Is 'Black Face' Racist?

I'm late posting. I know. I apologize.

My life has been very busy... *coughs*

Moving on to the topic... unless you've been living under a rock for the past couple of weeks chances are your life has somehow been enhanced or on the contrary, inconvenienced by the antics of The World Cup 2014. Although I am neither a football fan nor a hater, the nature of my job means I have to discuss all topics which people like - and this is a particularly hot one.

But recently the discussions turned from amazing football strikers, excellent goal keepers and the best player being injured to racism in the stadium - and it wasn't your regular black and white racism (pun unintended but welcomed nonetheless) where something is racist and punishable... The situation involved an act depicted by one culture as extremely racist, while to another it was playful and innocent.

It all began when Germany was playing Ghana and two men, then, identified as Germans supporting the German team painted their faces black and had 'Ghana' written on their T-Shirts. This caused total offence to an African American lawyer from Alabama who expressed it to the men, but to his utter surprise, their response was not one of mockery, but bewilderment.

They did not see why he was upset or offended. From the viewpoint of the American, 'Black Face' is associated with minstrel shows which existed in America in the 1930's. They depicted white people, who painted their faces black mocking blacks by portraying them with negative characteristics attributed to them by the white community at the time.

In Germany however, black face is not at all a big deal... in fact Angela Merkel was recently photographed with a young boy dressed in black face to depict the black king from the three kings who famously visit Jesus at his birth in the nativity play which children portray at school in christian western society. Black face is merely face paint to indicate the racial origin of a person - not to mock it.

The two men turned out to be Dutch, and were actually supporting Ghana - but the American argued that they should have just worn the T-shirts, instead of using 'racist' connotations to depict their support for Ghana.

Which then begs the question - Who decides what is meant by 'Black Face'? Is it the case that because the use of it in the 1930's in America was negative that any white person painting their face black is racist? What about people who do it without thinking being black is bad? - Does that mean it is racist to not think being black is bad? Should 'White Face' be made racist too? Or should we use the positive stereotype of black face to destroy the negative association?

A very strong part of me feels that the best way to combat racism is by reducing the power that racist words or actions have. An example is that of Dani Alves, when a banana was thrown at him on the football pitch, instead of taking it as an insult attributing his race to a monkey - he simply ate it. This immediately made the racist gesture lose its power. Although I feel that this was a very powerful statement I am unsure whether or not this would work with words like ni***r - Would not taking offence eradicate a word's negative power? And if so, would this be a good thing or would it lead to us deleting parts of the word's history?

The 'Bikkah' The Bizzare Sudanese Funeral

Shortly after the passing of my haboba, my 16 year old cousin was calling me continuously. For the first time in many months I’d forgotten to make my phone Silent before I slept. It was ringing and ringing and I became very irritated because as a broadcaster, I have to be up by 5am every morning and I have to be in a good mood. 

Our house is divided, the top floor is sectioned off with its own staircase and door, and we live there. The bottom floor is where my haboba lived and so, during the summer holidays all of her children and grandchildren would come and stay with us to see haboba.

I got out of bed, and walked towards my charger and then the ringing stopped, just in case it rang again I decided to take my phone and rest it besides me not once thinking of calling her back –she was on her school holiday break and I knew that her and the other kids stay up all night and pretty much mess around until they got tired, I figured it would be something trivial like ‘I forgot my blanket upstairs’.

It rang again, this time I answered.

‘Hind, Open the staircase door’ Came a forceful voice from my cousin

‘Aseel, Get Lost’ ‘Came an irritated voice from me.

‘Haboba died. I need to tell your mum’.

Silence...

At that moment I didn't know how I felt about haboba, my main focus was on my mother who had been suffering throughout the entire course of my haboba's illness. How would she take the news? What should I do to make it easier?

Aseel and I walked up to where my parents were sleeping, I sat down next to my mother and noticed that the story had changed.

‘Haboba is really sick! You need to call aunty in the hospital’

I darted her a strange look before realizing that she was simply just too afraid to say it. She whispered to me,  'should I tell her'!?!?

I held my mother in my arms and nodded.

My mother’s response was shock and prayer, she asked God to make her mother from those who make it to heaven and then took her phone and started calling her siblings. What came after that was something very new to me. Sudanese Culture is a mixture of African and Arab heritage as well as Islamic traditions. The way that they deal with anything is always a combination of these, but more predominantly than Islam, the African and Arab heritage show themselves.

