Category Archives: Social/Political

Hey Buddy, where’s my integration?

Posted on by
Reply

After ten years living in the Netherlands, I would like to consider myself “fully integrated” in society. I have even integrated into the imported Moroccan and Turkish culture which enlivens my sense of Euro-African upbeat spicyness. But that’s MY intergration. Yesterday,  I noticed where the hitch may lie with some of my ‘ southern brothers’, who are fighting to bridge the cultural divide with enthusiasm. That’s just it; some of them are just not fighting.

To begin with, I will just say: without the Turkish/Moroccan ‘supermarket’ in my hood I would be culinarily dead. I go down there for my weekly fix of Turkish flatbreads, bunches of fresh coriander and peppermint, fresh green chillies and tahin, cumin, feta cheese and an assortment of olives to delight my children.On Sunday’s you’ll catch me at home make fresh yeast doughs, tabouleh salads and lahmaçun.

I love going there, but I do notice that I am considered just another ‘Hollander’ by the Muslim brothers. My skin colour tells them all they need to know, apparantly. But, how can they know I spent two decades in Africa, and that I draw my own conclusions? All these preconceptions were put to the test in the situation I experienced yesterday:

This is what happened: I cruised up to the door of my “supermarket” on my bike, yesterday, Sunday, happy to find it open as usual. The fruit and veg was on display outside – fresh and exotic. I saw a young guy standing at the entrance chatting to someone. I did not know this, but it was the new owner. I was very surprised by what I saw next: as I looked, I saw him turn his head and casually spit into an empty veggie crate. Well, better in there than on the ground in front of the entrance, I thought. I parked my bike, looking over there while I locked it, and then: I see him pick up that same crate, walk inside the shop and casually put it down on top of the foremost stack of food in the centre of the shop.

Now, for shopping purposes, I have a front carrier frame on my bike, and often “just grab a crate”, load it with my groceries, and carry it home like that. I found him in a side aisle and gave him back his crate with a soft-spoken but firm explanation. Amazingly, he was less than interested. During the course of what became an outspoken debate he made the following statements:

1. I should not be picking up boxes in his shop.

2. It is his shop, and he doesn’t care what I think. I am ‘just a customer’, and replacable.

3. He is a ‘foreigner’ and therefore “above Dutch law”

4. He couldn’t care less what my opinion was about cleanliness in his shop; according to him, he did not do it (spit), and invited me to inspect the box.

5. I was “a little bit crazy in the head”. (now, that really gets me going.)

Yes. Well, I hastened to inform him that I was a foreigner, too. (Which he didn’t believe). It is true that he was no older than 25 years, and at that age they generally do not appreciate being admonished by a woman, which I can somehow understand. But, although I had spoken to him softly and privately at first he did not back down from the odd haughty superiority which were his protection in the beginning. I am happy to say that he became the laughing stock of his personell even though they did not show it. They did laugh openly when I started doing my comedian’s interpretation of the Moroccan Dutch accent when they feel they need to make bold statements. I had them all in hysterics, acutally, except the owner, who was only mildly disgusted with my demand for cleanliness on his premises.

I am thoroughly assured that this was the stupidity of an individual, pained by the hunger of the Ramadan period. I would not and could never hold an entire nation responsible for such idiocy. The result however, was that I did go over to the neighbouring Turkish supermarket to do my shopping there instead. In spite of having been supporting that little shop for years now, with its constant change in ownership.

Oh, how some people, disregarding the help of their enduring and profound culture, can be such fools.

Have the Dutch treated the Turkish/Moroccan population with painful disdain? I don’t believe so. They have happily brought their culture with them, for which I am so very grateful. I think that cultural discrimination, no matter how useful as a tool in human interaction, exceeds its mark on the best of Sundays.

Some of my favourite ingredients…

 

ACN Aug 2011

KINGS OF THE ROAD

Posted on by
Reply

Friends of teenagers! Teachers! Heed my cry!:

KINGS OF THE ROAD

For years now the depraved recklessness of teenagers on bicycles in this flat land has resulted in the guttural gurgle of my stifled screams whenever their freewheeling path has crossed mine. At peak hours and break times you will invariably meet mobile clusters of wheels; riders in dark jackets with hoodies all under the age of 18, all in untidy formation swaying over the street as they chat and change around as if they were drunken ducks flying in migration. In this fashion they proceed through the benign and neat streets this country offers. Without signalling, without stopping, and changing directions without a moment’s notice, heedless of the elderly, the mothers with tiny tots on tricycles, with child on front; child on back – no! here come the teenagers: neglecting, reckless and depraved, as I have said already.

