Expressions of Johannesburg pride
Daniel Somerville.
Originally published: 1 October 2003.
JOHANNESBURG — One can almost write a report on Pride before it takes place. South African Gay and Lesbian Pride (formerly Lesbian and Gay Pride - a more inclusive and less marginalizing title) is now firmly following the model set by Prides worldwide - have fun, fun, fun, look glamorous, drink, dance and forget all your woes. There is a stage and some tents - the beer and dance tent at the gathering point are most important - lots of rainbows and pink, drag artists, some boring speeches to ignore and then the parade and after party - which strangely always has more people in attendance than the march - so what are they partying after, you may ask?
It is a far cry from the foundation of the Pride phenomenon in South Africa, now in its 14th year. There was a time - and Yusoof Abdullah, co-organiser of the Pride event this year is keen to remind people of his connection to those initial Pride marches - when Pride meant something. It was illegal to march and great risks were taken by participants - but then they had something to fight for. And, as history tells us, they got it - they got our freedom, they helped in the political movement that put sexual orientation into the constitution - a ground on which discrimination was forever banned. So why not party-on and celebrate now, nearly ten years after that freedom was won?
Well there is a good reason why some political sentiments need to be injected back into the Pride event - our most public expression of pride in ourselves and our community. Just because it says so in the constitution doesn't mean that people don't discriminate against lesbian and gay people and that homophobia is not still rife in South Africa. Hans Pienaar reported in the Star today that: "Several people walked out of a modern-dance show at the Aardklop National Arts Festival at the weekend because two male dancers kissed each other on stage. On the same weekend as Johannesburg's raucous Pride festival, festival-goers in Potchefstroom displayed their lack of tolerance for homosexuality - yet did not bat an eyelid at depictions of bestiality and graphic nudity [in other productions in the festival]."
This is just a small example of the intolerance that exists, not just in Potchefstroom but in many small towns, rural areas and township communities - even in our major cities that boast gay bars and lucrative gay tourist attractions. Homophobia exists and it is not just a matter of people being called names - real discrimination happens all the time. Whether it is regarding legislation and rights, such as those much talked about marriage rights, or whether it is in terms of violent hate crimes that target lesbian and gay people.
Scores of women are raped and beaten throughout the year in South Africa. Predominantly from township communities, lesbian women are targeted by members of their communities and find little protection from local police and other services that are supposed to help them. Some health workers, social workers, counsellors and local officials share the homophobic sentiments of the perpetrators of these crimes and do little or nothing to help.
Few lesbian or gay people in the world have not heard of Matthew Shepard; a victim of a violent and brutal homophobic attack that led to his death hanging from a fence in the USA. But we have our own Matthew Shepards - we are just less willing to learn their names and honour their suffering with action. We remember the same fallen heroes every year - Simon Nkoli, Leonesse von Cleefe and others - and why not, they meant something to us and worked hard for their community - but what about those who suffer now? We shouldn't let our former fallen heroes eclipse the people who should be being remembered or assisted today.
My experience and expression of Pride this year took the form of wearing my "No excuse for abuse" T-shirt replete with diagram of two women holding hands. I stood in front of the stage to hear the speeches and had a very clear view as dozens ignored the messages of support as if we don't need them. Then there were the messages of conscience - and even less willingness to listen. Evert Knoesen of the Equality Project had the courage to stand in front of a predominantly white audience and make an appeal for members of the community to address inequalities in the community and to break down barriers - this, a responsibility that has usually been given to organisations, he now passed back to individuals in the community. He asked that we re-politicise Pride; that we reach out to the marginalized and absent. But as he spoke and the crowd thinned - both black and white making a getaway from the kill-joy of conscience - it became clear that the divide in the community may not be about race entirely, but is actually about political awareness. By the end of his speech most of the crowd he was addressing were black - he had achieved his aim but was now preaching to the converted.
When I had arrived at the march a rather tatty-looking disco bunny subjected me to his scrutiny and then remarked with exaggerated sarcasm (looking at my bicycle) "Baie car eh!?" To English ears it sounds like "Buy a car, eh!" Either way his message was clear - you don't fit the mould of the moneyed, attractive, young, carefree spirit of the day - or of the community as I see it. Now, if he struggles with my perceived lowly economic status, what hope for his being the least bit accepting of the poor and marginalized and, God forbid, black people who dared to spoil his day with their issues? What hope is there that he would listen to the messages being touted from the stage for so small a part of the day?
Following the messages of conscience came the judges and party people brought in for the day to judge how spectacular the gays are. And their segment on the stage began with: "Have the drugs kicked in yet?" Followed by "We are here, we are queer, and we are not going shopping!"
Now there I was in my T-shirt, alone, wondering why no one at Pride seemed interested in their community; in a sense of community or in anything other than themselves and their pursuit of pleasure. If, given the opportunity to make a statement to each other and to those straight people who may see the parade, the most interesting thing we have to say is Guess or Billabong, then why are we marching? What are we celebrating? What is there to be proud of? If Pride is just another party for superficial drug bunnies - then give it another name and let those remaining few who have some sense of the politics behind the freedoms we enjoy and still pursue, have an event of sincerity called Pride, a political movement that highlights the continuing struggles, be they legislative or societal. Don't take Pride and turn it into something that I am ashamed of - not in my name.
I have been marching in Pride marches in UK and South Africa since 1985. I have never missed a year. I even helped to organise one in South Africa in 2001. My commitment to the need for Pride and its meaning is total - so why was this the first year of my adult life that I couldn't march? Am I getting old? And why should that be such a sin in the gay world? No, none of this, I just could not find anything there to be proud of. Pride in myself and in my beliefs; pride in my place in society and the various communities with whom I interact means that I march everyday - never covering my sexual orientation. I have pride in the achievements of the organisations that continue to work for our rights in South Africa. I am proud that I wore that T-shirt that seemed to baffle so many. But I am not proud of Pride, of what it has become, of what it now represents and attracts - my expression of pride this year was to have the conviction to stop marching for an event that has become politically meaningless.
