Argus lawyer, and presented to the National Prosecuting Authority. Apart from claiming he wanted to clear his conscience, the Cape Argus reported that Smith was seeking indemnity for possible charges of corruption.

The affidavit has since been returned by the NPA. Smith’s indictment – that political editor Joseph Aranes and he had abused their positions as full time staffers at the Cape Argus to assist Rasool’s office – has proved to be something of a Pyrrhic victory for Rasool’s rivals, who as far back as 2005 claimed that reporters were being paid to vilify them.

In his affidavit Smith admits to being involved in setting up Inkwenkezi Communications together with his former wife, Joy van der Heyde, Aranes and Cape Town businessman, and alleged former MK operative, Zain Orrie.

Whilst saying he did not receive any payments from Rasool, he does admit to receiving money – cash disbursements of between R5, 000 to R 10, 000 that were paid out on three or four occasions to Aranes and him by Zain Orrie at the River Club in Observatory.

The Cape Argus quotes Smith as alleging that the understanding between the Inkwenkezi group and Rasool was that they would assist him with ‘media advice’ in return for business from provincial government.

Inkwenkezi traded from February 2005 until Smith and Aranes were suspended by the Cape Argus in November when allegations of ethical impropriety surfaced against them. No evidence of payment was found, but the discovery that Smith’s wife was a director of Inkwenkezi was seen as a conflict of interest.

Smith resigned before charges could be laid against him, and Aranes – who has flatly denied involvement – was disciplined and demoted from his position as political editor for not divulging Smith’s conflict of interest.

Aranes, whom Smith alleges had shares in Hip-Hop, another media company with provincial contracts, has since resigned from the Cape Argus.

Also in his affidavit Smith alleges Inkwenkezi had late-night meetings with Rasool and sometimes MEC’s Marius Fransman and Leonard Ramatlakane, and that most of his work for Inkwenkezi in this regard was in relation to strategy against Rasool’s chief rival, Mcebisi Skwatsha.

Smith confirms that Inkwenkezi stopped trading shortly after their disciplinary hearings, and when a provincial official tried to pay Inkwenkezi R100, 000 through Oryx Media, a rival company run by former Cape Times journalists, Bennie Gool and Roger Friedman. Oryx questioned the payment.

And when the invoice (issued byZain Orrie) and its contents did come to light, payment was immediately stopped by Rasool’s office on the urging of the premier.

In response, Rasool wrote in an e-mail to the Cape Argus that Smith’s allegations were related to issues that had already been dealt with. They had already been publicly aired, investigated and dispensed with by a variety of bodies.

“In the various investigations, Mr. Smith has pronounced on these matters, at least once under oath. What is consistent about his pronouncements at that time is that he strenuously denied everything he now alleges.

“I have consistently denied these allegations (of paying journalists) and continue to do so. I do not want to enter a battlefield that I have happily exited, nor do I want to be party to anything that is designed to damage the ANC in the Western Cape further,” Rasool told the Cape Argus.

The DA called for President Jacob Zuma to hold back on Rasool’s posting to Washington until the matter could be cleared. However, National ANC spokesperson, Jackson Mthembu, said that the ANC’s decision-making structures were not influenced by media reports.

Other commentators suggested that the timing of Smith’s admission to the Cape Argus, prompted by a reported ‘confession’ to the ANC earlier in June, was ‘interesting’. They suggested that Smith was either down and out, and this was his ‘last card’, or that Rasool’s enemies still had their knives out – but this all had to be proved first.

Constitutional law expert Pierre de Vos told the SABC that only a full police investigation would be able to clear up the cloud hanging over Rasool.

In a joint media statement Mcebisi Skwatsha, Max Ozinsky and former premier Lyn Brown (all regarded as anti-Rasool) said their ‘personal and professional’ reputations had been besmirched, and that they would be considering legal action against the Cape Argus.

Smith’s public admission of spin-doctoring, whilst still in the employ the Cape Argus, has raised awkward questions in South African journalism. The Vusi Mona-Ranjeni Munusamy saga, where spurious allegations of apartheid spying were made against then NPA director Bulelani Ngcuka, still rankles.

Newly appointed Freedom of Expression Institute director, Ayesha Kajee, has likened the actions of people like Smith as the thin edge of a wedge where journalists act as lap-dogs for political masters.

She told Al-Qalam that ‘brown envelope journalism’ led to embedded reporting of the worst type, as seen in the war on Iraq or during the apartheid era.

“Smith’s confession raises the spectre of those times, when the nexus between politics and journalism was often murky and shameful. South Africans never want those ghosts resurrected again,” said Kajee, who suggested that journalists should consider instituting an equivalent of the medical Hippocratic Oath.

THE appalling news that a young Mitchells plain cleric, Maulana Sharief Hendricks, and Fazlin Isaacs (whom he was counselling) had been shot by her estranged husband, Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs, distressed and angered me greatly.

Here was a man who had two outstanding charges of domestic violence against him. The magistrate who so unwisely granted him bail, against the advice of the police, on his most recent charge has a lot to answer for.

Sadly, the Isaacs killing is the symptom of a greater malaise. The depredations of the Cape Flats are something that I’m all too familiar with. I taught there for several years during the 1970’s and early 1980’s, just after the Group Areas Act.

For those suffering the unspeakable indignities of Apartheid, the psychological effects were devastating. Have we forgotten that some of the old people actually died from the heartbreak?

