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Q: can httpd run php-script as specific user My server has a couple of users in it. I am running httpd with php support.
Now all users can make php-script and open it with their browser and run it as www-data. Because of this, it is impossible to make php-script not accessible by others and everyone is able to see each others SQL-passwords etc. if they wish.
Is there any way to run those php-scripts as owner of the file? Or another suggestion how to secure the situation. I've been studying Apache Virtual hosts as a possible solution but with no luck. suPHP would probably do the trick but no longer available from repo.

A: This is well-known problem that can be solved using mpm-itk apache module which is specifically intended for running scripts in virtual hosts with the rights of their owners (http://mpm-itk.sesse.net/).
This module is prebuilt into hosting administration packages such as ISPmanager and so on. I'd recommend using such packages to get rid of boring ajustments of your server because all can be done in a few minutes.

A: One way is mpm-itk apache module, which allows to run each of virtual host under a separate uid and gid. But the solution isn't acceptable for pure nginx installations.
Another and better in my opinion solution is to switch to php-fpm which can run multiple separate pools each with its own uid/gid. Read this kindly.


Where's the snow? How can we go sledding if there is no snow? I do see people skating on the lake but...be careful people, it hasn't been cold. Stay near the edge where it is shallow please. Do you know what kind of ice is safe ice? NONE OF IT!! Be careful.
What a day. We had a lot of fun. I think everybody left happy. The kids kind of got to do their own thing, we had a fire in the smart board fireplace (one of them even had a guy stoking the fire and poking it), some guys played poker, we had a lot of finger knitting and pom pom making going one and later we watched class movies. Good times.
Are you ready for this year to be done? Tomorrow is it, the last day of school for the year. When we come back it will be 2012 and you will be that much closer to middle school. This year is flying by!!
Joe is home, Jake is one test away and John and Pam will fly in soon. Jim and Courtney won't get here until the 25th but wow, it's starting to feel a lot like Christmas.
We are going to finish up our Long Lake storybooks this week. We are also going to get a cool math project. We need to cover some adding of fractions and thinking about how that compares to adding decimals so...fun stuff with pieces of things. You will have the entire break to work on your project. It will be fun.
I hope you are all packed and ready to go. I am just going to pack now but I know everything I'm going to bring. I have packed in my head already, now I just have to actually do it.
We are going to have such a wonderful time. How excited are you? I am pumped. See you tomorrow at 8:00 am.
So it seems like you all like to make decimal art. It is pretty fun. I will make lots of copies of the 100 squares sheets for you so you can make them during read aloud and other times when you have a free minute. I have another decimal project lined up for tomorrow and then we are going to talk about yet a third idea and an assignment for you to think about and possibly work on over the holiday break.
I think we can all keep it up--I mean, of course, the rad study skills we have when Ms Dahlem is in the room. I wonder what it is about Ms Dahlem that makes the blurters stop bluring. If you have a proposed answer to my wonder, blog it and you may proceed straight to the prize bucket tomorrow.
Apparently I listed the specialists incorrectly! Today was media and tomorrow is PE. You have music on Wed., Media on Thursday and PE on Friday. Does that make sense?
Kyle the Art Guy taught us about drawing human faces today. We made a template to put underneath our drawings to give us the right dimensions. Then we got to create some cartoon guys using the 6 oval method. Fun! Kyle is hilarious.


text:
Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface
Dat Tran, Wanli Ma, Dharmendra Sharma
Information, Technology (IT) & Systems
Support vector machine (SVM) and support vector data description (SVDD) are the well-known kernel-based methods for pattern classification. SVM constructs an optimal hyperplane whereas SVDD constructs an optimal hypersphere to separate data between two classes. SVM and SVDD have been compared in pattern classification experiments, however there is no theoretical work on comparison of these methods. This paper presents a new theoretical model to unify SVM and SVDD. The proposed model constructs two optimal points which can be transformed to hyperplane or hypersphere. Therefore SVM and SVDD are regarded as special cases of this proposed model. We applied the proposed model to analyse the dataset III for motor imagery problem in BCI Competition II and achieved promising results.
International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011)
Lecture Notes in Computer Science
Bao-Liang Lu, Liqing Zhang, James Kwok
18th International Conference on Neural Information Processing - Shanghai, Shanghai, China
18th International Conference on Neural Information Processing
Tran, D., Ma, W., & Sharma, D. (2011). Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface. In B-L. Lu, L. Zhang, & J. Kwok (Eds.), International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011): Lecture Notes in Computer Science (Vol. 7062, pp. 692-700). Germany: Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-24955-6_82
Tran, Dat ; Ma, Wanli ; Sharma, Dharmendra. / Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface. International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011): Lecture Notes in Computer Science. editor / Bao-Liang Lu ; Liqing Zhang ; James Kwok. Vol. 7062 Germany : Springer, 2011. pp. 692-700
@inproceedings{9f04034535e14141b1b6b05e83140ec6,
title = "Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface",
abstract = "Support vector machine (SVM) and support vector data description (SVDD) are the well-known kernel-based methods for pattern classification. SVM constructs an optimal hyperplane whereas SVDD constructs an optimal hypersphere to separate data between two classes. SVM and SVDD have been compared in pattern classification experiments, however there is no theoretical work on comparison of these methods. This paper presents a new theoretical model to unify SVM and SVDD. The proposed model constructs two optimal points which can be transformed to hyperplane or hypersphere. Therefore SVM and SVDD are regarded as special cases of this proposed model. We applied the proposed model to analyse the dataset III for motor imagery problem in BCI Competition II and achieved promising results.",
keywords = "Machine Learning, Brain-Computer Interface",
author = "Dat Tran and Wanli Ma and Dharmendra Sharma",
editor = "Bao-Liang Lu and Liqing Zhang and James Kwok",
booktitle = "International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011)",
Tran, D, Ma, W & Sharma, D 2011, Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface. in B-L Lu, L Zhang & J Kwok (eds), International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011): Lecture Notes in Computer Science. vol. 7062, Springer, Germany, pp. 692-700, 18th International Conference on Neural Information Processing, Shanghai, China, 13/11/11. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-24955-6_82
Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface. / Tran, Dat; Ma, Wanli; Sharma, Dharmendra.
International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011): Lecture Notes in Computer Science. ed. / Bao-Liang Lu; Liqing Zhang; James Kwok. Vol. 7062 Germany : Springer, 2011. p. 692-700.
T1 - Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface
N2 - Support vector machine (SVM) and support vector data description (SVDD) are the well-known kernel-based methods for pattern classification. SVM constructs an optimal hyperplane whereas SVDD constructs an optimal hypersphere to separate data between two classes. SVM and SVDD have been compared in pattern classification experiments, however there is no theoretical work on comparison of these methods. This paper presents a new theoretical model to unify SVM and SVDD. The proposed model constructs two optimal points which can be transformed to hyperplane or hypersphere. Therefore SVM and SVDD are regarded as special cases of this proposed model. We applied the proposed model to analyse the dataset III for motor imagery problem in BCI Competition II and achieved promising results.
AB - Support vector machine (SVM) and support vector data description (SVDD) are the well-known kernel-based methods for pattern classification. SVM constructs an optimal hyperplane whereas SVDD constructs an optimal hypersphere to separate data between two classes. SVM and SVDD have been compared in pattern classification experiments, however there is no theoretical work on comparison of these methods. This paper presents a new theoretical model to unify SVM and SVDD. The proposed model constructs two optimal points which can be transformed to hyperplane or hypersphere. Therefore SVM and SVDD are regarded as special cases of this proposed model. We applied the proposed model to analyse the dataset III for motor imagery problem in BCI Competition II and achieved promising results.
KW - Machine Learning
KW - Brain-Computer Interface
BT - International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011)
A2 - Lu, Bao-Liang
A2 - Zhang, Liqing
A2 - Kwok, James
PB - Springer
CY - Germany
Tran D, Ma W, Sharma D. Generalized Support Vector Machine for Brain-Computer Interface. In Lu B-L, Zhang L, Kwok J, editors, International Conference on Neural Information Processing (ICONIP 2011): Lecture Notes in Computer Science. Vol. 7062. Germany: Springer. 2011. p. 692-700 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-24955-6_82

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Home / Essays / The best films of Berlinale 2021
Seventh Row Editors / March 25, 2021
The best films of Berlinale 2021
Editors Alex Heeney and Orla Smith pick the fifteen best films of Berlinale 2021, from Ninjababy to Petite Maman.
Check out all our Berlinale coverage.
The best films of Berlinale 2021. From left: Petite Maman, Ninjababy, I'm Your Man, Brother's Keeper, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy.
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After the America-centric programming of Sundance, which disappointed us, it was a pleasure to virtually attend the Berlin Film Festival last week and indulge in world cinema. For both of our attending editors, Alex Heeney and Orla Smith, it was our first time "at" the Berlinale. After the quality of this year's programming, we'd both be eager to go back in person. More so than Sundance, Cannes, or TIFF, it felt like the programming at this year's Berlinale was influenced more by quality than big names — a rarity at such a high profile film festival.
We discuss our thoughts on the festival as a whole in more detail on next Wednesday's podcast episode, which is part one of a two-part podcast discussion on the 2021 Berlinale. Subscribe to the podcast so you don't miss the episode.
We were easily able to choose fifteen films that we found interesting, inspiring, and engaging. Even then, we had to leave some worthy contenders off, so we'd like to give a quick shoutout to Nous and All Eyes Off Me, two flawed but worthwhile films that we'd recommend seeking out.
We also won't be including It's a Sin, since it's a TV show that's already aired in many countries around the world, and thus we don't feel the need to spotlight it. Then again, we loved it, so look out for a podcast episode on the series soon!