‘Bait al Bikkah’ which literally means, ‘the house in which we cry’ is the place where people must go to give their condolences to the family.The people who host the ‘Bikkah’ are the deceased’s spouse, siblings, children and grandchildren, these are the people to whom you must give your condolences.

Now, the way that you give your condolences is very interesting, you make a prayer, before hugging and crying into the arms of the person who has had a loss, then they too must cry. Crying, even if fake is seen as a sign of respect.

We left our house at 4:00am to go to my uncle’s house, which became 'bait al bikka' for the next three days. As I entered I felt that there was so much sorrow, yet there were only 13 people.  Crying hysterically and yelling and screaming. My haboba’s younger sister was crying and weeping, she was chanting 'why did u leave me I needed you still, you were my mother and my sister why why'. She said this repeatedly and paced up and down the room, her sorrow was infectious and made everyone more and more miserable. I kept thinking that she's known haboba for at least 40 years longer than me and that the pain i feel is probably nothing compared to hers. She reminded me of the things my haboba used to do for me, like hide me away when my mother wanted to punish me, or give me sweets from the secret stash in her cupboard when I was good.  I felt pain and loss, and many people were hugging me and crying.

After hours and hours of people constantly crying I couldn't take it anymore; my tears fell dry and my head started aching. By the time it was 11am, the Sudanese bikkah ritual finally began and although my back and feet were aching, I was grateful for it. We were expected to provide guests with water, food, tea and coffee continuously.

 There were so many people, the men and then women were divided and we had to cater to all of them. Some people were very astonishing to me because even though this was a funeral, they were very happy to ask us to return their tea if it was too heavy or light for another cup. Although this was aggravating I made sure I didn't get aggravated because I know that to haboba would have wanted her guests to be honored,  even if they weren't honorable.

There were many fascinating mentalities at the Bikkah, Although we were expected to provide food, there was also a social convention which meant that the guests shouldn't eat - and if they eat they should eat 'sadly'. We, as the people of the bikkah need to persuade people to eat as well as provide them with food and only then is it OK for them to eat. 

I found this fascinating and couldn't help but try to figure out the root of this way of thinking. The guests should fake cry, and fake not wanting to eat and you have to persuade them... you have to convince them to do something that you yourself don't want to do... It's almost like a game but the outcome is that you end up reassuring yourself that eating is OK. It also seems that the whole point of having a bikkah is to keep you so occupied that you no longer have time to grieve. You are just busy, all the time, and for the most part that’s exactly what happened.

I was also taken aback by the number of cousins around my age whom were helping us who we had never known before. We formed very close bonds as we worked together providing food and drinks, we laughed together and some even stayed the night. The next couple of days were the same, the crying affected me less and less and it got much less anyway. But when all was done, and the bikkah was over reality kicked in.

I couldn't really accept that my grandmother wasn’t just in the bathroom or in her room, I still experience moments of great sadness that creep in from time to time but overall, I think the bikkah is an interesting idea, and it really does help occupy you. 

What My Grandmother Taught Me Before She Left

My maternal grandmother passed away on the 9^th of June, 2014 at 3:30am.

As a young child I stayed with my grandma or as we call her in Sudan ‘Haboba’ (meaning the loving one) for a period of six months while my parents were away with my sister who at the time needed surgery abroad. My unmarried twenty something year old uncle lived with her and my young married aunt came to take care of us. I didn't get attached to my aunt because I was five and frankly, she couldn't cook.

My grandma used to wake up at the crack of dawn, pray and then she would go to the kitchen and make something called ‘Kisra’. This is the traditional Sudanese alternative to bread – it looks like a very thin pancake and tastes very salty and bitter. I've always hated it but haboba used to make really nice curry with it which disguised its taste, so I ate it. She also used to tell me that it was up to me, but if I didn't eat it I would stay young forever and my hair would never be long (the things I feared the most in life)

At around 1pm she would take a nap, she had a cat who took naps with her and I remember really wanting to take naps too, but because I couldn’t I would climb behind her and lay there with my eyes closed for as long as I could, (probably a couple of minutes) and then entertain myself with the nearest object until she woke up. At night time I used to get very irritable (when I was sleepy) and she would calm me by telling me a story about the sheep whose sister ate all the grass of a farmer who wasn't her keeper and refused to return home because it was my favorite story - she did this until i fell asleep.

