- one -
Suicide Watch
The smell from Ouma’s kitchen is still in his nostrils, boboti with mashed potatoes
still baking in the oven, a pot of green, pea soup still steaming over the stove, filling the tiny
kitchen with its wide window which overlooks a vast barren field where many young men
and women, ignoring the warnings of their mothers and fathers, still venture into. He has
been there, that is how he met Rosalie who stands beside him now, waiting with him,
waiting for the next taxi into town.
He remembers the smell of wood fires and burning grass on cold, frosty nights with
his young friends, Muis, Poort and Jan, the stale stench of cigarettes on their jerseys
and coats, as they waited for the ladies to arrive for a fresh bout of courting. It is a
ritual which is passed down from Ouma and Oupa who recalled nostalgically how
they first cast eyes at one another in Hanover Street which now stands empty and
desolate and bereft with the strong scent of unwanted weeds, or so he has been
told.
He longs for the boboti, the rich aroma of fresh basil and sweetened yellow, or
savoury rice, as some in the Court call it.
We will fetch some daaltjies and samosas on our way up to Trafalgar Street, Rosalie
assures him, not wanting him to turn his dejection and repressed emotions of
disappointment and hopelessness on to her fragile frame. She has done her best as
far as she is concerned, what more can she do? Is it her fault that they are trapped
on the Flats in an endless cycle of poverty and empty hopes and empty promises. Is
it her fault that he is without work, is it her fault that he has impregnated her, she
tried so many times to keep her legs closed to him, but her arms turned enduringly
open to his overtures, the strong scent of his sweat and roll-on too much to bear. It is
true that she does love him dearly, but why is love so cruel, why do we all fall into the
same trap? We were told by Mrs Jaantjies to wait a little longer, to complete our
schooling, but with Moeder struggling to find new char jobs in Rondebosch
and Claremont where there are more African women than ever before, their strange
odiferous smells poring out from every second mevrou’s kitchen. It is said that they
are much cheaper than we are. The sight of Vader returning home, every Friday
night, late, reeking from copious amounts of beer and brandy was just too much. The
beatings and red welts were just too much. She grew tired of waiting, she told her
mother one morning, tired of waiting for the tide to turn, for this land of milk and
sweetly-scented honey to be hers, to have and to hold.
Wayne had made his promises too, when she found out that she was with child,
standing in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a yellow-tail in his left hand, and a
snoek with glaring, dead eyes, still smelling very strongly of the Cape sea. He said it
was in his blood, to sail upon the oceans and reap its harvests. She remembers the
exhilarating smell of the salt as the waves crashed over the rocks at Clifton beach
one stolen Sunday afternoon. The allure was too great to resist, there was still a
chance that Wayne could land a sea-faring contract, it was all that they had left to
hope for. Now, even that has been taken away from them, now what we and our
forefathers have always done, for centuries, has been taken away from us.
Rosalie does not know that Wayne has self-consciously decided their fate, ensuring that the
Glock remains concealed under his knitted jersey, she does not notice the deceit behind his
despairing eyes, she has always trusted him to do the right thing and what was best for
them in the long run.
The taxi arrives, at long last. Rosalie and Wayne are anxious to reach Cape Town
before dusk, it is no longer safe to walk about the streets at night, Wayne warns his
beloved. The vehicle’s fumes of wasted gasoline fill their nostrils once more. It is a
familiar smell. Another journey through the winding, dusty streets of the Cape Flats is
about to begin. Will they reach their destination safely they wonder. It is a question
they ask one another time and time again. Oh, if only we could afford our own
wheels, they lament. The driver is a sight for sore eyes, they muse. Rastafarian
dreadlocks cover his equally dirty face, is it he that smells so strongly of sweat. Or is
it the gap-toothed gaartjie whose bare arms are hideously pockmarked by gross,
green tattoos?