And whilst the better-off families could relocate and build new suburbs, the poor had to take their chances in their draughty Council breeze-block apartments on the Cape Flats.

What I confronted in the late 70’s was the direct aftermath of the Group Areas Act – anxiety, volatility, chaos, noise, anger, confusion, bitterness and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

But far worse, the social bonds of communities who’d lived beside each other for generations were broken. The first victim was the spirit that had held the people together; the kind of unconditional generosity that saw your neighbour through hard times.

With life already a struggle in the inner-city, surviving at its very distant edges became a daunting challenge. Under-policed, under-resourced and municipally neglected, the townships of the Cape Flats became a test of the human spirit.

The Apartheid spin-men, blithely claiming that they were offering other-than-white communities a better future, had merely exacerbated a social situation already plagued by alcoholism, unemployment, poverty and gangsterism.

Far be it for me to romanticise the realities of District Six and other such places destroyed by the Group Areas Act. However, the point is not the admission that life was less than perfect, but rather, the sorry fact that the Group Areas Act only worsened the socio-economic situation of those affected by it.

Inefficient public transport not only eroded meagre wages, but long distances from the workplace also ensured longer hours from home – and less supervised youth meandering around a stark urban landscape, an empty place where anti-social behaviour was an alluring distraction.

Incidentally, this was a situation that took a serious turn for the worse in the early 1980’s when guns and mandrax, introduced by Indian “merts” and state security operatives, made their appearance on the Cape Flats.

And whilst police kept crime out of the white urban areas, townships were poorly policed. The authorities either ignored or exploited the criminal elements. The mantra of crime being a post-Apartheid problem is a sociological myth. Crime, if you’re poor, has always been a South African reality.

But I’m not going to say that Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs is a “victim” of the circumstances I’ve just described. There can be no excuse for him. But I do feel we have to explain why so many Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs’s walk the streets today.

This is because Apartheid systematically stripped South Africans of their self worth. And because Apartheid was inherently violent – psychologically and physically – it desensitised us to violence. Violence begets violence, and since 1994 the step from state violence to communal violence has been an effortless, but frightening one.

One of the social outcomes of dehumanisation is deep-rooted rage, and in his befuddled head Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs will probably see himself as an avenger. Violence showed he possessed power, and in his highly insecure world lacking definition, it was violence that gave him a sense of identity.

It’s precisely this perverted sense of power, arising out of alienation and inbred social hostility that causes South African men to abuse women and children. Blinded by their distorted sense of reality, and predatory notions of entitlement, everybody becomes fair game.

Today, tragically, there are no longer any rules. It’s survival of the fittest. Violence justifies the violence, crime justifies the criminality.

However, to indict the legacy of Apartheid is too sweeping. South Africa, like most African states, was once a colony. We so often forget that the Dutch and the British ruled for three centuries here, and that Apartheid only lasted for 46 years.

The further point is that the Cape Flats is a creolised community. Its lingua franca, Afrikaans, is a Creole language. However, let it be understood, Creole is not a negative term, but one that simply denotes mixed blood – the union of slave and master, master and native, or native and slave.

The lot of Creoles (anywhere in the world) has never been a happy one. Of the master, but not of the master; of the native, but not of the native – the Creole has always been pushed to the edges of society.

Unfortunately, this feeling of alienation has only increased since 1994. Efforts to harness positive political energy on the Cape Flats has failed for a complex set of reasons, but the most obvious one has been job empowerment. In the Western Cape, at least, BEE should have used a different model.

Local historical and geographical factors should have been considered much more sympathetically. I personally don’t think the descendant of a Creolised slave in Mitchells Plain, whose family has been marginalised here for 300 years, should enjoy any less access to a job than the first generation son of a Xhosa herdsman from the Eastern Cape.

But again, none of this should ever exonerate the behaviour of Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs. I say this because so many decent people on the Cape Flats have risen above their circumstances, in spite of their circumstances.

To justify or excuse Isaacs’s psychopathic disorderliness is to betray their honest struggle, and while we express our condolences to the families of the victims, Igshaan “Gaddafi” Isaacs and his ilk must be put away forever

“HISTORY is more or less bunk,” said Henry Ford, the larger-than-life American car-maker who made history with his mass-produced Model-T.

Apart from his take on history – which I will get back to later – Mr Ford confronted the world with a street-wise swagger. Failure, he said, was an opportunity to start over again, but more intelligently. He also declared that anyone who stopped learning was old, whether they were twenty or eighty years-old.

A recent trip to Dublin, Ireland, to attend an Interfaith Roundtable Conference got me thinking about these rough nuggets of wisdom from Henry Ford. History is something of a passion of mine, and yes, it can be bunkum sometimes.

Ireland, of course, is resplendent with myth, legend – and history. A ruggedly beautiful country that enjoys miserable weather, the colourful charm of its oral tradition is characterised by ethereal kingdoms, faeries, leprechauns and wailing banshees.

This is a land that has produced some of the finest romantic tales of Europe, and some of the most celebrated of modern authors – people such as James Joyce and William Butler Yeats.

But back to Henry Ford. Yes, as someone passionate about history, I would agree with him: taken purely from the text books, history is more or less “bunk”. This is because modern textual history so often decrees that civilisation began after the French Revolution, or the European Renaissance.

The assumption is that all civilisation and culture before us didn’t occur on a continuum. Oral history, the richest source of all, is marginalised. The ancient mud and peat cultures (as I call them) are given little due because the archaeologists – who aren’t linguists – can’t find their ruined cities.