15. Summer Blur (Han Shuai)
Summer Blur is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "The first time we see Guo (Huang Tian) in Han Shuai's feature debut, Summer Blur, she's in bed with her phone, because the closest relationship she has in the film is with her mother's voicemail. Soon, her younger cousin, with whom she shares a bed, invades the frame with her arm, which Guo pushes away. It's a reminder of how, even in sleep, Guo has no space of her own. Set over the course of a blazing hot summer in Wuhan, Summer Blur is the story of Guo realising how little she, as a working-class girl, is valued in the world — by her family and beyond — and how pervasive misogyny is: everyone is out to exploit her and other women. Even her home is not her own, having been sent to live with her aunt and uncle because her mother, a former model, is too busy living her life in Shanghai to take care of Guo — or even answer her phone calls." Read the full review.
14. Night Raiders (Danis Goulet)
Night Raiders is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From the introduction to our interview with Danis Goulet: "'When there's something you really want to say, you can hit it in almost a harder way in genre because you're not constrained by reality,' Goulet told me. 'I think you can counter skepticism when you're dealing with real history.' In Night Raiders, Goulet replaces Canada's RCMP (or 'Mounties'), an international symbol of friendly and adorable police, with what they were really designed to do: hold militaristic power over vulnerable (in real life, Indigenous) people, using violence without a second thought, in an attempt at cultural genocide. The move to sci-fi also allows Goulet to tell a more contemporary story of Indigeneity, inspired by Standing Rock and Idle No More, in which Indigenous People around the world are uniting against global colonialism, and young people are changing the world. That ethos dovetails nicely with the story behind the film, which is an Indigenous co-production between Canada and New Zealand." Read the full interview.
13. What do we see when we look at the sky? (Alexandre Koberidze)
What Do We See When We Look at the Sky? is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "A couple's meet cute unfolds from the calves down, as we watch their shoes face each other, and hesitantly move. The end of a soccer match is signalled by the pile up of dirty jerseys in the locker room. A woman says hello to her roommate with a delicate brush to her head, which is resting on a table. These are the kinds of moments that writer-director-editor Aleksandre Koberidze chronicles in What do we see when we look at the sky? At once a portrait of the Georgian city of Kutaisi — its inhabitants, streets, gathering places — and an exercise in telling this story episodically, through vignettes with minimal dialogue and often without faces. When the meet-cute couple, Lisa (Ani Karseladze and Oliko Barbakaze) and Giorgi (Giorgi Ambroladze and Giorgi Bochorishvili), wake up one day and find themselves in different bodies, it barely phases us as strange, because Koberidze encourages us to focus on the small details rather than the big ones." Read the full review.
12. Nelly Rapp – Monster Agent (Amanda Adolfsson)
Nelly Rapp – Monster Agent is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
Nelly Rapp is a delightful and often hilarious monster and haunted house movie for the whole family, in which the monsters are more misunderstood misfits than imminent dangers, and the houses aren't haunted at all. When ten-year-old Nelly Rapp (Matilda Gross) is due to spend a week with her uncle Hannibal (Johan Rheborg) in his gothic mansion, she is excited and intrigued, especially when she hears there are monsters in the basement. Soon, she discovers that vampires, werewolves, and all kinds of monsters are real, and that her deceased mother was part of a team of adults, the monster agents, dedicated to protecting monsters from the world and the world from monsters.
When told she has to catch a monster to join the team, she's excited to execute this plan, but finds it derailed when she meets Roberta (Lily Wahlsteen), a 100-year-old Frankenstein monster who is stuck at age twelve and obsessed with baking, as she has the heart of a pastry chef. The precocious and eccentric Nelly had always struggled to make friends at school, but she finds kindred spirits in Roberta and the other monsters — among them, a vegan vampire who takes iron supplements. When a power-hungry member of the monster agents threatens to push the group into creating a dangerous rehabilitation scheme — a combination of lobotomy, plastic surgery, and retraining, like persuading zombies to eat broccoli — it falls to Nelly to save the day. She must remind everyone that compassion always wins and monsters aren't so dangerous. The result is a heartwarming film about finding your crowd, accepting your eccentricities, and discovering that the reclusive gamer next door just might be a vampire. Alex Heeney
Our interview with Amanda Adolfsson will be published soon.
11. Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn (Radu Jude)
Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
The winner of the Golden Bear at this year's festival was Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn, a left field choice because of just how bizarre it is, but predictable in the sense that it's very much a "film of the moment". Still, it's certainly a statement for the jury to award top honours to a film that begins with an extended unsimilated sex scenes. The scene in question is an extremely OTT, comical homemade porn video made by the film's main character, school teacher Emi (Katia Pascariu). When it accidentally leaks onto the internet, the parents at her school call a parent-teacher meeting to subject Emi to their moral-panicky rage and attempt to get her fired.
It was filmed during COVID and incorporates COVID into the world of the film. Poor mask wearing becomes an indicator of moral failure, such as when an indignant parent claims she's "trying to do what's best for the children" while wearing her mask under her nose. It feels cathartic to watch Jude relentlessly mock anti-maskers. It's also incredibly anxiety-inducing, as the film reflects how little people care about actually protecting others, preferring to focus their outrage on an innocent woman's sex life.
In the hilarious middle section of the film, Jude presents a series of visual jokes and puns, many of which relate to shameful parts of Romanian history. This vital piece of the film's puzzle serves to place selfish, unsafe responses to COVID as just the latest in a long line of corrupt behaviour in Romania (although this behaviour is certainly recognisable in other parts of the world, too). Of course, it's not long before the parents' facade of polite concern is "unmasked" to reveal virulent anti-semitic and sexist tirades. Orla Smith
10. Stop-Zemlia (Kateryna Gornostai)
Stop-Zemlia is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
Set in Ukraine, Kateryna Gornostai's Stop-Zemlia is an ensemble coming-of-age story in which a whole class of graduating high school students deal with heartbreak, friendships, mental health issues, and family troubles. At the centre of the story is Masha (Maria Fedorchenko), a smart, privileged girl with absent parents, and her two best friends. Masha has an unrequited crush on Sasha (Oleksandr Ivanov), which Gornostai uses as an excuse to follow his story, including his troubles with his alcoholic mother. Throughout, Gornostai paints a portrait of friendships both close and casual, and strong feelings that the students are often too scared to act on. It's often messy because of its wide scope, but that's also part of Stop-Zemlia's appeal: the interconnectedness of these relationships and the extreme highs and lows of being a teenager. AH
Our interview with Kateryna Gornostai will be published soon.
9. Short Vacation (Kwon Min-pyo, Seo Han-sol)
Short Vacation is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "In Kwon Min-pyo and Seo Hansol's Short Vacation, four thirteen-year-old girls are asked to photograph 'the end of the world.' Or at least, that's the prompt their photography club teacher gives them for summer homework. Set mostly over one hot summer day, the intimidating vastness of life is contrasted against the mundane trivialities of these girls' lives and their friendships. What is 'the end of the world' to teenage girls whose primary concerns are hanging out with their friends and making sure they get home before curfew?" Read the full review.
8. Miguel's War (Eliane Raheb)
Miguel's War is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From the introduction to our interview with Eliane Raheb: "I realised that Miguel's War was going to be a boundary-pushing documentary as soon as the film's subject, Miguel Alonso, responded to a probing question from director Eliane Raheb by laughing and exclaiming, "What a horrible bitch!" Raheb tells the story of Miguel, from his childhood in Lebanon, to his participation in the Lebanese Civil War, to his life in Spain, where he lives today, as an out gay man. But she's just as interested in exhibiting the difficult process of getting Miguel to open up as she is recounting the facts of his life. This is a film about trauma — how it distorts and represses memory, and makes it hard to be honest with yourself and other people. For Raheb, it was just as important to include takes of Miguel (jokingly) calling her a bitch, declining to answer questions, and struggling to recall the truth than it was to include his eventual honest answers." Read the full interview.
7. Mr. Bachmann and His Class (Maria Speth)
Mr. Bachmann and His Class is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
The three-and-a-half-hour length of Maria Speth's documentary, Mr. Bachmann and His Class, might make you think of the work of Frederick Wiseman. But Mr. Bachmann is less interested in institutions than it is in character growth. Over the course of one school year, Speth follows Dieter Bachmann, a soon-to-be-retired school teacher, and his last class of pupils.
In the small and rural city of Stadtallendorf, Germany, many of the pupils are immigrants or children of immigrants, and for some, German isn't their first language. In an education system that might otherwise cast these children aside, Bachmann carves a space for them to grow. His unconventional teaching methods — allowing naps during school time, holding musical jamming sessions with the pupils — nurture the kids. He encourages open dialogue in his classroom as a way to teach his kids empathy and to persuade the higher achieving amongst them to help those who are struggling. It's a film that, I'm sure, will encourage many people to become teachers, because it shows how much of a difference one teacher can make if they're willing to fight for their students. OS
6. Ninjababy (Yngvild Sve Flikke)
Ninjababy is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From the introduction to our interview with Yngvild Sve Flikke and Kristine Thorp: "Rakel (Kristine Thorp), twenty three, is a bit of a mess — but joyfully so. 'She's really just enjoying life,' said Yngvild Sve Flikke, writer-director of the delightful Ninjababy, of which Rakel is the main character. 'She doesn't know what she's going to be. If she wants sex, she's having sex, and she doesn't really remember who she had sex with.' Her hair is permanently greasy, hanging loose or pulled back into a functional ponytail, and her clothes are mismatched and oversized (although enviably comfy). In short, she hasn't quite figured herself out yet, but she's in no rush to. A spanner is thrown in the works when an unwanted pregnancy threatens to catapult Rakel toward responsibility, right at the moment in her life when she was revelling most in irresponsibility." Read the full interview.