The whole of the front seat is taken up by two dangerous looking men, dressed in
the American gangsta style. Are they indeed gangsters? Wayne does not know, he
is not from this township. Rosalie does not seem to know either, she is usually
indoors when the gangs come out to play. To rape, murder and steal, that is what
they do best, that is all they know. Now they are doing quite well, they say,
memphetamine is all the rage, it is very much in demand. Wayne and Rosalie, who
like to take a beer every now and then when they are visiting Cape Town, would not
dream of touching it. It is not the life they yearn for.
There is a clattering sound accompanying the strong gaseous smell of the taxi’s
interior, it is coming from the fore. Gaartjie and Driver seem oblivious to it. The
elderly lady, standing on the corner of Forest Road, now clambering into the taxi, has
noticed it. Still, it may pass, and in any event, she needs to get to Mowbray before
evening sets into her ailing spine. The horde of young teenagers, standing outside
Vanguard Shopping Mall, who are at first reluctant to board this rickety specimen of
a vehicle, have also noticed this sound. Nervous glances are passed from one
passenger to the next, Wayne and Rosalie smile nervously at one another. The old
lady raises her eyes to heaven knows where. They are grateful. Hanover Park has
passed them by without any incident. The gangsters have long clambered from the
vehicle. Their place has been taken by a well-dressed African couple, they must
still be in their twenties, Wayne and Rosalie remark to each other. Everyone cannot
help staring. It is not a familiar sight. Imagine that, two Africans in Bridgetown.
The Africans depart the taxi, thankfully. The gaartjie expresses amazement at their
preciseness at dictating the exact change for one hundred rands, he cannot
overcharge them, they recall the fare, eight rands, sixteen rands in total, that is, he
hesitates with hands trembling, to work out the exact amount due to the well-heeled
passengers, eighty-four rands. A nurse has boarded the taxi which is sounding ever
closer to its automatic death, just at the robots which signal the border between
township and suburb. The students and the old lady depart the taxi in Mowbray. It is
the bumper, the driver remarks joyously to his partner, it is going to come apart, we
must see to it when we get to the deck. The nurse departs the taxi at the foot of
Groote Schuur, her shift starts at six. It is five-thirty. We are almost there, Wayne and
Rosalie glance happily to one another.
As a heaving, overweight mother of two small children, with heavy parcels at the end
of each weary arm, squeezes into the narrow confines of what passes for passenger
seats, gathering her two children into her belaboured folds, as an African man,
cellphone pierced tightly to his ear, where is he from, Congo, Nigeria, shoves his
way into a seat, a police van pulls up in front the taxi. The two constables are visibly
angry, livid in fact, and very keen to impose their authority upon a driver, not of their
tribe, and unable to produce the requisite license card. They are angry at being
addressed as chiefs, it is a derogatory term to them. The bemused driver meant no
harm, it is in his nature to show such witticism, particularly in this day and age. He is arrested.
The familiar and oily smells of Cape Town fill the nostrils of the passengers who
irritatingly board another passenger vehicle, thankful that they did not have to pay
another fare. Wayne is glancing at the magnificent blue mountain, its feet speckled
with indigenous trees, he does not stop dreaming, of wondrous moments, of a hose
beneath this mountain, he has not told Rosalie, this dream is too much to bear. He does not
stop thinking of his painful plan to end it all on the barren plains on which once stood
District Six. The narrow street that winds its way into Cape Town is bordered by old terraced
shops, used furniture dealers, green grocers, video outlets, loan shops with exorbitant
interest rates, one or two warehouses promising a revival of the spirit, and finally one
or two refurbished warehouses promising a new organic, aesthetically pleasing lived
experience. It is still the preserve of the whites, what do we know about class, style
and good taste, Rosalie wonders.