My Haboba had 3 rules.

       You had to look nice always, your hair, nails, outfit – you must be presentable by 5pm at the latest.

       You have to tidy your house/room/wardrobe daily (even if its tidy)

            You have to eat. (I later learned that saying ‘I’m hungry was a scapegoat for any situation)

Everything was very routine and predictable, things were very organized, she never swore, rarely raised her voice and was the only person who could tell anyone what to do.

Shorty before she passed away by around a couple of months she started to mix up peoples identities and forget things, sometimes it was really funny because she would be gossiping about my mother, with my mother thinking she was talking to my aunt. But other times it was a little painful because when someone who used to love you so much doesn't really recognize you, you can’t help but feel a loss.

My Haboba couldn’t read or write, everything in her life was very routine, and it seemed to be that her most major concerns were the three points above, as well as where I was, who I was with, what I was doing and when I would be back home - but it wasn’t until I grew up that I realized there was much more to her than what I had previously believed.

My first encounter with her intelligence was when we were faced with a very awkward family situation – her ability to completely conceal any negative implications from the children, who were the centre of it all was impeccable. She ensured the smooth going of all situations and always knew exactly how to act. Always.

She also knew very well how to gracefully deal with liars, cheats, people who have wronged her and most of all, what impressed me the most was her approach towards men.

When it came to anyone, regardless of their intentions, if they came to her house, she would make sure they were fed, entertained and welcomed. She had one friend who was a thief and it got to the point where we all knew, even she knew that her friend comes to our house, steals from her and then leaves – my grandmother knew this, but if anyone of us pointed it out she always asked us. ‘Did you SEE her steal anything?’ – then she followed it with ‘Then let her be and do not talk nonsense’

I had great trouble with this concept at first because my haboba did not like thieves. She was very anti-theft. If someone asked for anything she would give it to them, but theft was a red line for her – she used to brag about how my grandfather would chase away thieves and was very brave, but with this particular lady she was very forgiving.

Although she knew the woman was stealing, she nonetheless fed her, joked with her and asked her to stay as long as she pleased. I later realized that the woman had an illness, she couldn’t help it, no matter how much you give her, she needed to steal something, even if you gave her $50, she would rather steal $5. My grandmother had realized this long before I had.

When it came to men her approach was very different, although never educated, she knew her value well. She was very strong willed and would do her best to honor and respect a good man, as long as he knew his place – but she had no fear or being alone or losing a man and she never needed one, my grandfather passed away shortly after my mother’s wedding and although she cared and respected him deeply her greatest fear after his death wasn't that she would be alone, it was that her youngest son, at the time 10 would lose out of having a father figure.

In Sudan it is a common ritual that every evening just after sun-set (magrib prayer time) the entire family surrounds haboba and has tea. This is the time we talk about our day, visitors come over to drink tea and basically it’s the time when everyone is in one place. At one sitting my sister brought up the topic of a woman who had undergone plastic surgery because of her husband’s preferences – to which my haboba astonished me.

 ‘Change my being for a man?’ Why on earth would I change what god has given me to impress a man? If he doesn’t like me the way I am then he can go and look somewhere else’.

I was very astonished to hear her say this because she was raised in a generation where men pretty much ruled – or was that just what I thought? Is that the generation I was raised in?

My haboba knew very well her value, she was very grounded and she was very well educated in the way you should behave and act. There was a lot of depth and wisdom behind her sometimes bizarre decisions and I will always remember the lessons she taught me.

When it came to her funeral however, I experienced a new way of thinking that I never thought possible.

TBC…

Should Mentally Disabled People ‘mix’ with Normal People?

If you haven’t already – I would strongly advise you to watch this TED talk. It’s about a woman who was told her entire life that she would never amount to more than a person with a mental disability…

So she fixed her brain.

TED Talk:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0td5aw1KXA

Let me first start by saying that a mental disability is a very broad term. It describes a person who lacks something mentally that others in their society have. There are many different types and it ranges from mild to severe, however some people can go their entire lives not ever knowing or ever being diagnosed.

The reason for this is that we use comparative methods to diagnose mental disability. In a society where learning to read and write is not necessary, a person with numerical or verbal difficulties would never be identified, however as the world becomes more and more advanced it seems that more and more people are becoming marginalized because they are different.