5. Fabian: Going to the Dogs (Dominik Graf)
Fabian: Going to the Dogs is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
Based on the 1932 novel Fabian or Going to the Dogs by Erich Kästner, Dominik Graf's film adaptation transports us to a 1931 Berlin. It looks a lot like the present day, but with period clothing, Nazi pamphlets (and brownshirts), and the occasional period footage of the nightlife. Mixing Super 8 footage with digital to capture the characters, and occasional archival footage to evoke the time, Graf's dynamic film is vivacious, unpredictable, moves at a clipped pace, and is never boring despite its three-hour runtime. While the sets and costumes are period-accurate, the performances are entirely modern, without any affects of the past, which is just one of many smart ways Graf connects the 1931 action to our present day reality.
At the centre of the story is Fabian (Tom Schilling), an unhappy copywriter with a PhD in English, who falls in love with a woman (Saskia Rosendahl) he can't afford to love, loses his job amidst a sea of unemployment, and suddenly finds himself out of place as a moralist in an increasingly amoral world. Over the course of the film's three-hour runtime, we get to know Fabian, his aspiring actress girlfriend, his activist best friend (Albrecht Schuch), and his lovely mother. At first, we watch them enjoy the pleasures of the Weimar Republic, but soon, they face increasing despair in a world where Nazi ideology is becoming more mainstream and having convictions is a luxury. At once a love story, a coming-of-age story, and the story of a society going to the dogs, Fabian is vibrant, funny, depressing, ultimately horrifying, but always intellectually involving. Though somewhat episodic in its structure, it is a character drama through and through, and it's always a pleasure to spend time in the company of these characters, even as they go through despair. AH
4. Brother's Keeper (Ferit Karahan)
Brother's Keeper is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "During the opening scene of Brother's Keeper, I wondered, am I watching a dystopian film? A windowless shower room, filled with pre-teen boys stripped down to their underclothes, offers no clue of period or setting. However, the way the boys are treated seems alien to basic ideas about how we should treat children. In fact, Brother's Keeper isn't set in the future or the past. This is modern day Eastern Anatolia, Turkey, and inspired by writer-director Ferit Karahan's own childhood experiences at a boarding school for Kurdish boys. In the press notes, Karahan explains, 'The number of boarding schools exceeds thousands, especially in regions where Kurds are densely populated. I studied at a boarding school in the early 1990s. When I started looking for locations, I realized that nothing had changed except the small details.'" Read the full review.
3. Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi)
Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From the introduction to our interview with Ryûsuke Hamaguchi: "A young woman discovers that her best friend went on a date with her ex-boyfriend, which makes her wonder if she's still in love with him. An aimless woman in her thirties half-heartedly attempts to seduce her old college professor, at the request of the younger man she's sleeping with. A middle-aged woman attends her high school reunion in the hopes of reuniting with an old flame, but finds an unexpected connection, instead. Three short stories, loosely connected by coincidence, make up Ryûsuke Hamaguchi's Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy. The film just won the Silver Bear at the Berlinale — the festival's second-most prestigious award — and deservedly so, as Hamaguchi's beautifully written, elegantly crafted triptych is a melancholy delight." Read the full interview.
2. I'm Your Man (Maria Schrader)
I'm Your Man is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "How big is the gulf between what we think we want from romantic relationships and what we actually need or would settle for? Is part of the joy of a relationship the knowledge that you're needed? Is a flawed partner more attractive because they make you feel less alone for also being flawed? How do we change to suit our partners in a relationship? Wouldn't it be convenient if you could store your partner in the spare room with the vacuum cleaner and the exercise bike? These are some of the many complex questions at the centre of Maria Schrader's Berlinale competition film, I'm Your Man. In the film, cuneiform researcher Alma (Maren Eggert) is asked to test out a new AI robot, Tom (Dan Stevens), who has been designed to be her perfect man. For three weeks, he'll live with her and learn from her, and at the end, she'll write a report about the experience, evaluating what he's like as a partner." Read the full review.
1. Petite Maman (Céline Sciamma)
Petite Maman is one of the best films of Berlinale 2021. Still courtesy of the Berlinale.
From our review: "In Céline Sciamma's fifth feature, Petite Maman, getting to know your mother is like chasing after a ghost. Parents are elusive, in life and death, living in an adult world that, as a child, you only ever get to visit. The disconnect between parent and child is in the constantly moving camera of the opening scene, which follows eight-year-old Nelly (Joséphine Sanz) as she says goodbye to the many women in the hospital where her grandmother recently died, chasing the goodbye she didn't get to have with her own grandmother. And in the first moment of stillness, when Nelly's mother, Marion (Nina Meurisse), looks out the window of her mother's room, at the grass and trees below, exhaustedly resting on a table, as if she might find her mother outside. As the camera pulls back, we feel the weight of Marion's grief — and Nelly's absence from the frame. They're both experiencing loss, but it's not quite a joint experience. Mother and daughter are moving at different speeds, in different rhythms. The camera reveals Nelly's perspective, watching from behind, aware of her mother's slumped physique, but unable to reach it." Read the full review.
We'll keep you up to date with how to watch the best films of Berlinale 2021 when they screen at future festivals or land on VOD.
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Filed Under: Essays, Film Festivals Tagged With: Berlinale 2021, Berlinale Film Festival
Ep. 84: Berlinale 2021, Part 2: The Competition
Highlights from BFI Flare 2021, from No Ordinary Man to Boy Meets Boy


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Afrolisms: Words for the Indescribable Parts of African American Life, Part 1
The Royal Treatment - Tales from Rwanda, Part 17
Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
Image to left by Jean Michel Basquiat
Ever meet someone who in every aspect of their being exuded something regal, above but not with effort, prideful but not egotistical? This describes Jasmine to a T (bag that is).
We met through one of my research contacts: she was one of our local logistics people, who handled everything as well as everyone. Her English was impeccable as were her demeanor and appearance. Weekly she had a new haircut – dramatically shortened one time, amazingly braided and longer the next, Kid n' Play another. It was like having a one-woman BET (Black Entertainment Television) session or would it be AET cause she was African? Daily her outfits were astonishing – linen was her thing which came in every color and every design you could imagine, pressed as if it has just come from the dry cleaners. Nothing impressed you about Jasmine as much as her smile. When her face would light up, clouds would part and somewhere music chimed, like a good soundtrack should.
As the Rwandans we generally met were closed, reclusive and quietly hostile, Jasmine was engaging, open, helpful, charming, kind, commanding and pleasant. The difference could be explained in part because she was brought up abroad – like many who had recently returned. The local culture had not gotten to her yet.
Now, this said, Jasmine was not overly any of these things. She would explain but never give too much detail. She would assist us but never fully deliver. She would take us somewhere but never quite all the way and when things got tight/tense she would dismiss us from the room, leaving us with glimpses of the secret world she occupied but little understanding. It was like we were Diane Keaton in the Godfather when the door closed, except they weren't Italian and this was no movie.
The regality of which I speak was revealed clearly one day in seemingly the smallest of instances. Jasmine would hold a pen as if she never held one. Not the award way that Bush Jr. tried to check out at a supermarket but rather the way that one imagined a great writer would hold an instrument. She would walk as if she was nailed to a board – perfectly straight like 6 o'clock. She seemingly knew everyone or, at least, everyone that we needed to know and equally as important they seemed to know her.
We went to lunch one time – a new Rwandan place and invariably she would be stared at and someone would approach her. It was not quite as over the top as the scene in Coming to America with Eddie Murphy when a former subject bows and stuff but it was clear that something was going on and that they were not socio-political equals. The conversation was short, the head slightly tilted below Jasmine, eyes cast downward. Something was up, but what? We could never quite figure it out and banana beer was not helping.
Another time, in front of the Milles Collines, I saw her get out of an automobile that made a Hummer look like a Volkswagen Beetle. The man in the front seat played for the Pittsburgh Steelers (I believe); not just one player but the whole defensive front line. I saw him/it/them walk around and open the door for Jasmine, who delicately stepped out. As she left, you saw the window go down, some face peered through smoke (which filled the inside) and then it pulled back. The window then went up and the truck/tank/airbus pulled off, dragging the surface of the earth with it. Now, because of my family I have seen a bunch of celebrities in a wide variety of settings. Met the late Michael Jackson before all the cosmetic changes and again later after he transformed. Met En Vogue, the late Whitney Houston. Heck, I even met Robert Flack, Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow as well as a host of Hip Hop artists you have never, ever heard of, but this was some next level blingy type $h@t.
Yet another time, some man approached Jasmine in a restaurant when she had left our table to go to the counter and order. She seemed to be somewhat familiar with the guy but did not really acknowledge his presence. The guy's look was priceless. Remember when the character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon looked at his friend like a hot dog? That was the look. In response, we saw an amazing switch; Jasmine turned from her normally pleasant and engaging self to some off-putting, curt and rude person. To this, the man appeared to move in close and say something.
Responding, I thought in a natural and somewhat chivalrous manner, I stood up to assist our host who appeared to be in distress. My traveling companion and friend, Al (Stam) immediately grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down. "Do you really want to get into something here?" He continued, "Do you have any idea what is going on and who is involved?" He was, of course, correct. I had no idea. We rarely did. Who was this guy? What was the nature of his relationship with Jasmine? How many guys did he have with him (we later counted 5).
Part of the strangeness of the situation was derived from my knowledge of what happened during 1994. Another part of this was Rwandan culture. It was eerily quiet there – too quiet. Everyone walked around, worked (usually hacking or pulling something in a field), talked and/or scowled at passersby. Think of a Brit, add in some Scandinavia and then multiply. Actually, the only time you heard a loud Rwandan was when banana beer and music were involved – a combination that was quite unsettling on more than one dimension. I always found myself simultaneously more relaxed at seeing Rwandans finally unwind and more fearful at the same sight; did I really want to be present when they let loose? Nope, is the answer. Once was enough.