The African’s voice is booming, noisily it is irritating to the ear. He is surreptitiously
ordering someone about on the other side of his line. Wayne, Rosalie and the fat
woman with two small children glance at one another amusingly, the African’s
cellphone is large, hideous in its vain attempt at keeping up with a modern era of
mass communication, social media it is now called, though they know nothing of it
themselves. To them, a fashionable, shiny phone’s primary accessories must
encompass an MP3 player, a radio too, of course, and a camera in order to preserve
happy memories. This is when Ma celebrated her seventieth birthday, this when
Boet brought his new baby girl for Ma to see, this is when we all stood outside
singing and laughing, seeing to it that the new year was a happy, joyful affair. This is
when Awie turned twenty-one, and this is when the klopse decided to entertain us all
instead of taking their troupes to the white areas, today they practice as often as
possible, but it is not the same as in the old days when we were still quite young, and
even Pa would take part.
The new driver, thankfully, is oblivious to the African’s loud, pretentious attempt to
impress. He leaves the taxi just before the turn-off into Darling Street, no-one knows
where he is going. The streets are quite bereft of life synonymous with industry,
trade and entertainment. Vagrants lie strewn across weed-filled grounds, empty
bottles surrounding them. Looking up towards the mountain once more, Wayne
notices the old Anglican chapel standing alone, surrounded by empty streets and
polluted fields. Colourful memories cloud his eyes. The fresh smell of starch as
Ouma and Ma hang out washing to dry over Kitchener Road where he was born.
Tuesdays, the Muslims used to prepare spices, jasmine, cumin, fresh curry leaves,
and fresh cuts of meat, lamb mostly, it was affordable then, for the oncoming feast.
The ghoema had an acute quality about it then, old men reminiscing upon days still
before Wayne and Rosalie were born, singing in perfect harmony. The sweet,
sugary scent of koeksusters is also remembered, as well as the long, mournful call to
pray in the early hours of the morning before the sun rises.
Evening is approaching rapidly now, the taxi makes it way rapidly up a long, steep
hill off Darling Street. We are almost there, Rosalie and Wayne glance at each other,
relieved. They can see shadows creeping into all the familiar corners of the old
Parade which was christened Isaac Ospowich Square many years ago now, they still
do not know why. The deck is another journey all on its own. Dark-skinned men,
smelly, some hideous-looking, pockmarked with the ravages of wars, or street fights,
lurk under the pillars of the beneficent port as passengers escape the taxi’s
murderous grip which held them through a long, nervous journey. The pleasant
aroma of African delights, pots of meat with samp, rhythmic beats not familiar to
them, accompany their short, quick journey across the deck. Purses, CD pouches,
DVD’s, pairs of training shoes emblazoned with American legends partially hinder
their walk across the perilous bridge. They clamber down wooden stairs, and
finally they are on solid concrete.
The old clock tower booms six o’ clock as Wayne and Rosalie make their way across
the Parade which is empty of custom now, only litter being swept up by the mighty
south easter reminding them of the business of the day. Stalls with clothing, reams of
material, plastic Chinese toys, kitchen utensils, opulent scents of perfumes and after-
shaves that fell off the backs of trucks crossing the border into the Limpopo,
pleasant-smelling curries accompanied by rotis. Young African urchins selling
plastic bags, Coloured men selling super glue guaranteed to stick, older peers in
finely starched white overcoats unveiling gold jewellery of the lightest carat. Old
ladies who have long ago discarded their beauty and covered themselves shamefully
and firmly with coats and scarves, selling mielies and samosas. The ongoing traffic
of Darling and Buitenkant Streets is heard in the distance while Jan Van Riebeeck’s
Castle stands firmly to the left, protectively watching over the Parade and the rest of
a burgeoning city, awash with new sounds from faraway places. We are at
least safe, Wayne reassures Rosalie, as they board the next taxi, we are at least
safe. Unnoticed by her, he pats the side his hip, reminding himself of the fate that he has
chosen for them.
- two -
Paint it Black
War. It rages on long after the storm has passed. The charred streets are deserted.
There is nothing left for us to rape and pillage, we have left our mark. Charming
villa’s and apartment blocks which once gleamed in the harsh sun are now just
dusty, hollow shells, bearing little resemblance to an ancient eastern city invaded by
men bearing the flags of western morals and mores. Walls had crumbled like burning
paper into a waste paper basket.