Instead, pop-historians wrestle with the stones of Egypt and Herod. They create conspiracy theories whilst telling us that the sun-worship of the Pharaohs was the very pinnacle of archaic thought; and that the Greeks thought of everything and that their successors, the Romans, built everything.

Then there are the historians of the America’s and Australasia who’ve disregarded the aboriginal legacies that their continents are steeped in. And talking about aboriginal or indigenous legacies, how many of us know our own Nguni and San traditions?

There are oral traditions right here in South Africa that express a world view as equally fascinating – and no less intellectually stimulating – as the Egyptian one.

Not enough text-book historians have stopped to consider that the greatest African mud-culture of them all, the Malian Empire, was once more extensive than Western Europe. That its seafarers sailed across the Atlantic centuries before Columbus, and that in the Islamic era, the libraries of Timbuktu rivalled those of Alexandria.

What about the fact, too, that pyramids can be found in Africa, South America and Asia? Or local traditions describing “white men” (probably the Phoenicians) navigating our rivers thousands of years before the birth of Christ? Or that slavery in Central and Southern Africa has a bitter history at least 5, 000 years?

And then there were the Irish – the offspring of Celtic peoples who crossed the land bridge into Ireland from northern Europe over 6, 000 years ago.

Indeed, the first thing I discovered on my brief visit was that the Irish were definitely not English. The Irish were not Norman or Anglo-Saxon. Irish was their ancestral language, a Gaelic tongue still spoken today and still learnt in Irish schools.

Early Irish culture, I learnt, was sophisticated enough to build a burial mound 5, 000 years ago (well before the Egyptians) whose inner chamber aligned with the summer solstice.

Their early communities were described by the Romans – who never conquered Ireland – as being “terrifying in appearance” with deep-sounding voices, and as an intelligent people who always spoke in metaphorical riddles.

Celtic Ireland was divided into about 150 small rural kingdoms and five larger provinces – each one with its own king – and there were no towns. The cow was used as the unit of exchange, but that didn’t mean society lacked cohesion.

The extended family, the clan, was regarded as a primary social unit. Kings were not put on the throne by inheritance, but through election. This was sometimes a painful process, but the real unifying social force was clan, language and culture.

To this effect, religion, law and learning played a vital part. The early Irish faith was Druidism. The laws were written and interpreted by a class of people called “brehons”. The local poet, the “file”, was much respected as a social commentator.

In the Celtic system women enjoyed high standing, and had full property rights, as well as the right to divorce. That’s why in Celtic legend, Queen Maeve of Connacht is seen as a warrior and feared leader of men.

Perhaps the most fascinating Irish personality is St Patrick, a pragmatic Roman Bishop who peacefully converted Ireland to Christianity. There are no Christian martyrs in Irish history. Historians cite his diplomatic skills, and the willingness of the local rulers and the Druid priests to listen to him.

There is, however, one amusing story when an animated St Patrick accidentally pierces his pastoral staff into the foot of a king who, thinking that this is part of an initiation ceremony, converts to Christianity with painful alacrity!

Of course, I’ve painted a somewhat anecdotal picture. 21st century Ireland – like any country in the world today – faces critical socio-economic challenges. But surely the point is that nothing in history is as original as it seems, and that history isn’t always what she appears to be. I know Henry Ford would agree.

THE Qur’an says that Jesus Christ was not crucified1. The Gospel of Barnabus suggests that Judas Iscariot, who resembled Jesus, was placed on the cross instead. In the Islamic motif Jesus doesn’t die, but is taken ‘unto God’ where he will await the Final Days. In other words, a crucifixion did take place – but it wasn’t Jesus.

However, I hadn’t come to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to ambush anybody with theology. I’d visited it to explore an event that was extraordinarily real to millions of people.

 

I came from a multi-religious family – my father had been a curious agnostic, my mother an Anglican – so my ‘pilgrimage’ was as much for them as it was to satisfy my own curiosity. This was a life-long curiosity that had been excited by history.  

 

It was mid-morning, and I retreated to the Hashimi. Normally by this time crowds of pilgrims would be thronging in Jerusalem’s narrow streets. The intifadah had put paid to that, and Jerusalem’s curio shops were suffering for lack of customers. It made me a hopeful target for business.

 

Eventually, after having had more baubles, crucifixes, candlesticks and olive-wood rosaries thrust into my hands than I’ve had hot dinners, the merchants backed off with their persistent sales banter. As I finally disentangled myself from their wares, they started to chat.

 

“Hi, you America?” winked a shopkeeper, as he gave me his business card.

 

“No way,” I replied, “I’m South African!”

 

”Ah, how’s Mr. Mandela today?’ he queried with a chuckle, and so it went down the street.

 

Back at the hotel I discovered that we were scheduled to visit the ‘Wailing Wall’ later in the day. Such was the compact nature of the Old City. One could wake up, have breakfast, and then visit Al-Aqsa, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the ‘Wailing Wall’ all before lunch.

 

Yet this compactness belied the fact you’d visit three different worlds – historically inter-connected, but strangely distant. Caliph Umar had prayed outside the Holy Sepulchre (a mosque opposite it marked the spot) but I doubt whether Hagrid the Greek guarding the tomb of Christ had ever entered Al-Aqsa or Umar’s mosque.

 

Nor would the black-coated Haredic Jew scurrying past me with his prayer books and tallit have entered the portals of the Holy Sepulchre. And it was equally unlikely that the bescarved old Muslim man hobbling over his stick to pray at Al-Aqsa would ever visit the Wall.