At the same time, I was frustrated by Rwandan unity and their us-nosity; juxtaposed against my otherness and outsider status. Indeed, I don't think that I was ever in a situation where I felt that if you called someone out that a whole bunch of people would show up to kick your ass. This was far, far worse than the time I got off the wrong stop in South Boston (in the 1980s), making it look more like Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. Heck, it even made New York's Alphabet City where Hell's Angels used to hang out (again in the 1980s) look like a lil bike club. Just something in the way they moved…
I supposed this is the reason that Jasmine stood out. She was one of them but not. And every one seemed to know it.
Despite our pleasantries, however, Jasmine and I had one repeated tension. Because of how she carried herself and interacted with folks, I would constantly call her Princess. Poking fun, I would go out of my way to open doors, stand up when she left a room and all the rest of the chivalrous package (cue Hugh Jackman in that movie with Meg Ryan, which no one but me seemed to see). Whenever I did this, Jasmine would get serious and would tell me not to "do such things." As it seemed to bother her in an odd way, I continued to push the issue and did it continuously. I'm just kind of like that (as you have gathered by this time).
One day, Jasmine had come over to remind us about bringing our water bottles – one must continually hydrate when in country. After she left to check on where our driver was, some person sat down next to us and mentioned that we were lucky to receive such treatment. Thinking he uttered a sexist remark (with the woman bringing the men some beverage) but unsure, I said "yes, she is very nice." Pushing the issue, the gentlemen repeated "no, you are very lucky to receive such treatment from her. Royalty in Rwanda never performed such duties (pause) historically."
At that last remark, Al and I looked at each other and I said, "Excuse me?" The man went on to explain that Jasmine was part of the old Tutsi (my bad - Teabag) royal family who because of the current context kept a low profile. Some in the country wanted the monarchy to return to power. At the time, the deposed king was hiding in the Northeast of the U.S.
But, I digress. When told that Jasmine was royalty, we couldn't believe it. At the same time, it made perfect sense. Al immediately started laughing and repeatedly did so during the trip because of how many times I put my foot in my mouth.
Upon being confronted with our new information and asked why she never told us, Jasmine blushed and said that she thought we knew. I said that I did not and apologized for any discomfort/danger we put her in. As she said, "it was alright", she tried to put a happy face on the whole thing. Al continued to laugh and in fact he did this for months, unable to believe how incredibly stupid I had been and how simply hilarious the situation was. We literally got the royal treatment and in many ways at once.
The Godfather of Survival - Tales from Rwanda, Part 16
The meeting was set. We were picked up by Innocent and a rather well-built gentleman driving the car also named Innocent – I mentioned that this was a common name, no? Greetings were exchanged which took about 15 to 20 minutes and then we were off.
There was little chatter on the ride. All eyes moved in different directions but our minds were clear. We were going to meet one of the leaders of the largest Tutsi survivor organization: Ibuka. The group that formed shortly after the violence was completed -- bridging makeshift support groups, church organizations, NGOs and politically oriented individuals across Rwanda. Given the significance of the victimized group -- has told, they were the primary targets of violence in their numbers dwindled to basically nothing in the short time of it because they were killed but they had to flee.
After driving for quite a while we pulled up to a wall. The driver signaled to some guy with a machine gun, who in turn signaled to another individual in the metal gate retracted -- slowly and loudly. Once the door was open enough, the car pulled in -- revealing about 5 to 6 armed guards, several trucks and about a dozen people mulling about. No one pays any attention.
Out of the car, we walked up some stairs, through a door, down the corridor and up into another area. Here the guard stopped. Innocent, the first one, walked in with us and he then sent down -- gesturing that we should join them. The anticipation was immense: what is the leader of a Tutsi survivor organization like? What was he before the killing? What is he now?
I don't know who I expected to walk in but it was not the man who came through the door. He was small, old, meek and with a set of front teeth that could best be described as a free-for-all. Catching myself it occurred to me that perhaps America warps one's sense of leadership. The men had no suit, no manicure, no hairdo, seemingly no charisma at all - at least by my as yet unidentified but evidently existing standards. That said, he was one of the leaders of the organization so there must have been something there. Perhaps I just couldn't see it. After lightly shaking our hands, he sat down, the back of the chair seemingly swallowing him as he crouched into it.
Jumping right in, he told us of the beginning of his organization. There were hundreds of small groups all over he said. One by one we started bringing them together, giving us our voice. He then spoke of the current government. Smiling devilishly he said, "we disagree on a great many things but they have made great strides." All the while Innocent, the first one, sat there obedient, quiet -- I've not seen him this way previously. Normally he had such a commanding, powerful presence. In front of us. However, now he was a different individual entirely. It made me think of some of the ministers of the Nation of Islam on their own as opposed to being in front of Farrakhan or some other leader. No smiles, no bow ties, no side conversation, just nods of approval and looks of seriousness. Every now and then a guy with a machine gun would show up to inquire about beverages and refills. We always said no. No need to bring him back too much, I thought.
The leader then spoke of the government efforts at truth and reconciliation – Gacaca. "These are flawed, very naïve strategies" he began. "There were not even created with such grave activities in mind -- historically. They were community level courts that address small grievances like theft or property violations. How do you go from one to the next? How do you go from stealing a chicken to killing family? Very poorly," he said. "Very poorly. We watch all of these things. But quantum. Talk to the government about our concerns. Write about them. We have hope that there is a way to go."
"And what is it that you wish to do," he said to me, almost shocking me with his return to a two-way conversation. I started to explain but shortly into our conversation he began to say that "it is important -- your work. The truth must be known. If we can help, we are more than willing to do so." He gestured to Innocent, the first one, identifying him as a useful collaborator. We then chimed in that we would like to take the study that they conducted in Kibuye (a house by house survey of who was left and how individuals died) and replicate that throughout the country. He had clearly been told about our interest and smiled, crookedly. "Yes, that would be nice." Quickly he added, "but be careful though." At saying this, he stood, walked to a bookshelf, pulled out a book and put it in front of us. "This person sought the truth. They provide one of the most thorough investigations of what happened in the relevant commune. Very good. Very good work." Looking at his watch and beginning to move toward the door, he said both quickly and directly, "the author died – unfortunately. Be careful."
With that, innocence stood (the concept not the man), the door opened, we were escorted out and driven back to the Milles Collines by a different driver – we did not get his name either. Sitting down in the car, Al (Stam) and I looked at one another and looked out the window. We did not speak. After we got out and wave goodbye, we went in to get a drink but ended up having about three. We were not exactly sure why we needed one know what happened at the meeting but we felt that after meeting the godfather of survival one needed to toast one's own.
Dressed Not to Kill - Tales from Rwanda, Part 15
Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
It will sound a little stupid (and somewhat arrogant), but I think I could have transformed Rwandan society with
10 blue blazers
10 raincoats
10 umbrellas and
5 indiana jones hats
The logic is simple:
Go to any hotel, bar, restaurant, sidewalk or marketplace in Rwanda and you see people trying to look their best. Despite the level of poverty, fashion means a great deal to the Rwandans and as something of a sartiorialist/dandy - my inner New Yorker, on this dimension I fit right in.
You see African dresses on the women and traditional fabric on some males. But most of the time you see men adorning themselves with the garb of a "gentlemen":
If they have these items they will wear them and if they do no, then they will acquire them in this order of priority. I would have figured that shoes went higher in the pecking order but I think that these are just a harder item to acquire and thus they fall a bit down. The position of the tie makes sense. GIven the sun, I would have placed the hat higher but there is something about the necessity of a shirt.
In even the most remote villages, the process is clear. You pull up in some dirt poor place with mud houses, straw roofs, banana fields and winding roads cutting through hills, searing heat. In the background, people tend emaciated cows and children sit on the side of a hill buck naked. and then you pull up
first, the kids arrive to check you out – they generally have little to no clothing
second, some older folks show up (30+ because life-expectancy is low) to see what you will do.
Interestingly, there is not one complete outfit among them. Most have pants, some have a shirt, others shoes
At some point, the crowd parts and the local leader emerges –
- The Nyumba Kumi (the government, official appointed in every 10 households to oversee the comings and
goings)
- The Nyumba-Kumi always has a full outfit almost as if these were passed out when they signed up
These are not the only sartorial differences one sees. Once in a place and given the reality mystery tour you see other
garmented-coded dynamics:
Pants and raincoat – usually an older gentlemen
Pants and t-shirt – younger gentlemen
Traditional fabric wrap – all women
Hat, shirt and wrap – miscellaneous men
No shirts – rural and poorer men
The hierarchy is this transparent. It's right there. In Rwanda, the clothes make the man/woman as well as the society. And, this society is one composed of immense economic inequality between the haves, have nots, never hads and never gonna gets while the first gots. Of course, I remembered the line from Meryn Cadell: "if the clothes makes the man, and the woman makes the clothes, then what does that make the woman", but I digress.
Reflecting on the clothing situation, this is where I had my idea; my Rwandan conversion strategy:
One could give out the jackets and other stuff randomly to people on the road who could then wear them.
Upsetting a balance or equilibrium, this would upset almost all of the socio-political dynamics in the society. Walking into a village, one would not encounter one jacket but there would be two. Walking up a hill, you would find not two hats but three.
The gear need not be too nice: H&M over DKNY. Here, symbol seems to be more important than style.
Of course, the imbalance might not be all good. There might be a reason why there is only one blazer in a community. If this is the case, however, it suggests a heightened degree of fragility. If one lost suitcase from a stylish New Yorker or San Franciscan could send all of Rwanda into a tailspin, from the bottom, then this does not seem to represent the paragon of stability that most think of when they consider the country.