The other day I was teaching my cousin for her sociology exam and we covered ‘school and education’ as a module. It was very interesting to me because I was learning as well as teaching – I didn’t realize that as well as learning subjects we were actually being taught behavioral lessons such as discipline, respecting those who know more than us (people in authority) and social skills such as patience and tolerance.  This was a strong part of the non-examined curriculum which I had never really acknowledged. Although in principle this would mean that children with mental disabilities would be treated well by other children, this is not usually the case.

When we think about these things from the viewpoint of someone like my sister, someone who has mild Williams Syndrome, the entire institution of a normal school will just highlight her weaknesses and never find her strengths – and that’s exactly what it did.

Going to schools for people with special needs where teachers are qualified and empathetic is a much better environment for someone who has a mental disability – it shows them that they are different, not disadvantaged. I feel that now that we have these institutions, we need to take it to the next step and find out through personality tests and psychological experiments what it is that these people excel at individually.

When someone cannot walk, staircases make them feel disabled – however if we make ramps available they will no longer ‘be’ disabled. I believe that everyone has a strength, and it is time for us to stop focusing on what they cannot do, and find out what they excel at – simply placing them in an environment where they will most definitely be ‘inadequate’ is the first thing we need to stop doing.  

How on earth did Amal get George Clooney to Commit?

It seems like ever since George Clooney decided to get engaged, a royal schism has fallen upon the blogospheres – with half of bloggers praising the oh so wonderfully tactful (not to mention gorgeous)‘Amal’ on how she managed to 'convince' the notorious bachelor to marry her. While the other half (who had noted him as a commitment-phobe previously) wrote skeptically about the authenticity of this ‘engagement’.

Yaaaaaaaaaawn

Seriously, as much as I would like to say who cares, the internet (10 steps to find a man, 12 signs he’s marriage material, 15 ways to get him on one knee) and major advertisers who sponsor the websites with these articles would beg to differ.

So let me tell you a little story. Once upon a time, there was Disney. Then, there was the economy. Disney said that prince charming would come along, and he would have a palace (house), a horse and carriage (some kind of vehicle) and lots of gold (Money). All you had to do to get the prince, was wear a dress (be pretty) and have some kind of sob story (be a 'good' girl), and he would find you.

Then men went to war, women started working, women liked working, the ‘shame’ on men who couldn’t provide for ‘their’ wives was lifted, and just like that, chivalry was dead.

Lol. Ok it wasn’t that extreme but you know what I mean.

Then the economy said ‘Hail THE MIGHTY recession!’

And pretty good girls found that their wait was starting to take too long… so instead of realizing that the reason that the prince wasn't coming was because he could no longer afford to be the only working spouse and therefore getting a job, they tried to chase the men themselves and thus swapped their title of being the ‘shy rose cheeked maiden’ for the ‘clingy, needy and dependant woman.’

Basically, its Disney’s fault.

The reason George Clooney refused to commit before Amal isn’t something I can tell you because I have never asked him. But what I can say is this, there is nothing more liberating than being single – you do what you want, when you want, how you want, you can pick up and leave, start over, integrate with new people without ever watching what you do/say, and afford to blow money without batting an eyelid or ever feeling guilt/being nagged. Even in your single state you will still have some things you will have to consider like family, friends, your place of work etc – but even with all of those considerations, it remains the state in which you are most free.

So if you are accomplished, free and happy – why on earth would you want to tie yourself down to someone who is just going to depend on you?

Chances are, unless the person shares your interests, work ethics, understands that sometimes you are busy, and is overall adding to your life – you are not going to give up your single life for them. Period.

I like to think of it as a swap – I would swap my single life for a relationship if that relationship is worth the swap, so for everything I lose, I will gain something and overall the relationship is better than being single.

Amal is a very accomplished human rights lawyer, she speaks 3 languages fluently and is from a different race to George…George is a well accomplished A-lister who made it big in Hollywood – being an A-lister means he got the top ranking for his industry – they are both highly and equally successful people and therefore have a lot to talk about/in common - if there is one thing we can be sure of, it’s that neither of them need one another, they just did the equation and found it worked out with a profit.

Mastering Sudan Part I

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve written in you blogger.