 

The privileged in the Holy City were curious visitors like me, neutrals detached from the daily struggles and sectarian battles for its streets and monuments. Only we were able to cross the lines.

 

It was after midday as we queued up near the Maghribi Gate to enter the Ha-Kotel Ha-Ma’aravi, or Buraq wall plaza. Decreed by the Israeli Ministry of Religion as an Orthodox synagogue, men have to cover their heads and women have to be dressed modestly. I had a baseball cap, and so I didn’t have to wear a cardboard kepi.

 

After passing through security and the inevitable x-rays, I was glad that I was wearing sunglasses. The glare emanating from the polished limestone plaza was blinding. The plaza was where the Maghribi quarter, a community waqf trust established by the Ayyubids eight centuries previously, had been demolished in 1967 by the Israelis.

 

I was surprised there were no trees. But this former Muslim neighbourhood had become a marching space; a space where religion, Zionist nationalism and militarism merged. Israeli troops made their oaths of allegiance to the Zionist state here.

 

Before the 1967 occupation, the wall had been accessed by a narrow alley through the Maghribi quarter. 18 metres high and 67 metres in length, the wall consisted of forty-five stone courses. Twenty-eight are above ground and seventeen are below, which means that Herod’s original foundations are still buried 9 metres underground.

 

Resting on the bedrock at the Roman street level is one of the biggest stone blocks moved by man. Called the ‘Western Stone’, this giant ‘brick’ is 13 metres long, 3 metres thick and 3 metres high. It weighs over 500 tons.

 

As I stood before the wall – a screen dividing me from the worshippers – I could see that the Romans in 70 CE had not been able to demolish all of Herod’s handiwork. This wall was nearly 500 metres long, and was abutted by the Muslim quarter.

 

High above me huge weeds cascaded out of 7th century cracks. The Ummayads – influenced by Byzantine craftsmen – had been fine builders, but it was easy to discern where their renovations began and where Herod’s precise masonry ended.

 

Whilst Herod’s construction, commenced in 19 BCE is over 2, 000 years old, it’s difficult to know where the First Temple stood. No remains of it have ever been found. Solomon completed the First Temple sometime in the 10th century BCE, and it was destroyed by the Babylonian Nebuchadnezzar in 587 BCE.

 

The Second Temple was built in 516 BCE when the Israelites were allowed to return to Jerusalem, but demolished by Emperor Titus in 70 CE. In 135 CE Emperor Hadrian had banished Jews from the Holy City after the Bar Kochba revolt. In the fourth century, Emperor Constantine allowed them to visit the Temple ruins once a year.

 

The Sanctuary’s western wall is where Muhammad tied up Al-Buraq, his mystical steed after his Night Journey from Mecca in 620 CE. However, the wall’s narrative as the Judaic world’s centre of devotion is somewhat cloudy2. Jewish legend states that the western walls of the Temple would never be toppled as the presence of G-d had never left the wall.

 

Yet historically, the idea of it being localised in its current setting only emerges in the 16th century.   

 

Before then, the traditional locus of Jewish devotion had been the Mount of Olives. During the Fatimid era Jews had gathered on the Mount and at the Golden Gate3 to worship. Benjamin of Tudela mentions the western wall in the 12th century, but talks about worship at the Golden Gate. And Karen Armstrong in her book on Jerusalem writes that in Herod’s day the western wall area had been a market4.

 

The rising relevance of the Buraq wall in Jewish discourse was largely due, I believe, to Sulaiman the Magnificent. This Ottoman leader, a generous man who felt deeply about the sanctity of Jerusalem, rebuilt Jerusalem’s walls in the mid 1500’s after his conquest of the Mamluks.

 

It was Caliph Sulaiman who gave Jews the right to worship next to the Buraq wall at selected times, commissioning his royal architect, Mimar Sinan, to build a small oratory5. Sulaiman’s relationship with the Jews had been a cordial one, and many had sheltered in his capital, Istanbul, after the collapse of Ummayad Spain.

 

With Muslim power in the ascendancy, and political Zionism as yet unformulated, there was none of the mistrust of the modern era. Sulaiman’s gesture was from a position of strength – a world away from the situation of the current Mufti of Palestine, Shaikh Ikrima Sabri, and the Shaikhs of Al-Azhar.

 

Their juridicial opinions today, issued against the background of the 1967 occupation, are that the western Buraq wall is Muslim waqf stolen by the Zionists. As part of the Holy Sanctuary Trust, the wall belongs to the Muslims, not the Jews. Their view is supported by UN Security council document S/8427 (23 February 1968) that declares the western wall is Muslim property.

 

The cleric’s beef is not that Jewish worship takes place there, no, but rather the aggressive colonisation of the space by Zionism. The Islamic sanctity of the area has been violated by the architecture of political occupation, not by Jewish worship.

 

This is a subtle, but critical distinction that is too often ignored. And more’s the pity. Nazmi al-Jubeh, a lecturer at Bir Zeit University, says that British Mandate officials applied the Ottoman waqf firman on the wall: that due to its sanctity it would remain the property of the Muslims, but that Jews would be allowed to worship there.6

 

I’ve yet to meet a sensible Palestinian who wants to deny Jewish access to the wall, but unhappily, it is regarded as the ideological rallying point for a total Judaisation of Jerusalem. The subterranean tunnels dug under the Sanctuary from the western wall are seen as a breach of international law.  