Passing Time - Tales from India, Part 2
From 2003-2011 I was engaged in a research project that took me back and forth to diverse parts of Gujarat, India. These are some of my stories from those days.
When learning about untouchability from those subject to it, I wondered how anyone knew what caste you were. Everyone looked kind of broke – tattered clothing and skinny (inversion into the body, kate moss on crack, heroin and diet pills skinny). The poor represented every hue you could possibly imagine: from Wesley Snipes to Yellowman and some even beyond that. Only the tribals stood out because of the type of fabrics that they wore and tattoos that adorned their bodies. Otherwise, though, everyone looked a like.
Now, initially, I thought that maybe it was an acquired taste. Put black folk from around the US in the same room and many would just conclude: they all black folk. For someone who was aware and familiar, however, they would be able to tell urban from rural, north from south from west from Midwest. The differences are subtle but you could get some of them. I was told that this was not the case in India and I did not see it.
In answer to my question about how someone knew what caste you were from, I was told that people told you. It was part of the introduction: my name is x from the bla bla bla in z.
Now, I immediately though that was crazy. I mentioned that this was different from the states. I was under the impression that if a black person during the early 1900s (the best comparison to the situation of the rural Dalit) could have gotten away with it, they would frequently try to "pass" – pretend to be someone that was not likely to get their ass kicked. Why would you opt into oppression, I wondered.
The answer I received was simple: it would not occur to someone to say that they are something other than what they are. This was because: 1) identities were much more strongly fixed in Indian culture – you are born and die into castes, 2) they acknowledge that there is nothing wrong with who we are but it is the system of oppression and repression that is in need of change. Now, I readily admit that this might just be a function of who I was interacting with. The commonality of the opinion was significant though.
While respecting the nobility of the latter position and difficulty of the first, I was still not able to get my head around this. My own family (on my mother's side), was still divided on the color line – the lighter part of the klan (who had interestingly all achieved higher levels of education and income – as cops, exporters and teachers) were quite distinct from the darker skin part of the klan (who were laborers, domestics and prisoners). I even noticed that the more education I got, the more invitations I started receiving from the lighter side. This was until the great "Why do Niggers bite the hand the feeds them incident" set against Whitney Houston singing to the troops after the Gulf conflict – another story for another time.
The paradox was not lost on me. One individual at DSK had come from another part of India. In his home state he was an untouchable. In that space/place he was subject to a wide variety of discriminatory activities as were his friends, family and neighbors. In Gujarat though, his caste was not considered untouchable. Here, he was above the fray, receiving a small degree of respect and access. This was astounding to me thinking that in one locale one would be a nigger and in another they would be a regular civilian. "Why would one ever go back home," I thought. "Do you want to stay? What are you going to do?" I hit him with a barrage of questions, thinking about what my relatives would have done had they had the choice.
To all of my inquiries he said: "on this point, I am very much perplexed." Every now and then he would elaborate. "I wish to help change my situation at home," he would sometimes say. "I do like not feeling like I do not exist," he would add another. Always though, he would come back to "on this point, I am very much perplexed."
After about three weeks of hearing this, he asked me: "what do you think I should do?" The question struck me. I could either advance a revolution or stick him back in chains. I should not interfere, I thought, like the prime directive used by those in Star Trek regarding the non-interference with diverse civilizations. But he asked me. I would be remiss if I did not tell him what I thought. I asked for some time to think about it and after about two weeks I had something for him.
After some thought, I came to think of his question to me as something less of a question than a test. I remembered where I was and who came to DSK. The next time I saw him, I said that "it was not perplexing. Of course, he had to return. That said, he should come back to DSK when he could to remember what he was doing this for." Upon hearing this, he smiled at me and said that he knew I would come to understand. He then flipped the script on me and asked, "why African Americans did try to pass" - historically (we talked about more modern forms of passing as well but that is also for another time). Why would they seemingly accept the legitimacy of the system and get by as an individual leaving the collective. Immediately defensive, I started to respond. How dare he diss the brothers and sisters that did the best they could. I caught myself though and reflected. The only thing that came to mind was one phrase and I gave it to him with a bit of a grin: "on this point, I am very much perplexed." He smiled. As was frequently the case, we had some tea and then we left each other – off to our respective parts of the planet to comprehend, to reflect and of course to struggle.
He never left me though. The idea of passing has come back to me repeatedly. What does it mean to be African American? What would passing look like? What would not passing look like? Who gets to validate blackness? Is the time of passing over or has it just reached a new phase? Hmmmmmmmmmm
4 Other Girls from Mississippi - Tales from India, Part 1
There once were 4 girls from Mississippi. Now, I know what you're thinking but it ain't them. These girls were not really from Mississippi; they were visiting there and had just returned to Dalit Shakti Kendra (Dalit Power School - DSK), filming and exploring the similarities between racism in the US and untouchability in India. These 4 girls were Indian, from Gujarat, outside of Ahmedabad to be exact. Hell, they weren't even girls. They were all very much women – in all senses of the word, likely from an early age, India tends to do that.
Regardless of origins or ages, the 4 were as fantastic as any image created by Marvel comics. The 4 were as different as the elements but when put together you had the components to make almost anything. They embodied the best that humanity had to offer, peppered with some of the worst.
For me, T (not her name) always comes first (the one on the far left in the photo). She was the worker-bee of the group, first out the gate, first out the house, the plane or whatever was going on. If it needed doing, she was ready and in all likelihood she had already done it, written a manual for others to follow and on to the next. She was hungry like Whoopi Goldberg after she got away from Danny Glover in the Color Purple. For her, life was an oyster and she had just pulled up to the free buffet of life. T would later manage our 1589 village census, essentially by herself, navigating around her own ambition, inabilities, neglect, familial obligations as well as others expectations and sexist preferences for male involvement.
N (not her name) was the elder of the group and the soulful one (third from the left above). You could tell from her face that something horrible had happened to her but that she lived through it – barely. All of the single women at the school had stories of abuse, abandonment, fear, persecution and/or death. N was responsible for teaching individuals at the DSK how to make clothes. That someone with such a dark cloud over them was associated with some of the brightest colors that you could possibly imagine, died into the cloth in a slow process, was constantly paradoxical. Perhaps the light that was incorporated into the fabric represented the light that she wished to bring forward into the world. Perhaps the darkness that surrounded the splashes of color was the best that she could do to counteract what had happened to her.
R (not her name, first on the right) was the firebrand of the group. She had gone to Mississippi over the objections of her then husband (M). He was to blame though. M worked at DSK and began a project with video-taping the activities of the group as they challenged untouchability as well as the activities in the school. At night, he would bring the camera home. He would not let R touch it, saying that it was very expensive as well as delicate. Nightly, however, she would see it in the house and every now and then she would sneak out of bed and begin to play with it. This became an obsession of hers and after waiting for quite a while she approached the leaders of DSK, expressed an interest in learning about film and then the opportunity to come to the states had arose. M threw a fit but in the context of a progressive social movement to uplift the Dalit as well as a strong commitment from the leaders of the organization to fight sexist practices as well as caste discrimination, his position was not supported. R went to the American south, she learned many aspects of film-making (quickly surpassing M and getting an offer from National Geographic for a small project) but under the strain of the interaction as well as M's ambitions, she got divorced, left the school with her lovely newborn and attempted to find her way. M was in Canada but is now back in Gujarat.
Finally, there was Z (second from the left) – the heart and voice of the group. Now, Z is one of those people that defies description. She, like the others, had a light and like N you knew that there is some pain in her past. But, the way she has moved beyond it is as uplifting a presence as you can imagine. I was actually introduced to Z through her voice and strangely I was reintroduced to African American history by the experience.
At Martin Macwan's invitation, she sang "We shall overcome." Now, I had heard the song a million times before but somehow her version brought me back to it, through it and beyond it. With the different points of emphasis, different accent and rawness of the presentation, I began to feel the resonance of the song and of the African American struggle. Sitting in a courtyard in the middle of some Indian village, I listened to the words and felt renewed. The struggle was here, I thought. Our struggle was here. It continued. It grew. They had heard us – all the way over here, felt solace and moved accordingly. Our presence was much needed. Gandhi and his non-violent movement was not their inspiration, King and his movement was. Gandhi represented Hinduism and betrayal; King represented the oppressed who struggled, righteously and with little contradiction. Mississippi in Ahmedabad. African Americans were kindred to the Dalit – they who believe and practice equality. African Americans were fellow travelers – in the old sense of the word. As we attempted to overcome, so would they. As we attempted change, so would they. As we attempted, so would they. Hopefully they would do better.
Reflecting about my sense of failure regarding the African American struggle in general and the civil rights movement in particular, I heard the song of my liberation for the first time and realized that my metric for success was deficient. Mos Def had it right: the invisible man got the whole world watching. This time though 4 girls from Mississippi showed the light – yet again.
Handbags, Teabags and Other Obfuscations - Tales of Rwanda, Part 10
Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and those less so).
Right off the plane, Mason (not his real name) and I went into a car, immediately blowing by individuals walking along the road, trees and winding hills. Straight we went to what would be my first of perhaps 110 cups of tea that I would have. The reason is clear: 1) its water – which was needed to check hydration, 2) it was boiled – made it relatively more safe. After this I slept for a day or so. When I woke up, I walked around a little; not too much at first.
I had been in Rwanda for about a week before anybody mentioned it. Up to that point I had just been drinking tea (did I mention that), getting used to the climate and meeting individuals from different organizations (the U.S. embassy, Human Rights NGOs and diverse government personnel). We then went to meet our partner institution – the National University of Rwanda in Butare. On the long drive we each just looked out the window on our respective sides of the car, watching the centuries roll back. Upon arriving, we went to our rooms, got unpacked, drank some tea, met some university professors and the Rector – the university president.
