By DEBBIE HATHWAY
… sexual assault … Burmese leader … George Bush … chain to power … will of the people … coup d’etat … uprising … war against Islam … civil unrest … corruption … Somali …
The opening of PARTLY GOD is so intense; I have tears in my eyes within five minutes. That’s a good sign. "The dancers are brave, committed and disciplined ... There's no baggage. No filters," says director Lara Foot Newton.
Transnational trauma is one of the themes of PARTLY GOD. I googled it and found an April 2006 summary of the fourth conference in the Persian Gulf Initiative about transnational violence. It shows that emotion, spread through social networks, is the root cause of this type of uprising. It quoted a study of “weak-against-strong resistance in Eastern Europe throughout the Second World War. One of the best predictors of high-risk and high-sacrifice violence against occupation or political puppets was resentment, an emotion that depended upon inversions of group status. Even if the group that was placed in a higher status wasn’t a threat, it would be attacked...
“… alienation, anger, and shame have been used as descriptions of Europe’s diaspora Muslims, many of which comprise the Sunni extremist network. Emotion exists in the seemingly benign social bonds that gradually radicalise decentralised terror networks, and even today’s self-starters. Emotion galvanises populations in response to a clear change in group status. And emotion fosters the type of risk acceptance and sacrifice necessary for weak groups to take on strong militaries. Importantly, emotion in these cases is not invoked in an irrational/pathological sense, but as a normal response to the political events and social structure of daily life.
“... emotions appear integral to all the processes surrounding terror: networks, motivation, and ideology. They are central to the radicalisation story because changes in structure (e.g. wars in Afghanistan or Palestine, political repression throughout the Arab world, occupation in Iraq, etc.) affect emotion, and emotion affects the formation of one’s beliefs and the salience of one’s preferences.”
(Extracts of summary report by Nichole Argo, a Ph.D. candidate in political science at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, who was research assistant to the Persian Gulf Initiative in 2005-2006.)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Language of violence
35 performers "speaking the language of violence". Bodies become missiles.
partly god's mission to explore the narrative of conflict and violence. To: "engage with that which is unspoken. A silent language which begins to occupy the space between words and conveys lived memory, the language of speechless terror". - Adrienne Sichel
partly god's mission to explore the narrative of conflict and violence. To: "engage with that which is unspoken. A silent language which begins to occupy the space between words and conveys lived memory, the language of speechless terror". - Adrienne Sichel
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Terrorism Ahead
"Terrorism is a constant feature of human civilisation - it is neither new nor is it likely to ever end... Just as humans must contend with infectious diseases, they may also have to contend with terrorism as part of the human condition..."
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Riveting moves in rehearsal
By DEBBIE HATHWAY
It’s just over a month before Jazzart Dance Theatre’s partly god premieres in Cape Town. The boys are workshopping contact work in one studio while the girls piece together choreography in another.
Neo Muyanga of blk sonshine has composed the music and pops in to see what’s changed since he last saw a rehearsal. The girls are using his deeply impressive, melodic soundtrack − it will sound different when he plays it live on stage with a band.
Prominent classical ballet choreographer Veronica Paeper is also there watching the boys’ rehearsal. After a while, I ask her what she thinks. “It’s stunning… absolutely stunning,” she says, only averting her eyes long enough to phone her husband and tell him she’s staying for another half an hour.
We’re watching the wheelbarrow scene. “It’s got to look vicious and ugly,” says artistic director Alfred Hinkel. “At the moment they look like puftas.”
Company member Douglas Griffiths is lying on his back with his lower legs strapped to the arms of the wheelbarrow. One by one, the dancers take a flying leap into the barrow with a force that makes Douglas’ lower body arch into the air before contracting as he thrusts the barrow down again to eject them. It’s hurting his ankles and heels and they struggle to find a way of strapping that will get him through 10 performances without severe injury.
Somebody has a brainwave and Douglas declares “Dis fine.”
"Want jy’s a ghetto kind!" Alfred beams, as Douglas prepares for the next onslaught.