 

The Israeli authorities may claim that what they’re doing is merely in the interests of archeology. But in a part of the world where archeology has direct political connotations, they should know better.

 

Their expropriation of the Buraq wall and its environs in violation of the protocols the 800 year-old waqf law, the British Mandate and UN decree, is nothing short of the Joha’s nail principle – a manufactured excuse to take over property that one doesn’t own.

 

Joha, the central figure in popular Arab humour, sells his house to a young married couple. But before leaving, he asks his buyers as a parting wish whether he can visit a nail in the corner of the house. This nail is his property and he’s greatly attached to it.

 

On the first day Joha knocks on the door. He sits in front of the nail for a few moments. On the second occasion Joha increases the time of his visit. He does the same on the third, the fourth and the fifth, moving in things such as chairs and tables.

 

After a while, Joha claims he has to sleep next to his precious nail. Eventually, the harried husband and wife become so exasperated that they are forced to flee their house in which Joha has made himself comfortable.

 

However, Zionist claims to increasing areas of Al-Aqsa – a la Joha’s nail – since the 20th century has not been met with the owners fleeing the house, but rather, angry resistance. The 1929 Al-Buraq uprising, in which over two-hundred people died, is the most salutary example – the very lightning rod of the occupation-centred conflict, as it were.   

 

The 1929 uprising arose from Palestinian disquiet that there was an ongoing colonisation of the wall space. Efforts by Sir Moses Montefiore and Baron Rothschild to purchase the wall had already set alarm bells ringing, as had Jewish efforts to bring more items – such as tables, chairs, scrolls and arks – into the oratory since World War I.

 

This was perceived by Palestinians as a surreptitious attempt to create a synagogue, something in violation of the 16th century Ottoman firman allowing worship at the wall.

 

It all started on the eve of Yom Kippur in 1928 when a screen was erected at the wall to divide men from women. This was observed by British officials visiting the offices of the Shari’ah Court. Responding to the indignation of the muftis, the officials ordered that the screen be removed.

 

Unfortunately, the British authorities removed the screen during the Yom Kippur prayers, causing huge resentment in the Jewish community.

 

What followed was a series of niggling provocations on either side, amongst them being the Muslims calling the adhan or conducting loud collective prayer meetings to drown out Jewish devotions, and Jews singing and blowing the shofar, the ram’s horn.

 

In 1929 the situation came to head. About one-hundred members of Joseph Klausner’s committee for the western wall, and Vladimir Jabotinsky’s right-wing Beitar Movement, marched on the Maghribi quarter shouting that the wall was theirs. Once at the wall they sang the Hatikvah, the Zionist anthem7.

 

To say that the march was provocative is its mildest interpretation. Hostilities quickly mounted. A young Jewish boy accidentally kicked a football into an Arab yard, and with feelings now boiling over into unbridled fury, was fatally stabbed. Angry demonstrations at his funeral caught the attention of the Palestinian community.

 

Palestine is a small country, and rumour travels fast. By the time news of what had happened in Jerusalem had spread beyond the city gates into the towns and villages, the story was of Al-Aqsa being under threat. 

 

Both the Shaw and Hope-Simpson Commissions appointed after the riots pointed to Palestinian fear and frustration8. The Shaw Commission fingered racial tensions caused by Palestinian political disappointment, and trepidation of economic domination by a moneyed group from Europe.

 

The Shaw Commission was followed by the Hopefield-Simpson Commission and by the White Paper of 1930, a document proposing to limit Jewish immigration and to increase the Palestinian franchise, but ultimately rejected by the Zionist and the Palestinian camps.

 

But it was now 60 years after the Shaw Commission and in the Mediterranean sun I wondered how the Jews could stand the heat. Some wore furry beaver hats, which together with their black coats must have been excruciatingly hot.

 

I watched people making their devotions. Some pushed prayer notes into the cracks of the wall. Technology allowed Jews to fax their prayers to the wall from around the world. They would be inserted by proxy, only removed by the religious authorities when space had to me made for more. The old notes, I was told, were buried according to Sacred Law.

 

I looked behind me and saw that a crowd had gathered around Isma’il. Forever the wheeler and dealer he was trying to purchase a broad-brimmed black hat from a shy, young side-curled Jew.

 

Isma’il was the kind of person who could sell matches to the devil, and so I was curious to see how far he’d get.

 

“I’ll give you twenty shekels, brother,” said Isma’il confidently.

 

The young man smiled.

 

“I’ll throw in this Bafana-Bafana cap I’m wearing, you can cover your head with something Mandela wore,” suggested Isma’il.

 

The young man smiled again.

 

“I’ll give you twenty-five shekels,” said Isma’il.

 

But the bemused young Jew wasn’t going to sell his hat to a pushy South African Muslim, and Isma’il had to concede defeat. “You know, Shafiq-bai, the problem is that the boy wasn’t Indian,” he muttered as we left the plaza.

 

WHEN I saw the shaky images of Israeli naval commandoes rappelling on to the decks of the Mavi Marmara in international Mediterranean waters, my first thought was: I could have been there.

A combination of financial restraints (the humanitarian relief flotilla was no junket) and a conflicting commitment had seen me crying off from joining one of the vessels sailing towards Gaza from Turkey with a cargo of relief for Gaza.

Nevertheless, I’d keenly monitored the progress of the international flotilla accompanied by 750 relief workers, human rights activists, politicians and journalists hailing from 40 countries.