If I attempt to tell them, en passent, that they are terrorizing my neighbourhood with their night-ride-ishness, they just laugh and giggle, entertained by the notion that they are of interest. Girls flap their freshly washed hair, glints of bangle earrings appear above the shining patent leather jacket, while they actively ignore you. Secretly writing you off as stupid, and ‘uncool’, they stare at the sky, one hand on the keyboard of their overpriced i-phone, the other loosely on the handlebars, vaguely amused at being spoken to in public by somebody other than their mother. Why I feel compelled to assail them verbally against the more culturally applicable idea of ‘mind your own business’, which is chief in these parts, keeps me awake at night, not them.

But now, relief: The burning rage of injustice at being subjected to road terror has finally been quelled by understanding. The question which has begged an answer all these years: ‘why do they do that?’, finally begins to take shape in my exhausted mind. They, who have confused me; amazed me; bewitched me to the point of feeling compelled to educate, are on the point of being unmasked. Because, I’ve got it: It is a code. It is an unwritten, secret agreement that they will, wherever physically possible, beyond any limitations humane or legal, at all costs save their own destruction, keep going. Keep cycling. Not use the brake. It sounds curious, but after years of observing the teenage species, I conclude that this behaviour is a sport deserving of the highest unwritten honour among peers, and is completely a secret to the rest of the world: Just Don’t Stop.

They think they have us fooled, the monsters. Here they come, two sweet little 15 year old girls, big eyes twinkling, a tiny smile of delight at the corners of the mouth. They sail across an intersection artfully concealing their awareness of the chaos they leave in their wake. Their flowing curls are like daggers, their pearly white skin reminds of death; their laughter is that of the maddening sirens. The boys are ogres, bottom lip hangs down while they guffaw like hyenas fresh from the kill; their heads hang loosely on the shoulders as if they were all children of Quasimodo.

But, how can one devise a cunning plan to apprehend the Kings and Queens of the road? What counter offensive could possibly deserve a place on the altar of their notorious scheme? Quite: none exists.

I, just an insignificant adult who sold out to public service, am nothing to these omnipotent geniuses. I am feeble and wasted in this world of immortal youth; I am the doormat, without arms or legs, over which they walk to get a warm meal, to reach their freshly washed underwear. My schooled opinion is the folly of the educated, my wisdom is my destruction. Always a new generation of omnipresent and heavenly creatures will arise, burying us in their resilience, making mince of our years of careful discovery.

Will they ever need us, really? In the end, what will remain but the shining sun on their open road, as the youth settle their own affairs and create their own democracies. A time in which I will cease to create an obstruction in their landscape, with my incessant suggestions for improved social conduct will come. And, freed of my redundant obligation to society, I will breathe the sigh of relief, and go and live a sovereign existence on an island somewhere, breed dogs, watch art films and spend the sunset moments my ageing peers… and my wireless connection.

ACN

 

 

My English is ‘Substandard’

Posted on by
Reply

SUB STANDARD

According to an elderly gentleman I know, I speak sub-standard English, because I am from South Africa. Héh??!? Okay, just hold the phone. What is the statement here? It’s like this: According to this guy, along with us South Africans, also the Americans and all other English-speakers from outside of England share this predicament. We all speak sub-standard English due to the country of origin NOT being England. Well, maayyybeee the Americans?

Apparently, you can get quite an “education” sitting in front of popular websites. In fact, why am I studying English at all? I can just get it from the internet. Where I will probably learn there is no point in even trying, because it is like a black guy who is desperately trying to be white, and the cream is just not working.

Well, he’s probably right, too. No one from outside the U.K has ever laid claim to being an authority on the English language: we all know our place. There are no winners of literature prizes; no poets or novelists outside of England writing in anything but barely acceptable, slightly shoddy English.

Yes, I even think that the academics “abroad” have a “pal on the inside”, (in England) whom they regularly send secret emails whenever they are in a linguistic ‘tight spot’. Just to get the final word, you do understand. And, those who don’t are painfully unaware of their shortcomings, and are privately laughed by the English native community, with the kind-hearted patience often shown by parents to their children. Just like the engineers, also a band of self-overrating intellectuals, and are badly in need of a ‘buddy’ in Big Peoples academia.

I meet this person at parties, where in the past I have chatted to him about English. He is a Dutch native, obviously fascinated by my language. At these parties, amongst a group of native Dutch speakers, there is also an Englishman present. After chatting about the English language for an hour and reaching subject matter unknown to him, this guy doubts my opinion on the issue at hand, and promptly says: “Shall we ask the true authority?” He then turns to get the definitive final word from the Englishman. Never mind that I am doing a bachelor in English-teaching at the moment and spent my youth speaking English every day and attending English language schools. I am passionate about language, and then especially the English language. Hey, not that it’s personal or anything, right??? ‘No,’ he says, ‘it’s not about you personally. Your English, due to being from outside the U.K., is sub-standard.’

Now let me just contact my friend Eric in Surrey, before I publish this somewhat poor and substandard article to my website. Eric’s an illiterate bricklayer, but he IS from England proper, and a reeeally nice guy. You never know, it may need some touching up.

ACN