"We’ve got to get the image right; then she (director Lara Foot-Newton) wants me to turn this into a bigger dance number,” says Alfred.
They tackle the garbage can scene next, leaving the xenophobia and gang scenes for later. Company member Grant van Ster demonstrates, deftly taking Douglas out at the knees in a ferocious move that challenges the other dancers, particularly if they heights are incompatible.
There’s action on every beat and it’s hectic. The dancers have to be super-fit to cope. One gets knocked in the face by a stray kick; another rolls on the floor grimacing in pain as they work through another combination.
Alfred is unsympathetic. “Dis nie lekker nie. I told you when you came to the audition, go get a decent job. You wanted to be a dancer!” He says that to everyone...
Co-choreographer Sbonakalsio Ndaba advises quietly from the side: “Your body needs to relax so it goes out of control…” It’s a fight scene and it’s got to be realistic.
In the other room, co-choreographers Ina Wichterich-Mogane and Ananda Fuchs are combing steps to break the tension and give the piece a different atmosphere. It’s lighter; more rhythmical. “Why can’t the women do contact work?” asks Ina of nobody in particular. “Why is it always the men?” Ananda works in a gentle push action that satisfies them for the moment. Maybe Ina will think again when she sees how the men are punishing their bodies…
It’s just over a month before Jazzart Dance Theatre’s partly god premieres in Cape Town. The boys are workshopping contact work in one studio while the girls piece together choreography in another.
Neo Muyanga of blk sonshine has composed the music and pops in to see what’s changed since he last saw a rehearsal. The girls are using his deeply impressive, melodic soundtrack − it will sound different when he plays it live on stage with a band.
Prominent classical ballet choreographer Veronica Paeper is also there watching the boys’ rehearsal. After a while, I ask her what she thinks. “It’s stunning… absolutely stunning,” she says, only averting her eyes long enough to phone her husband and tell him she’s staying for another half an hour.
We’re watching the wheelbarrow scene. “It’s got to look vicious and ugly,” says artistic director Alfred Hinkel. “At the moment they look like puftas.”
Company member Douglas Griffiths is lying on his back with his lower legs strapped to the arms of the wheelbarrow. One by one, the dancers take a flying leap into the barrow with a force that makes Douglas’ lower body arch into the air before contracting as he thrusts the barrow down again to eject them. It’s hurting his ankles and heels and they struggle to find a way of strapping that will get him through 10 performances without severe injury.
Somebody has a brainwave and Douglas declares “Dis fine.”
"Want jy’s a ghetto kind!" Alfred beams, as Douglas prepares for the next onslaught.
"We’ve got to get the image right; then she (director Lara Foot-Newton) wants me to turn this into a bigger dance number,” says Alfred.
They tackle the garbage can scene next, leaving the xenophobia and gang scenes for later. Company member Grant van Ster demonstrates, deftly taking Douglas out at the knees in a ferocious move that challenges the other dancers, particularly if they heights are incompatible.
There’s action on every beat and it’s hectic. The dancers have to be super-fit to cope. One gets knocked in the face by a stray kick; another rolls on the floor grimacing in pain as they work through another combination.
Alfred is unsympathetic. “Dis nie lekker nie. I told you when you came to the audition, go get a decent job. You wanted to be a dancer!” He says that to everyone...
Co-choreographer Sbonakalsio Ndaba advises quietly from the side: “Your body needs to relax so it goes out of control…” It’s a fight scene and it’s got to be realistic.