Black is his favourite colour. He remembers his first experience of this colour of
darkness. The teacher had restricted their use to primary colours. Red was the
colour of his first childhood dream, a fire engine grinding its way up a mountain road.
Yellow is perceived to be a colour of friendship, but it leaves him feeling nauseous.
Blue, a colour of peace and serenity, but it is of little use now.
Interesting colour, red, he thinks to himself. A figment of the imagination, an
obsession perhaps, the colour of hell. When he sees the colour of yellow in his
mind’s eye, he sees the pus oozing from a corpse, decomposing, being feasted upon
by white maggots. It leaves him cold. Blue is where heaven is, so they say.
Roses are red, violets are blue, the grass is not always greener on the other side, he
chimes, as red blood oozes from his own stomach. He liked the yellow rose, a
symbol of friendship. It was quite beautiful.
The colour black was always averted. It was considered to be an allusion to darkness and
evil. It is as thick as the darkest night, not suitable for young and innocent minds.
He remembers being taught the difference between right and wrong, good and bad,
the brave and the cowardly, the differences between man and woman, the
differentiation between being gay and straight, a confusing allusion to the perverted
nature of man, or his right to manifest himself sexually. The difference between black
and white. He remembers consulting the dictionary definitions. He hears a distant
explosion, the sky above him remains grey, it is slowly darkening. He could never
understand the oppressors’ and liberators’ obsessions with these colours.
He is finally fetched, rescued and stretchered off to the ambulance, transported to
the sanatorium. He will be safe there. An oasis in this desert of desolation. It is
surrounded by high walls. From his cell he can hear the ripple of small waves
shivering towards the black river. He can smell its fumes. Black suited guards with
polished black boots eyeball him all the time. He is always watched, but no matter.
They escort him into an office. A bespectacled, rotund desk sergeant greets him
cheerfully. Sweating, he ruffles his papers.
They want to know why he joined their campaign if he did not entirely believe in it.
He risks being confined indefinitely. He cannot lie. The detector is embedded with
minute micro-fibres, and his arm is tightly strapped. These fibres detect all
occurrences from his past, great occasions, mediocre accomplishments, whether
they can be defined as being good or bad. He concedes that he does have blood on
his hands, as we all do, they nod approvingly. He was neither charitable, nor
sociable, preferring the isolation and small comforts of his loft. He felt unwanted by
society, but was sometimes glad not to be counted, like a number. He wasn’t their
problem either.
- three -
DO DREAMS COME TRUE?
About a week ago I had this dream.
I emigrated to Australia (and not to New Zealand as I had previously thought during the day). The airport terminus was large, much larger than JF Kennedy outside New York. I slipped through unnoticed, and scrambled across the motor carriageway which was bereft of its usual high volume of traffic. The clouds were low and sombre, the waves were rising rapidly and water rushed over barriers at a terrific speed.
I found shelter in an unusually large shopping mall which was bereft of its usual high volume of traffic. Exclusivity and all that you would come to expect from an upmarket shopping haven, however, I shifted uncomfortably, and made my way to its exits. I had to run long and hard to find it.
The perimeters of this unusually large shopping mall resembled something that one had become accustomed to seeing outside the Bellville railway station back near Cape Town from which I had apparently fled. But its merchants were all Aborinal Australians, frantically yelling helplessly as thieves made off with their merchandise. They spoke English in the distinctive Australian accent.
I was a gangster, on the outskirts of a modern Australian city, in the suburbs, mostly poor whites were living there. I was dressed poorly in a suit resembling that worn by the protagonist in the Canadian film "Citizen Gangster". I was scrambling for the hills, I struggled to climb its marshy cliffs which resembled those seen outside the favellas of a modern Brazilian city. Thankfully, I was rescued by my clan, after being chased by heavy, stupid wiseguys. "Goodfellas". Thankfully, no Robert de Niro or Joe Pesci.