Carrying 10, 000 tonnes of supplies, I could only applaud the humanitarian notions of the organisers. But having covered the Palestinian-Israeli conflict for some time, I knew that there also had to be an element of bravery – if not bravado – about it all.

All my instincts told me that the Israelis weren’t going to welcome the flotilla with open arms. The steel-fisted military state that Israel has become in the 21st century would only be able to perceive the peaceful, unarmed Gazan aid convoy as a hostile force.  

And on top of that, Israel’s generals could not afford to let foreign nationals simply waltz into a blockaded Gaza en-masse and be international heroes. Gaza, after all, in the propaganda text-book is the heartland of Hamas, the terrorist bogey in their midst allegedly supported by Iran.

I wasn’t quite sure how the Israelis would respond to the flotilla of vessels sailing into their waters, but on Sunday I started to get a bad feeling.  When I heard that the fleet was approaching Gaza on Sunday night, and that it had steered into international waters to avoid confrontation with the Israeli navy, I knew the chase was on.

The aid organisers’ hope that Israeli response would be an easy filmable daylight media event proved to be a vain one. At 4, 30 am (the favourite Israeli attack time) events unfolded as helicopters throbbed overhead and gunboats circled with spotlights.

The tragedy of what occurred is defined by two things: stupidity and naivety. The stupidity is on the side of the Israelis (who tragically think that negotiation is a weakness), and the naivety is on the side of the humanitarian organisers (who can’t really be blamed for their frightened response).

My view is that the Israeli navy was initially ordered to “commandeer” the boats and take them to Israeli ports. Once docked, the boats would be searched – goods confiscated – and the passengers painstakingly interrogated with the hope of linking some of them to Hamas, or any convenient “terrorist” entity, to discredit the Gaza aid operation.

This, on the Israeli drawing-board, would be an embarrassment to the Turkish government as a Turkish NGO, the IHH (Insani Yardim Vakfi) Humanitarian Relief Foundation, was one of the driving forces behind the idea of the Freedom Flotilla to Gaza.

If this notion was the plan, it would have been as hare-brained as the dawn raid in international waters. The IHH is a UN accredited organisation operating in over 50 countries.

The blow-back for Israel today is that many people, including diplomats, statesmen and world leaders, are struggling for words to describe their disgust at what happened. Killing unarmed civilians on a merchant ship trying to help one million besieged Gazans isn’t good press, whichever way you look at it.

The naivety of those on board the Mavi Marmara was evident to me when they chose to resist the Israeli assault. Understandably scared and intimidated by a volley of gunfire from the darkness, they couldn’t have realised that the Israeli commandoes – pumped up with adrenaline and armed to the teeth – would have been more than jittery themselves.

Totally unequipped to deal with civilian scenarios, and the desperate self-defence of those on board, their only response would have been to fire on the unarmed passengers and crew – or to jump into the sea, which some allegedly did.

I’m certainly not justifying the typically disproportionate and murderous nature of the Israeli action, but as a journalists and aid workers there are ground rules in combat or conflict situations – ground rules that I feel were tragically ignored in the heat of the moment.

Firstly, you can’t take sides when you’re working. If you’re a journalist your duty – no matter what your personal feelings – is to observe and report on events, and if you’re an aid worker your duty is to help victims.

Basically, one has to stay in the middle as much as possible – even it means having to hunker down when the bullets fly.

Of course, easier said than done. Sometimes it’s not so clear, and difficult moral questions do arise: for example, what do you do if your direct intervention in a story you’re covering can save a human life?

Secondly, if you physically lift a finger in response to soldiers, police, border guards or security officials anywhere in the world you immediately become a player in that conflict. In other words, the neutral ground you are standing on becomes part of the battlefield.

And that is exactly what happened on board the Mavi Marmara early on Monday morning.

Hindsight is the cliché of 20-20 vision, and I feel the flotilla would have lost none of its moral high ground had it been allowed to surrender peacefully, which is the point. Without the unecessary deaths and injuries, the stark images of the Israeli illegal boarding would have still eloquently told the tale.

Nonetheless, not only does Israel find itself depicted yet again as the world’s number-one nasty nation, it finds itself steeped in the blood of non-combatant civilians who can’t be as easily written-off as Palestinian victims can.

If anything, I would define this story as being Israel’s “Sharpeville moment”. For when the South African police opened fire in a Gauteng township field in 1960, and killed 69 anti-apartheid protestors, little could they have realised the political import of their panicky deed.

Whilst for leaders in the US and Britain apartheid was always a better option than Cold War communism, it became increasingly difficult for them to publicly justify this view. The anti-apartheid movement would gather momentum. Boycott, disinvestment and sanctions would follow, bringing the country to its knees in 1990.

Comparisons are uncomfortably odious, but Israel could find itself in a similar position today. World leaders, who have traditionally seen Zionism as a better option to pan-Arabism and so-called Islamism, face a curiously comparable scenario to the South African one.

The upshot is that the ill-fated Israeli dawn raid in the Mediterranean will have the reverse effect of its intentions, which is ultimately to play victim at the hands of Hamas, Hizballah and Iran.

Calls for the breaking of the Gaza blockade, the cessation of West Bank settlement building, a halt to East Jerusalem house demolitions and the dirty words for Israel – boycott, disinvestment and sanctions – will now enter the frame louder than ever.