In the other room, co-choreographers Ina Wichterich-Mogane and Ananda Fuchs are combing steps to break the tension and give the piece a different atmosphere. It’s lighter; more rhythmical. “Why can’t the women do contact work?” asks Ina of nobody in particular. “Why is it always the men?” Ananda works in a gentle push action that satisfies them for the moment. Maybe Ina will think again when she sees how the men are punishing their bodies…
Friday, July 31, 2009
Armageddon se balaclava – by Ronald Sasman
I am the land waarop jou voete staan
Innie dae waar jy moet betaal vir oxygen soesie vegetation vergaan
Green, yellow, and red is for land…gold and blood they took from us
Which makes me wonder if in my own people I can trust
For it is greed and lust that sways us to the wayside
Getuies of pride that strangles us under the crimson tide
In the darkness of night, willie ouens my verdaala
I pray that the Almighty keeps me safe, kanala
Sterk soes masala, Kerrie en borrie spices
Infecting this world with the venom of a 1000 poisonous vipers
Staan jy sterk in days where Armageddon lost its silence
It skarrel tussen o’s toegecloak in the form of violence
It wears a pair of ego sneakers en ‘n anger baadjie
Hy wag tot jy vi frustration meet, te saam is hulle bratjies
Wa bly hulle? Number 44 conscience court
Wa hulle twee illegally op jou emotions board…
Innie dae waar jy moet betaal vir oxygen soesie vegetation vergaan
Green, yellow, and red is for land…gold and blood they took from us
Which makes me wonder if in my own people I can trust
For it is greed and lust that sways us to the wayside
Getuies of pride that strangles us under the crimson tide
In the darkness of night, willie ouens my verdaala
I pray that the Almighty keeps me safe, kanala
Sterk soes masala, Kerrie en borrie spices
Infecting this world with the venom of a 1000 poisonous vipers
Staan jy sterk in days where Armageddon lost its silence
It skarrel tussen o’s toegecloak in the form of violence
It wears a pair of ego sneakers en ‘n anger baadjie
Hy wag tot jy vi frustration meet, te saam is hulle bratjies
Wa bly hulle? Number 44 conscience court
Wa hulle twee illegally op jou emotions board…
How do I feel about X. attacks?
When I heard of the burning tires, black fists clenched in hate of one another, my heart raced with fear.
My mom’s a different tribe. Living in the backyard of this eruption, will they see she’s different too? My mind raced with images of a smoke-filled, blood-spilled Johannesburg. Spaces once filled with cars now filled with the faceless anger, spears up, boots down, crunching towards amakwerekwere. The dawn will not come.
Their appetites whetted with the kill, kill, kill. Nostrils flare as the smell of crisp flesh surges them ahead. Flames dance in my brother’s eyes. The stars twice removed shine on to the bitter dawn. Somewhere across space and time, white faces ask me, “What have your people done?” and I can say nothing. How can I? I wasn’t even there.
But I remember. I remember thinking how have we come to this? I remember calling and getting no answer. I remember not sleeping, reading foreign newspapers, watching my country fall apart. I remember wanting to come home just to see if my country was still the same. I remember landing and looking at all the familiar sites, like a mother checking for scars on her baby. I saw none.
The air felt the same. There was no sign of terror. No marks left by the force. Someone erased this story. I remember looking at the mountain, hoping not to forget.
They say it was the perfect storm.
My mom’s a different tribe. Living in the backyard of this eruption, will they see she’s different too? My mind raced with images of a smoke-filled, blood-spilled Johannesburg. Spaces once filled with cars now filled with the faceless anger, spears up, boots down, crunching towards amakwerekwere. The dawn will not come.
Their appetites whetted with the kill, kill, kill. Nostrils flare as the smell of crisp flesh surges them ahead. Flames dance in my brother’s eyes. The stars twice removed shine on to the bitter dawn. Somewhere across space and time, white faces ask me, “What have your people done?” and I can say nothing. How can I? I wasn’t even there.
But I remember. I remember thinking how have we come to this? I remember calling and getting no answer. I remember not sleeping, reading foreign newspapers, watching my country fall apart. I remember wanting to come home just to see if my country was still the same. I remember landing and looking at all the familiar sites, like a mother checking for scars on her baby. I saw none.
The air felt the same. There was no sign of terror. No marks left by the force. Someone erased this story. I remember looking at the mountain, hoping not to forget.
They say it was the perfect storm.
Friday, July 03, 2009
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