That night it came up as four of us sat at the bar: Candace (a white woman that had been in Rwanda for about a year), Mason (my potentially Asian colleague from the university of Maryland) and Frank (a potential white guy who was managing a U.S. AID project) and myself.
Leaning in and lowering his voice, Mason mentioned it first. "Of course, no one talks about it. It's illegal for goodness sake. When I first came here and asked about it, they just kind of looked at me – offended. There are no differences between us, they told me. We are all Rwandans."
"Yeah," Candace jumped in. "Actually, it gets so frustrating. You can see it everywhere. The person you met today was one of them. Actually, there is no one affiliated with our project that isn't."
Reluctantly Mason chimed in, "This is particularly annoying because our effort is supposed to help resolve conflict. All we have done is re-establish the same differences that we were attempting to challenge. "
"Um," I began, "what the hell are you talking about?"
Mason responded, again in a whisper, "ethnicity."
"Oh," I continued, "really? But, if no one talks about it, then what do you do? How are you supposed to reference the unreferenceable?"
"Well," Candace whispered, leaning in, "I have a code that I use." She leaned closer and halted as the waitress showed up to give us more tea.
As she left, Mason went to the bathroom and Candace continued: "I use Handbags and Teabags."
"For what?" I asked.
"To discuss the situation… Hutus and Tutsi… the identities of the people we are observing."
"You're kidding, right?" I said.
"Nope. For example," Mason continued, "I would say to you that I think the waitress is a handbag or needs to get one. Then you would know what I was saying without them getting upset or knowing what we were talking about. It'll all come in handy later – believe me. The people I know use it all the time. Things just keep happening here and unless you talk about it, you would just go crazy."
Handbags and Teabags. What the heck... Ever creative are the outsiders (Mizungus) or, referencing an earlier story - Oh, those crazy mizungus.
Now, while it sounded strange, it pailed in comparison to the Rwandan oddities that I observed. For example, people would mention "the genocide" all the time; given that I was there to study this, it was one of my areas of expertise and people knew these things, it came up all the time. People would not talk about Hutus and Tutsis, Handbags and Teabags, however, nor when the political system would open up. At the time, one could not go for 10-15 minutes without seeing a roadblock, machine guns were everywhere, there were dozens of different uniforms – representing distinct military organizations (some in green, some in dark blue, some with guns, some with sticks).
The Handbag and Teabag thing came up frequently as you needed confirmation of the ethical political dynamics. Bank teller? Handbag or Teabag? Farmer? Handbag or Teabag? Military officer, foot soldier, Bank President, craftsman, university administrator? The question is everywhere. It was like navigating the deep south but you could not readily tell who was black or white (except by the position held in society) because everyone looked alike.
For a while, I thought it was like a fairytale thing. For example, if you stuck me in a room with a bunch of African Americans, I could tell who was from the north and south, who had a white relative and perhaps who was confident or insecure as well as their political orientation, hair style, clothes and jewelry. If you stuck the average American in the same room, however, they would not be able to detect any difference; indeed, they might just appear to be a bunch of black folk.
In some contexts, I can even tell when a white person has spent time around blacks and how familiar/intimate that context was – it is all in the body language. Now, the Handbag/Teabag thing was somewhat similar to this because blacks had invented their own language to talk about this stuff and it was not discussed in front of someone else – unless similarly coded.
I thought that maybe I just couldn't see the difference because I was not from there. I'll be damned if I didn't try. Candace couldn't tell any difference and she had been there for a year. Others confounded this: those there for 5, 10, or 30 years; those that had lived in Rwanda their whole lives; and, those that just came from abroad recently. All saw it but none could name it. This was important not only for understanding who you were talking with and what kind of take they might have on the political violence that took place as well as their opinions about the post-conflict situation. It was also important for understanding the conflict itself. A major part of the conflict involved ethnic tension. If everyone looked the same, however, then how could that be part of the explanation?
As commonly discussed, it is believed that a group of extremist Hutu (members of the Rwandan Armed Forces [FAR], Presidential Guard, national police, the "Zero Network death squads"[i] as well as affiliated militias: the Interahamwe[ii] and Impuzamugambi,[iii]) targeted their ethnic rivals – the Tutsi, and systematically engaged in their abuse and killing. This readily and appropriately led to claims of genocide – the systematic attempt of political authorities in Rwanda to eliminate, in whole or in part, members of an ethnic group and, indeed, some observers referred to the events in question as the clearest example of the concept since the Holocaust. Indeed, the only variation in these discussions was exactly how many people were involved in the bloodshe: some highlighted a small clique whereas others highlighted a large proportion of the Hutu population. But if ethnic identification was so difficult, then how could this explanation be correct? This is especially the case when most of the population was running as refugees/internally displaced. Local knowledge (what many relied upon to identify folks) ain't valid when the whole country is on blast/speed/fast fo(ward).
Other questions abounded as well. For example, if one cannot really tell who somebody is, then are Teabags running things, if no one calls them Teabags? I think so but there is something in not naming a thing. It creates a reality of its own – the nothingness of it all.
In line with this development, we acknowledge that we had no Handbags on the project but knew at some level that without them our work would likely fail. The gaze from our teabag kept us on something of a tight leash. We were led everywhere, introduced to everyone and the only time that I think I saw a handbag in a bookstore, I was watched by our teabag like a child in kindergarten – something that immediately made the unconfirmed handbag uncomfortable and further increased my desire to understand what was going on. In fact, when I asked the guy for some reading material about what happened during the period of violence beyond the "usual stuff," he took me around the corner and told me I should try to come back to see some readings that he would pull out special for me. Concerned with being watched, he peered around the corner upon spotting my Teabag looking for me, my unconfirmed Handbag shut up and walked back to the front of the store, behind the counter.
I never could get back there without an escort.
The shepherded feeling was immense. It was like: "here is the reality of the situation, don't bothering looking to the left for there is nothing of importance there. They are there. Looking. Carefully."
But what kind of reality is it when you are guided through it as in a tower? One might personalize the trip like Philip Gourevitch (the New Yorker author who wrote a highly readable but largely misguided as well as one-sided story about Rwanda) that made it seem like they traveled around the country unescorted, interacting with Handbags and Teabags wherever, whenever and however they wished but this was not the case. The Handbags and Teabags that one saw when they went through Rwanda were perfectly laid out – organized, consistent and symbolic. Prices were clear as were the brands. Locals were all over the store but they weren't buying it. Their interest lay elsewhere.
[i] This was noted by the study undertaken by the International Panel of Eminent Personalities (57).
[ii] This is the name of the military wing of the National Republican Movement for Democracy and Development.
[iii] This is the name of the military wing of the Coalition for the Defence of the Republic.
The Made Niggaz Hair Saloon - Tales of Rwanda, Part 7
I was exhausted as I felt my feet throbbing from all the walking that we had done that day. Five of us from the University of Maryland (where I was working at the time) and US-Aid in Development sat at a little Mizungu (see story for definition) hideaway, tucked in the middle of Butare - the college town and second largest city in the jungle that is Rwanda. The restaurant and bar was something of a café, brothel, five star motel, lottery spot, cell phone distribution point, major dining establishment and meeting place for the powerful, aspiring, traveled and the lost.
We sat outside, ordered some beer and appetizers, relaxing into the twilight. The scene was the same as always: scattered individuals walked by, guards stood in between the roadside and the entrance to the restaurant, buses stopped next door every hour or so and taxis waited for the lazy, scared and/or drunk Mizungus trying to get home.
As one of the people at the table began to discuss the latest insight into Rwandan politics, I was completely distracted by a sign across the street. Now, Rwandan advertising is a bit odd: most people cannot read and thus many if not all the adds are for Mizungus or elites, the images are boldly colored – frequently they are drawn with cartoons – and the phrases/jingles are quite funny - normally. This time I was not amused. As I sat there, basking in my mixed feelings about being in the motherland, sitting at a café in Africa with four white people, protected/guarded by black soldiers with machine guns at the premier establishment in the city which was run by a white Belgian guy, I was shocked to see a store called the "Made Niggaz Hair Saloon." Yeah, you heard me. Ok, truth be told, I had seen some other saloons or salons: "The Nigga Boyz Hair Saloon," "Niggaz on the cut", "Head Niggaz" (not to be confused with the Head Nigga in charge), "Niggaz 'R US", "Jungle Niggaz" and "Niggaz on the Prowl" but these observations were always made at about 60-70 miles an hour - screaming down the road from one place to another. This one, however, was upfront and personal.
Seemingly none of my associates noticed or cared to notice - likely dismissing it with the thought that "Niggaz here too." I was struck though to realize that Niggaz were in rural East Africa. I felt betrayed, somehow embarrassed, curious and a little outraged. One second I was sitting there, visiting Rwanda trying to represent - my family, my people, DC and then I had to see this thing. No matter how far you go, it comes with you - "world Nigga law" as Mos Def would say. I immediately thought of a line from the film Malcolm X that appeared to capture the moment pretty well, appropriately modified to fit the context: "we had a perfect trip until some Niggaz showed up and destroyed the whole thing."
No longer interested in my spaghetti bolognaise and banana beer, I excused myself, walked across the street between machine guns, 14 children calling out "my friend", one cow, one jeep, 10 baskets, a bus and a man with no legs dragging himself across the street. What the hell were these brothaz thinking? What the hell were these brothaz doing? I just had to check it out.