 

 

 

WHEN Jonathan Shapiro, aka Zapiro, drew a cartoon in the Mail and Guardian of the beloved Prophet (s) on a therapist’s couch complaining that his ummah didn’t have a sense of humour, I winced – or as I wrote – “dug myself a trench”.

As a journalist and talk-show radio host, this was an issue that wasn’t going to go away after my weekly read of the M & G. It was going to confront me, head-on. And as someone who believed in freedom of speech, I was going to be under the hammer.

 

It’s not that I would have done the same myself, no. I wouldn’t have. But there was an underlying principle – paradoxical if not problematic, but still a principle: as a non-Muslim in a non-Muslim country Islamic rulings did not apply to Zapiro.

 

In an op-ed published by the Independent Newspaper Group (also featured on my blog), I wrote that South Africa’s public spaces, a mirror of traditional modernity, were not sacred ones.  I added that the constitution, the mechanism that guaranteed our rights, was a legal document. It was not a manifesto of sacred law.

 

I argued that for me at least, freedom of speech was sacrosanct – even if it meant Zapiro depicted the Prophet (as unadvisable as it was). Freedom of speech had to reflect an equality of standards.

 

In other words, one value couldn’t apply to one party, and a different one to another. Were we being consistent, I asked, if we kept silent when Zapiro lampooned Jews or Christians? Freedom of speech meant we also had to take punishment sometimes ourselves too.

 

I also reflected on the Salman Rushdie and the Satanic Verses saga. I felt that Muslim over-reaction had alienated non-Muslims from condemning his blasphemy – something that would have had more impact than creating the innate curiosity (and the good book sales) of banned, or forbidden fruit.

 

Having worked as a journalist during the apartheid era, I warned against us of going back to the old days of fear, intolerance, unbridled censorship and the shutting down of democratic space.

 

I pointed out the peaceful and reasoned ethos of Muhammad (s) – would he have been so offended? I concluded by asking why no South African judiciary had ever really taken the step to explain exactly why the Muslim community would take offence at a depiction of the Prophet (s).

 

A dignified public explanation – as opposed to the righteous indignation of the moment – could have gone a long way after the Danish cartoon debacle to diffusing the situation, even before Zapiro put pen to paper.

 

However, in retrospect, I must admit that after the Mail and Guardian’s apology – and the maturity of our community in creating a common platform to responsibly address the issue – we can all walk away from the South African Muhammad (s) cartoon incident with pride.

 

Would the same have happened elsewhere in the world? I doubt it. And this says a lot. As South Africans we have triumphed in this instance, traversing the embedded social barriers, contradictions and rainbow mirages of the post-apartheid era.

 

Another thing that struck me was the level of discourse – it went way beyond the Muslim space, although Muslims were part of it. Gone werethe predominating psychosis of the death threat and the flag-burning mentality of previous debates.

 

Ebrahim Rasool, Faried Esack Naeem Jeenah, Jonathan Jansen, Alan Boesak, Mufti Zubair Bhayat, Auwais Rafudien, bloggist Azad Esa, M & G editor Nic Dawes, Zapiro, SA Press Club chairperson Yusuf Abramjee and a host of letter-writers, SMS commentators and callers to radio stations all hugely enriched the dialogue.

 

Professor Mahmoud Mamdani, addressing the University of Johannesburg, provided some interesting insights. His view that slander from inside Islam was blasphemy, but that from outside Islam it was bigotry was a subtle, but telling distinction. Bigotry could not fight bigotry was the wisdom I extracted from his talk.

 

Naturally, there were those who pilloried me for my stance on freedom of expression. No problem. However, I do feel a few responses would be in order, just in case their misconceptions linger and I become forever labelled as they say in the Cape, “water-slams” – weak in my Islam.

 

Firstly, I was accused of believing in freedom of speech before my faith, family or profession. However, my stance was primarily based on faith. It was because of my Islam that I entered the debate. The Prophet (s), as a principle, did not apply Shari’ah to non-Muslims.

 

He gave the Jews of Quraidha the choice of being punished by their own laws for their treachery against him. Furthermore, Jews and Christians in Islamic rule were classified as dhimmi, and allowed full exercise of customary law and religious practice separate from Shari’ah.

 

Secondly, I was told in no uncertain terms that there was “no freedom of speech in Islam”. To this there is a simple answer. There are enough precedents to show that there have always been historical examples of freedom of speech in Islam.

 

The Prophet (s), informing his Companions he wasn’t speaking through Revelation, solicited opinions and advice on the principle of shura, or consultation, at Khandaq. There, he listened to the advice of the Persian convert, Salman al-Farsi.

 

Then there was the election of the Four Righteous Caliphs after the death of the Prophet (s). If their appointments were not fully democratic in the sense of full community participation, they were based on consensus – and the speaking of public minds on who should be the next leader.

 

And what about Caliph ‘Umar?  A paragon of piety and justice, and a towering personality, here was a giant of man; but here was a leader humble enough to allow a woman to correct him in public.

 

Why, for example, would the greatest scholars write books on the topic of “adab ul-Ikhtilaf”, the ethics of disagreement? Why is this very term even in Islamic discourse? And what about the madh-haib, the schools of Islamic legal thought?

 

If there was no expression in Islam, let alone freedom of expression, would they have developed into the dynamic legal instruments they are today?

 

In conclusion, judging from the debate, most have agreed that freedom of speech – inviolable as a principle – does have its boundaries. The Qur’an, for instance, stipulates that Muslims must not revile others, and I think it’s exactly why traditional Islam – proudly – has no history of xenophobia.