I was nursing my scars in a tiny backroom which resembled those often seen on the Cape Flats from which I had apparently fled. It was supported by hardboard and had no windows. The women who comforted me, large and dressed in unfashionable floral coveralls, made me feel uncofortable. They wanted something a little more than nursing me.
To speak of nursing. I fled once more. And found myself back at the airport. This time they nabbed me, and escorted me through the usual checkpoints. And now security had become very tight indeed, the snow-white security guards were armed with sub-machine guns. I was subjected to a thorough body search. Stripped, a hospital gown placed over my dank body. I was examined medically by a kindly looking nurse who spoke to me kindly in the distinct Australian accent. She had a diagnosis.
"You have AIDS".
I have had worse dreams.
- four -
ARGUING AGAINST MILL’S POSITION ON THE MORAL
SIGNIFICANCE OF OUR ACTIONS
A critical evaluation – John Stuart Mill
In this essay I argue that “ the moral significance of our actions “ is not determined “ solely in terms of our actions. “ In disagreeing with Mill’s position, I critically evaluate it and support my argument with personal views. In critically evaluating Mill’s position I give an interpretation of what is meant by morality.
Having read Plato and Aristotle, John Stuart Mill, as an ethical theorist, devised a consequentialist system of morality which dictates that;
“ It is the consequences of actions, and only the consequences of actions, that determine whether actions are right or wrong. “ ( p 134 )
Mill believed that if the consequences of performing certain actions are the increase of happiness, these actions are right, and if the consequences of performing certain actions decreases happiness, then these actions are wrong. He also formulated his utilitarian principle of happiness where;
“ If happiness is increased, we say that the appropriate actions have high utility, and if happiness decreased, we say that the appropriate actions have low utility. “
In formulating his principle of hedonism Mill stated that;
“ The only consequences of an action which have intrinsic value are pleasure or happiness “ ( p 135 ).
Consequences of my actions can bring happiness to others. In this context we think of a soldier who at great risk to his life willingly defends his fellow countrymen. Should he lose his life the loss of his life may secure the lives of others. A mother is willing to endure hardship and self-sacrifice for the benefit of her family. A hedonist, on the other hand, will do much to secure his own happiness without counting the cost of loss of happiness to his peers as a result of his self-centred actions.
Mill concedes that people “ desire virtue and the absence of vice, no less really than pleasure and the absence of pain . “ ( p 134 )
Morality is not solely based on consequences. The measurement of happiness is not solely based on consequences. In Mill’s concession he accedes that it is possible that the individual must endure or perform a number of actions before achieving his final purpose of total and final happiness. Morality is not the sole preserve of the individual. In taking a moral position, other individuals, or communities, and ultimately God, must be considered.
The principle of universalism entails that; “ the good consequences of an action must accrue equally to all persons who are affected by the performance of the act. “ ( p 135 )
This brings us closer to the true purpose of morality.
In measuring the principles of hedonism, we note that three notions mentioned as being crucial to understanding Mill’s hedonism; “ desiring a thing involves thinking of it as pleasant, thinking of something as pleasant is to think of it as good, and that desiring a thing involves thinking of it as good “ ( p 136 ) , are purely based on materialistic desires. The desire and consumption of natural, material things such as coffee, alcohol and roast pork, to achieve satisfaction, are counter-productive. The consumption of coffee, or alcohol brings relief and satisfaction to the human senses, but as anti-depressants it leads to cravings for more. If the human senses are not instantly satisfied, previous feelings of anxiety are heightened and the end objective of seeking self-gratification, or personal happiness is defeated. From a moral perspective we learn and know that the excessive consumption of coffee and alcohol does more harm to the human senses, body and mind. Hence, we learn to curb our hedonistic desires.