As I walked up to the store, I saw the sign in greater detail. It was straight old school ghetto, like the cover of some bad rap album or fake velvet poster. Under the title, two brothaz kneeled down with parts in their fades, fat laces and a little gold chair in between them that they pointed to. The message was clear. If one wanted to get "made", then they would go in, sit down and be "brothered" or "brothad" (to be consistent with the phrase above).
Stepping up, two B-boys on either side stood up with Zig-Zag patterns shaved into their headz, fat laces and matching kangaroo jackets. They appeared to be surprised at my presence - looking at me from the side, trying to figure out who I was. I smiled, pushed open the door and stepped in like a Clint Eastwood film. As the doors swung back and forth behind me with a screeching noise, all activity stopped like when Eddie Murphy walked into the Western bar in 48 hours. There we were: me, five people getting shaved/cut/shaped, five barbers, eight people waiting, one cassette DJ and 11 Hip-Hop posters from the '80s (Tupac, Public Enemy, Run DMC and Kwame - the polka dot rapper). I stood there in my B-boy stance, trying to take it all in and what was at first an awkward moment of silence and posturing, dissolved after I identified myself with "I am Chris from New York, what's up with you Niggaz?" Actually, I was serious about the question. There was no pause in between "what's up" and the rest of the sentence. Nevertheless, they all laughed, the music started and we greeted each other in the middle of the dance floor (I mean shop).
As DJ Innocent put on "I know you got soul" (by Eric B. and Rakim) two brothers brought me a chair, one brought me a coke and three brought a series of questions: "how big is New York compared to Butare", "why are you here" and "do you have any music with you"? I told them that there are probably 1000 Butares that could fit into "the City." I was there to study Rwanda and learn about its wonderful history. Note to efolks: never admit ones true purpose to someone who calls themselves a Niggaz with sharp objects all over the place. And, finally, no I did not bring any music; something that I would never do again.
The next 30 minutes was a blur as they showed me haircuts they had, haircuts they were getting, haircuts they saw in old rap magazines from France and Belgium. They had a copy of the Source - the black Hip-Hop magazine, which they treated like the Holy Grail. DJ Innocent had to put on "Rappers Delight" to signify the occasion. Several of the brothers started busting moves - old ones. The head Niggaz walked me around the store to show me posters as well as other artifacts: afro picks, laces and hoodies.
Near faint, I sat down in an empty chair on the left side of the store. One of the barbers stepped beside me. Someone brought me another coke. Another pulled up a chair and several others sat around me on the floor. It was like the "Chronicles of Riddick" and I had fallen into the chair of the king, holding court. The faces of the brothers combined with those on the wall: Tupac, Biggy, Kwame (yeah, the polka dot guy), Rakim, Too Short and Fat Joe who stood out because it would have taken about five of the Rwandans to equal one of him.
Getting somewhat overwhelmed by the African time warp, it then hit me why it all seemed so familiar: this was no hair salon. This was my room from 1985 - somehow migrated to Rwanda and spread out over the space. I felt Sankofa-ed with a twist. All that was missing was the Prince "Controversy" album cover on the wall; this is the subject of another story however.
At some point, the growing entourage stopped to ask if they were saying things by their right names. At that moment, I became the "ghetto authenticator" - a Hip-Hop aficionado, come to their salon to give them the boogie down stamp of approval. They brought out object after object, to hear the American label. It kept coming as there was seemingly an endless stream of gear emerging from the back room. For a second, I slowly came out of my fog, remembering where I was. Under a Shante Moore mix, I heard some radio station with someone talking angrily. Not Hip-Hop. Real stuff. Realer than real. This only lasted for a second because seeing me, the back door was closed and I was back to authenticating.
All the buzzing and movement stopped, however, when I remembered why I had come into the store. "I had a problem," I said. They all stopped mid-pop to hear me. It was a KRS edutainment moment as I felt Malcolm, the Furious 5, Busy Bee, Cold Crush and SPoony-G course through me. "You know that the word Niggaz is derived from Niggaz which is an insult from whites? They did not. "The "a" replacing the "er" was an attempt to shift the emphasis and actually empower the user but I think that the experiment failed. Niggaz are now distortions, creations, parodies of the true state of Africans in America. There might have been some true gangstas at some point and the hostility, the anger, the frustration in the music taps a certain aspect of the reality that blacks are subject to but what Hip-Hop has become, what you have on -the wall, what you look at, listen to and take in here is what a warped version of Hip-Hop has created."
They didn't hear me. They couldn't. I could not get across to them how one-dimensional the music they had was, how they missed Hip-Hop and how Hip-Hop missed them, needed them (desperately). I couldn't tell them that they didn't need Niggaz over here - at least not the Niggaz they thought they needed. I couldn't tell them that there were really no Niggaz at all, just niggers and those that tried to survive. I was saddened that all that made it over there was haircuts, some pictures, some really, really small medallions and corny rap songs - not even whole tapes but mixes at that. They had no graffiti (no readily available spray paint and machine gun totting, fit police not donut-totting, slightly overweight ones), no break dancing (head spinning on rocks?), no Malcolm, no Baraka, no red, no black but plenty of green.
They looked at me, perplexed. A few started to whisper and look at each other. DJ Innocent, who had stopped playing music, frantically searched for something to change the mood. One brother walked up, B-Boy stride and said, "You don't like our shop?" Trying to be honest but sensing the tension, "I said no, I love what you have here. In fact, you have brought me a strange ray of hope. Mos Def said once that "the Invisible Man got the whole world watching" and you all have shown that. The reference was lost. They were still in the 80's maybe the late 70's and barely. "I just don't like what you have named your store." "But, we are Niggaz," they replied. "The Made Niggaz," several chimed in with pride (some B-Boy stances returning).
As if on cue, one of my colleagues from across the street walked in and in a second, the place transitioned into something else, somewhere else. The Niggaz went back to their corners, the eyes glazed over. Hair cutting resumed, the dancing was replaced with sitting, and DJ Innocent turned his back and put up his hoodie. The openness, excitement and smiles that I saw just seconds ago turned to the then standard Rwandan scowl. We wear the mask that grins and lies in Rwanda too.
My associates told me that they had finished and were about to walk back to the hotel - something that you did not want to do alone. We were also leaving the next morning and I had to pack. I tried to say goodbye to the brothas in the saloon but once again I could see that I was Mizungued - pulled away by otherness. On the way out, DJ Innocent had evidently found what he was looking for. As I pushed the swinging doors to exit and step through, I heard Run DMC saying, "It's like that and that's the way it is." Ain't it the truth, I thought. Ain't it the truth?
I left thinking that I needed to construct a Hip-Hop educational packet with some African American history to help. Forget bandaids and old laptops. These brothers needed some Kool Herc and Funk Master Flex - STAT! They needed the Klan (the X variety not the Ku Klux one). The repackaged Zulus.
Of course, just as I thought of it, driving by a few dozen kids sifting through trash, the stupidity of the whole thing came back to me. What these brothers and sisters really needed was something more basic: some food, a place to live, some regular education with readin', ritin' and rithmetic' - The same stuff that all brothas and sistas need (just realized that I saw no women in the shop/saloon).
As we pulled away, I realized that no matter how far you go, you always home - kinda. Keep your heads up brothas. Let some sistas in.
Giving til it Hurts - Tales of Rwanda, Part 5
As one leaves an establishment in Rwanda (a restaurant or a hotel) one must invariably prepare themselves for the onslaught of thin, hungry, dirty, scantily dressed but completely adorable children who ask for food or a few francs. The culture at that time was still essentially Francophone – this would change quickly as the RPF presence increased. There is little variation however: there are no fat children, none who look healthy, none who appear clean and none of them is fully dressed. Now, being from New York, I have been approached a million different ways by people in the street: "hey buddy, got a quarter," "got a light," "got busfare," "got my rent in yo pocket," or "blow for a meal"? You hear everything. I have even been approached by kids who just pull your heart strings. Literally. They just open you up, pull out veins and start playing.
The situation here is compounded by the sheer volume of the issue. There is no isolated child like in New York but rather there is a veritable sea of youth. The onslaught is held back by armed guards, making the place safe for foreigners and those with resources, but once you leave the safety of the establishment – unless you have guards with you or manage to sneak to your vehicle – you have to deal with the kids.
After a while, I could take it, which I was both grateful for and troubled by. After the umteenth child solicitation, a certain degree of callousness overcomes you in Rwanda. I really could not function in any other way because there were simply too many children. The problem was too daunting to contemplate. My colleague Candace could not take it either but she decided that she was going to cave in completely – albeit reacting to only one at a time.
Something that became obvious upon closer observation was that there was a system to the solicitation. While you were approached by a barrage of individuals, if you interacted with one or gave something to one of the children, you were thereafter "owned" by them. If after marking, another kid interacted with the marked outsider, then it appeared that you could be sanctioned by some regulator with a stone, stick or some harsh words.
Candace was marked by a spry little kid with eyes like midnight, a smile like sunlight and a face like the sky (vast, full of potential and haunting). He was named Innocent like many people in Rwanda. You could not help but want to help him.
It was absolutely amazing to see. Upon coming out of any store on the Butare strip, Candace's Innocent would find her. "Madaam… Madaam…" He would start, tilt his head to the side and smile – hand out. Initially, Candace would give him a franc or two but then she came up with a mini-development strategy. First, she would work on his nutrition: a sandwich instead of a franc, a power bar or a vitamin or two. Second, she would take him for a visit to a doctor – after the buy-in purchased with a meal. Then she would talk about school, over a bottle of water or coke.
Candace was all into his life and he lapped it up. How could he not? They both seemed to need each other and you were warmed by the connection. Amidst all the horrible things one saw in Rwanda, if just one life could be improved, things would be just a little more tolerable. That was the idea at least. The reality was more complex.