 

Of course, it does raise another question: freedom of speech has to be applied equally within its paradigmatic boundaries. And that’s the challenge. There will only be consistency once the double-standards and untouchable holy cows of modern society have been herded into the corral too.

 

 

 

 

When I saw Zapiro’s cartoon in the Mail and Guardian depicting an image of the noble Prophet Muhammad, I started digging myself a trench.
 
Zapiro’s drawing was a response to calls on Facebook for people to celebrate, of all bizarre things, a “draw Muhammad day” in response to the irreverent TV programme, South Park. His point was that our community lacked a sense of humour, and the Prophet is depicted complaining to a psychiatrist about this.
 
As a journalist aware of community sensitivities, especially after the Danish cartoon saga of 2006, I knew there’d be heated indignation. South Africa’s Muslim community does have a sense of humour, but on the matter of faith and the Prophet Muhammad it has always been serious business.
 
However, at the same time, whilst appreciating the above I also have to accept Zapiro’s view that the drawing was not intended to be an insult to the Prophet, but rather a commentary on the community. M & G editor Nic Dawes and academic Faried Esack have described it as more a gentle poke, and that’s something I tend to agree with.
 
Okay, let it be said, I certainly wouldn’t have done the same myself, but as someone who believes in freedom of speech, I would be seriously betraying my own values by supporting a censoring of Zapiro via the courts as the Jamiat-ul ‘Ulama (the Council of Theologians) wished to do.

We have to understand that South Africa’s public spaces, a reflection of traditional modernity, are not sacred ones. South Africa is no longer a Calvinistic entity, where the Dutch Reformed Church is said to be the government at prayer.

 

The constitution is a legal bill of rights, not a manifesto of sacred law.
 
Nor for that matter is South Africa an Islamic country. Zapiro, a non-Muslim, is not legally bound by notions of Islamic sanctity. What is customarily forbidden to me is not forbidden to him. Ours is a democracy of pluralism, a democracy in which we have all implicitly agreed to embrace the principles of freedom of association and speech.

 

That means I have to defend the freedom of someone else to criticise me, satirise me, and yes – even offend me. And that is why I’ve had to dig a trench to hunker down as the guns of indignation boom across the country via newly formed community alliances, and their invective is diverted at a bothersome journalist.
 
For as a South African Muslim, I regard freedom of speech as sacrosanct, even if it means I have to defend the right of Zapiro to depict the Prophet – as unwise as it may be for him to do so.

 

I accept that not everybody in the community will be comfortable with that, but life is sometimes a paradox, a philosophical imponderable.
 
Then there’s the issue of consistency. Freedom of speech involves equality of standards. One value can’t apply to one party whilst we apply a different one to another.
 
Those who cheered, or remained silent, when Zapiro lampooned Jews, Christians, Zuma, Malema, Zille or Mbeki need to remember that it’s our turn – we’re now on the sharp end of the pen.
 
Naturally, if there’s offence taken – and offence has been taken – it behoves us to treat the matter with dignity. Muhammad, the very man whom Zapiro has drawn, was celebrated for his tolerance and inspiring behaviour.  

 

This is a man whose Meccan neighbour used to throw her trash on him in the street. And yet when she fell ill, he was the first to visit her. This is a man who forbade his followers to beat an ignorant Bedouin who urinated in his mosque.
 
The Prophet understood better than most that preaching hellfire from pulpits, screaming racist insults in public, slapping lawsuits, angrily burning effigies and God forbid, issuing death fatwas, never persuaded anybody to look favourably on a cause.
 
Salman Rushdie merely laughed all the way to the bank after the ayatollahs put a bounty on his head for Satanic Verses. I wasn’t comfortable with Rushdie, but I was seriously concerned about suggestions of book burnings and bannings – especially by those who hadn’t read his book.
 

I was even more concerned with his public death sentence. It was unconstitutional by Islamic legal standards as religious judges cannot issue cross-border legal edicts, let alone absentee ones in which the accused is not allowed a defence in court.

 

It also saw fair-minded people, who would otherwise have condemned Rushdie’s blasphemy, turning away in disgust from the Muslim community at the Iranian decision.

 

Having worked as a journalist during the apartheid era, I think I’m a little qualified to understand freedom of speech, and what it means. During the State of Emergency we were governed by over 100 extremely restrictive laws.

 

If you wanted to tell the truth, things such as banning, security police visits in the dead of night, detention without trial and censorship could become your occupational hazards. If you worked in the alternative media, as I did, access to government was impossible.

 

Nor during the apartheid era would I have had the space to pen op-eds for a mainstream newspaper, and neither would angry Muslims have been afforded the opportunity to write letters to the editor, or form associations of protest. Our debate would have been summarily closed down.

 

So to silence Zapiro, I feel, is to re-enter that apartheid space again, where fear, intimidation and intolerance are the watchwords of a society. The Islamic world, peopled as it is with tin-pot dictators and corrupt monarchies, needs no further bad examples from South Africa.

 

And finally, Islamic traditions have detailed descriptions of Muhammad right down to the length of his eyelashes, yet no South African Muslim judiciary has ever publicly debated – let alone explained – exactly why Muslims might regard it as offensive to depict images of the noble Prophet Muhammad.  

 

Surely, given the sensitivity of the issue after Denmark 2006, that would have been the most logical step, and the wisest way to enter the debate?

 

PS: These views are my own, and yes, you can disagree.