Remember the time you threatened to close down, and I went to tumblr and then tumblr and I didn’t understand each other and then you didn’t close down after all and then we got back together. *sigh*

Yes, well, I’m back. I quit my old job, and now I work on the radio – closer to my field and it’s kind of a nice post. So a quick recap for those who are not familiar with my blog – I am a random British raised, Sudanese woman describing my encounters since moving to Sudan in September 2012.

I am not treated as a Sudanese, but neither am I treated as a foreigner because even though I was never raised here, I am technically Sudanese, which makes it much more difficult for people to forgive my mistakes when I don’t greet them properly or say the correct line when someone dies… at first it was really upsetting… I felt very guilty but mostly I was confused - there are so many conventions and rules and it’s nearly impossible to do them all without feeling like a fraud... so I discovered a way around it.

If I wanted to live happily in Sudan, I had to remember a few simple things. 1) Kindly leave my moral compass and common sense in the cupboard along with my empty suitcase for when I leave again, and 2) Don’t think about anything.

At first I was so afraid of offending people because well, it’s really just not nice to… and in Sudan people take offence very easily – But what I discovered is that they also forgive very easily too. The best thing about this place is that as soon as people realize your intentions were not bad, they will automatically make excuses for you - forever; it’s actually really sweet – another thing that they do is they accept you regardless of who you are, no one is ever isolated. They say ‘Ho tab’o kida’ (6b3o kida) – which means ‘It’s just his/her nature’ – this is pretty much my free-pass card. Now when I don’t go to greet people, they come to me because ‘my nature is cold’ and they are not upset about it anymore. In fact, now if I do it, its like ‘wow Hind is amazing’ and if I don’t no one gets upset!!

It’s all about consistency, I realized that trying to change who I was to fit it and not offend anyone was just silly because I was setting myself up for a standard that I could not keep up with, whereas now that I’ve been branded in the ‘confused person’ category my life is pretty much awesome. 

N***er... it's only racist when white people say it...

This topic has been on my mind a lot...

It started when I was 14, back in secondary school (that's high school if your an American) and a lovely friend of mine, her name was Amy, asked if I could call after Kelly.

I didn't know who Kelly was, I knew she was in that circle of about 4-5 girls over by the bike shed because that's where Amy was vaguely pointing at with her facial features.

'Which one is Kelly?' I asked

'Umm... the one near the end'

'Can you describe her to me?'

'She's the one with short curly hair!'

'That leaves 3 girls.. I'm not sure which one you mean Amy!'

Poor Amy was in agony, there was very little for her to work with because all the girls wore the same school uniform and wore their hair down that day... I could see it in her face, she kept looking at me pleading that I would just know which one was Kelly without her having to racially segregate...

'The Black one', shouted out my best childhood friend, who had no problem describing people by their skin tones.

For a moment I was relieved that I could finally identify Kelly... but when I turned back to see Amy's face, she had flashed bright red at the sound of the word 'Black'. - She also frowned at my best friend (who is also white) as if to say 'You can't say that!!'

I needed a moment to process this.  There is 0% chance that Amy was racist... So why does she feel uncomfortable calling someone 'black', but is fine to call someone 'white'...?

Is she afraid of backlash? or does she inherently think that being 'black' is a bad thing? Whatever the reason, Amy was uncomfortable labeling someone racially with something that she was not. This was confusing for me as when I described someone as 'white' she was perfectly OK with it.

When we think back to racist America, it was all about segregation. Blacks here, Whites there - no mixing. The term N***er described a derogatory occupation, whereby the blacks had no choice but to have a white 'master'.

Now, this occupation has been outlawed, it is impossible for a white person to claim superiority over a black person in any way by law - whether it be socially, politically, scientifically etc

The N word has no meaning. It depicts the past, it cannot in any way shape or form have any power to return back the old ways - no matter how much a white person says the N word, they will NEVER be able to enslave a black person.

So why is it OK in society for a black person to say the word, and not for a white person to?

This in itself is where racism is rooted. Think about it this way. In comedy, you can punch up, but not down.
Why?

Because if you ridicule someone for having a PHD, when you have a Bsc, society knows that the PHD holder is actually more educated than the Bsc holder.

Whereas if  that same Bsc holder disses someone who never went to university - we have a problem.

So does allowing blacks to, and banning whites from saying the word N***er affirm white peoples superiority over blacks?

Or should the term just be banned all together??