You see, the children were also marked. They did not run amok as we thought. Over a few weeks, I managed to sneak in the back of the Made Niggaz Hair Salon and sat in the front with some people I had met before. This allowed me to watch where the kids were hanging out as well as where Candace was coming from.
Watching the street, I could see that there were clics/groups of youth – a gaggle of little capitalistic entrepreneurs. There were older kids as well – between 15 and 20 who seemed to run the pack. The leader would gather the youth at the beginning of the day and pass out assignments. Innocent's job was seemingly Candace. He would trail her everywhere – walking, running, hiding, waiting – always placing himself where he could be seen (which after you have been marked becomes easy somehow – it's like there are no longer a hundred kids in a crowd, just yours).
At the end of the day, the kids met again to hand over their goodies to their handlers, from the days catch. There is no joyful enjoyment of the goodies. There is no gracious handover of the piece of bread to grandma back at the old house in the bush. Rather, grandma is dead and there is no house but there is a somber handover and reallocation. After Candace's giving, all Innocent does is cross the street, turn the corner into an alley and hand over everything he got. On the way back to the street, he might take a nibble but not too much or else he might get caught.
Why give up the goodies? Protection. Fear. Survival. Numbers are the only thing that seem to keep you alive on the streets of Rwanda. You give up to get set up and you get set up to live (not die).
Seeing this whole process once, by mistake, Candace later mentioned to me that "oh, that's so cute. He's sharing." I just looked at her. She missed his submissive demeanor (it looked like someone waiting to get punished), the look on the older kid's face of anticipation (it looked like some drug addicted fiend waiting for their fix), the eight or so kids that stood around waiting their turn (reminiscent of the first). She even missed Innocent's look on his face after he gave over this prize (like his lunch money was taken that day, like everyone before it – this was actually pretty accurate but the money was not just for lunch).
At that moment, I realized that we were and were not from the same place. Later, I realized that she needed to see Innocent share. To see anything else would be too hard. I, on the other hand, didn't need anything but to see what was in front of me. Both of us were likely wrong. I needed more of a filter for all this stuff lest I be overcome by it and Candace needed less of one lest she be underwhelmed.
Oh Those Crazy Mizungus - Tales of Rwanda, Part 3
I never thought I was a white man or that people could ever see me in this way. Well, there was that one conversation with my friend Wycuie at age 14 when I stupidly said that "my people" were French – Huguenots to be precise. This was the only family history that had been passed to me and not knowing any better, I just mentioned this to him in the heat of some conversation. To this, Wycuie just looked at me, said nothing about my not being French and left it alone, kinda (Wycuie had a quiet scream that he could wield against you). I was lost then and he figured that he would let me find my way.
I was and am an African-American..... well, mostly. My great grandfather on my father's side was a Choctaw or Cherokee Indian and my great grandfather on my mother's side was white (victimizing his servant in the tradition of Strom Thurmond and Thomas Jefferson). All of the other folks were black and thus, after my Wycuie intervention, I normally stuck with the majority. So did all the people I interacted with throughout all aspects of my life.
This changed when I went to Rwanda. There I was Mizungu (Me-sun-goo) – alternatively meaning: a white person, a foreigner, an outsider, money, a mark. Now this was news to me. I did not know I was a Mizungu until we pulled up to an orphanage in a remote part of the country. As we got out of the car, children in the hundreds ran up from where they were playing, screaming "Mizungu, Mizungu!"
The name/label/insult did not seem threatening. Somehow I knew it wasn't "hi" or "nigger," but I did not know what it was and my interpreters were not telling me. This was not like the time I was called "Shvartze" by Adam at Junior High School 104 in New York City and all my Jewish "friends" wouldn't tell me what it meant as they giggled, but it was pretty damn close.
Following that experience, I picked out the word quite frequently from the babble of language that surrounded me – muttered underneath the sound of cars passing by or stepping into a market or café.
I finally got it one day, however, when we were trying to figure out where we would have lunch. One of my hosts started to suggest one location, but they quickly withdrew the idea, saying that I would probably not want to go there because it was Rwandan. I responded that I was in Rwanda and why would I not want to try their food. They said that some other Mizungu didn't like it. I said, "who was that person and what the hell is a Mizungu?" They then went on to tell me that a Mizungu was someone not from Rwanda. The other definitions came over the next few minutes.
Now, I was offended because the other person they were comparing me to was a white man from Toronto. I went off at that point, likely overreacting because of exhaustion, mind-altering medicine and recovering from 400 years of slavery. I was like, "do you have any idea how insulting that is to an African-American. I may not have come to Africa to find myself but I sure didn't come here to get lost." [note: I have no problems with either white people or Toronto]
We then had a long conversation about race relations in the West. Although white Canadians are generally better than American whites on many dimensions when it comes to racism and discrimination, it is still offensive to tell an African American that they are like some anglo-canuck. "I mean damn," I continued, "you all are going to have one hell of a time incorporating into the global market if you lump together black people from Manhattan with white people from Toronto."
Accepting the point (after several days of returning to the issue), my hosts and I went through different ways of qualifying Mizungu to allow for some nuance (otherness with adjectives, as it were). The top contenders were: NeoMizungu, Blazungu (my favorite) and CocoaMizungu. Acknowledging that Kinyarwanda is a bit more resistant to innovation than English, we laughed and they said they would try to accommodate my request.
Later on the trip, we were at a museum of Rwandan history and art. After greeting the attendant, the host paid and walked through the little gate. After greeting the attendant in the proper Rwandan manner, I pulled out some money and then asked my host some question about someone that we were supposed to meet later. Upon hearing me speak English, the attendant looked kind of pale and asked my host if I was Mizungu. He smiled and said yes, afterwhich my fee was tripled - literally, in my face. Immediately I was pissed, talking about how that wasn't fair. Evidently, I greeted the attendant so well and they were used to people coming back to Rwanda from all over the world, I was briefly able to pass. When I realized that for a second I was an African, I corrected my tone, gladly paid the high fee and went in to see some ancient huts, the Tutsi lineage as well as some assorted historical artifacts from the region.
Although we both kind of left the topic alone, the Mizungu thing stayed with me; how could it not? I heard it daily. As is my way, I started to ponder the idea and make jokes about it. Actually, after a while and observing stupid little things that foreigners did in Rwanda, I thought that a good comic strip in the locale paper could be called "Oh, Those Crazy Mizungus." The show would be set in a school or a bar, hotel, around a travel guide or interpreter who would interact with a wide variety of Mizungus. As they interacted with them, they would invariably do something inappropriate and when that happened, the whole cast would stop and say "Oh, Those Crazy Mizungus." It couldn't lose. Several episodes came to mind: working through lunch, coming to places on time, tanning by the pool or misunderstanding the logic behind effective bargaining for a mask. The sheer number of episodes was a source of constant amusement. The thought of this almost made me forget that for a while they thought I was a white man... almost.


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Home Business Namibia and Brazil to strengthen bilateral relations
Namibia and Brazil to strengthen bilateral relations
BRAZILIAN external relations minister Aloysio Nunes says there is a huge opportunity for Namibia to get more investment from Brazil.
Monika Labajova
STRENGTHENING TIES: Brazilian minister of external relations Aloysio Nunes met deputy prime minister and international relations minister Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah during an of cial visit to Namibia. Namibia is the first African country which the minister has visited since taking office recently. (Photo: The Namibian)
BRAZILIAN external relations minister Aloysio Nunes says there is a huge opportunity for Namibia to get more investment from Brazil. He said this during a meeting with deputy prime minister and international relations minister Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah.
The two ministers discussed possible new agreements and also revisited already standing agreements between the two countries that will strengthen bilateral relations.
Nunes said taking into account the economic difficulties Brazil went through, they are working on investing in more value addition programmes.
"We can also offer the Namibian youth the opportunity to study in Brazil. We have several students from Namibia studying at different universities in different parts of our country," he added.
Namibia is the first African country which Nunes has visited since taking office recently. He will also visit Botswana, Malawi and Mozambique.
Nandi-Ndaitwah said Nunes' visit is testament to the importance that Brazil attaches to the bilateral relations between Namibia and Brazil.
Brazil and Namibia to strengthen bilateral relations (Photo:Ministry of Foreign Affairs,Br)
"I am confident that this visit and our discussions today will afford us with an excellent opportunity to not only review the implementation of the agreements that we have reached so far, but also to further exchange views on socio-economic developments in order to enable our respective governments to respond more effectively to the needs and aspirations of our two peoples," she said.
She added that while the bilateral relations between the two countries have been cordial, there is room for expansion to cover socio-economic areas of mutual interest.
The minister said progress has been made in the logistics sector following the opening of the Walvis Bay Corridor Group's office in Sao Paulo with the aim to facilitate a direct shipping line between Santos, one of the busiest container ports in Latin America, and Walvis Bay.
"The first direct shipping line already started in November 2012. This Santos-Walvis Bay direct shipping line has the potential to increase the trade volumes between Namibia and Brazil, and would immensely benefit landlocked SADC member states. This for us is a step in the right direction, and the potential thereof cannot be overemphasised," she noted. It can speed up negotiations to finalise those agreements which are still pending, and to ensure that they are speedily implemented to allow for increasing and expanding cooperation between the two countries.
"I have full confidence that these official talks will be a success that would mutually benefit our two countries and peoples," Nandi-Ndaitwah told Nunes.
She also took the opportunity to ask for Brazil's support in Namibia's bid to host the African Regional Office for the Green Climate Fund.
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VIAThe Namibian
I hold a BA degree in English Linguistics and MA degree in American studies from University of Southern Denmark, Odense. I am passionate about blogging and discussing political and cultural environment in a contemporary society. In particular, I am interested in international relations between USA and the rest of the world.