Mill is correct to question and alter Bentham’s “ quantitative hedonism “ ( p 137 ) and right to assume that quality in attaining a pure state of happiness, but his assumptions are still devoid of basic moral considerations. I reiterate Mill’s concession that the human being ultimately desires virtue and “ the absence of vice. “
I do not agree with Mill’s “ Greatest Happiness Principle “ to reach a conclusion “ about the ultimate test of morality “ ( p 139 ). In principle it is correct to consider the greatest number of persons available in order to maximise happiness for this number “ on the grounds that this is the supreme moral obligation. “ We consider a weighty constitutional issue such as abortion where a law on abortion is passed through both Houses in the American system of government, and previously a ruling of the Supreme Court of Justice where it had argued for and against, and in response to the Roe vs Wade precedent. The rights of the female individual to safeguard her body and health in a way she deems fit was gained, however, the issue at hand remained “ the killing of an unborn child “. Such a case was argued individualistically and had a profound influence on the country’s population and their moral well-being. Needless to say, American society, and society as a whole, remains divided on this issue. The vagaries of daily life tempts the human being to practice abortion when previously such an act was abhorrent to her.
Let us assume that such a law is passed in favour of a large majority in the name of “ Greatest Happiness “. There is not sufficient proof to take such a decision because minorities have been excluded from this decision. Further, the rights of the “ unborn child “ have been decimated. In taking a decision on moral grounds, the commands, or law of a higher being such as God are rejected.
Where Mill’s principle of consequences is used, decisions taken by rulers and courts are rational. Mill states that an action is right if “ there is no alternative action which may produce a greater balance of pleasure over pain “. I conclude that while there is still pain in the body politic, there are alternative actions, and if there is none, alternative actions must be sought.
I agree with Ally’s concern that “ hedonism is a very contentious doctrine “ ( p 138 ) and that “Mill’s notion of low quality pleasures and superior pleasures. In my view the person who enjoys poetry and ballet has a sound moral foundation from which he can explain the pleasure he derives from it. The person who derives pleasure from reading gossip columns and watching W W E wrestling subjects his moralism to query, or he may be lacking in morals altogether. I concede that this comparison takes into account what Mills says about the level of a person’s intelligence, however, I contend that deficiencies in human intelligence can be remedied.
A youth lacking in intelligence may be from a poverty-stricken background where opportunities in education and the development of critical skills are lacking. A more privileged youth develops his mental skills sufficiently enough to refine his aesthetic thoughts and feelings. But what if the privileged youth develops a taste for pornography? We could say that he is lacking in moral and spiritual guidance, or otherwise, more severly, may have suffered physical or sexual abuse to reach this state. Here, the human being’s moral development is critical. While I agree with Mill’s utilitarian view that “ psychological facts about people are what counts in making moral judgements “ ( p 139 ), it is not enough. The highest state of human happiness that any human can achieve is not a human condition alone, but dependent on a higher realm of being, v.i.z. on a level beyond his comprehension. A human with an acute understanding of his God’s laws, if he believes that there is a being higher than him, and spiritually gifted to communicate soundly with his creator, is better placed to make a moral judgement on his happiness, or take a custodial position on the happiness of others, than a non-responsive being.
I disagree with the assumptions that “ we are not blameworthy “ ( p 163 ) when we “unintentionally do wrong things or make the wrong moral decisions. “ If we are not to blame, then who or what is to blame? It is clear that Mill makes most assumptions from a scientific point of view. When we do wrong it is premeditated, or if a wrong deed is committed “ in the heat of the moment “ then there are usually feelings of regret, or remorse afterwards. I would argue that the person who is blameless, or guilt-free, is the least developed person, who retains a child-like mental state for most of his adult life, however, even a retarded person is prone to moral considerations when his loving parents may teach him rudimentarily the laws of nature and God and the value of knowing Christ ( or Bhudha ).
In this essay I have argued persuasively against Mill’s theories on moralism, hedonism, consequentialism and universalism. I disagree with Mill that “ the moral significance of our actions must be determined solely in terms of our actions “ .
No comments:
Post a Comment