Every Friday one of our five regular online correspondents writes a letter to someone. Emma Lesuis wanted to talk about the 'confetti canon' of white words in Wunderbaums Here we go again , but she notices that she is tired. Then prefer a letter to a rising musical star from Namibia to the Netherlands, because politics and person can not be disconnected.
We met for the first time the day before yesterday morning. I was too late, you were still later. You were not yet sitting or the words rolled out of your mouth. With a lot of energy you filled the room when you told about your project Namibian Tales - Kalahari Encounters. The music project for which you, the singer-songwriter, together with percussionist Sjahin During drew three times to Namibia, your motherland, to make music with the San (or the Bushmen).
With seriousness you spoke about one of the oldest peoples of Africa - or not the oldest we all come from - and also the most marginalized group in Namibia and Botswana. You mentioned the familiar prejudices that stick to them, with which they fit into the tragic sequence of the Aborigines, the pygmies, the native Americans and so on. Even more tragic are the tourist trips that you can book to the San where you can a) hunt with them or b) make jewelry with them. To get the real experience .
That words can certainly have an impact, you prove.
No, you did not want to show that image. You wanted to bring out the richness of the San, a music culture from centuries ago that is about to disappear. "We must now have the grandmothers tell us, otherwise it is too late." I learned from you that women make music there. With admiration I read the calling in your eyes, the commitment, the passion.
Maybe it comes through where your seed is planted, that you can not catch a hole. You were born in Windhoek, flew over to Zuid-Laren, tapped Hoegaarden and since then you have been blowing with all the winds and you can see where your feet touch the earth, as long as the guitar is hanging around your neck. That your parents, a white Belgian and a black Namibian found each other at the time of the apartheid regime, is already very admirable. Hulle still speaks African, you understand this , but speak your own language. And that is clear.
Actually, I did not intend to write you (or about you) a letter, Shishani. There was a plan ready that would deal with the ups and downs in the theater world this week. I would write about the performance Here we go again from Wunderbaum, which I saw during the opening of the festival Motel Mozaique in Rotterdam and which can be seen this week in the Monty in Antwerp. The performance is about the debate that is spread out daily in newspaper, magazine, online, offline, and now also in the theater. What can you (or the white man) say in this 'politically correct' time?
Words flew back and forth from the white writer, over the white background, through the white actors to the white audience and back again. There we went again.
Words flew back and forth from the white writer, over the white background, through the white actors to the largely white audience and back again. There we went again. Actually, the performance was a perfect reflection as it goes outside the theater walls: like confetti cannons words are fired, but who picks them up and does it really matter?
"You did not laugh at all," a friend said afterwards. What was there to laugh? It was about again, instead of something actually being done. Why did not Wunderbaum really give the floor and space to someone else? On the balcony of the Groot Handelsgebouw the conversation was short about the handsome effort of the actors, but soon the 'what do you' questions came and that was it. None of the interlocutors made it necessary to revive the debate. (It was after all Friday night.)
I tried to write a plan about speaking and keeping quiet, talking and doing. But during the writing, however, the same thing happened to me as in the performance: I became entangled in a web of words. Maybe it was the temperature of the last time. Maybe it was the general climate that I should always sigh. I was stuck. Moreover, before you know it you will be put away as an opinion maker or activist and 'there you go again'. Do you recognize that?
Shishani Vranckx at the San ('Bushmen') in Namibia.
That words can certainly have an impact, you prove. ' Could you be guilty from being a bit different than the rest? 'You sang during the Namibia Music Awards in 2011. That sentence comes from the song' Minority 'that put you on the map in Namibia where the president made homophobic statements at the time. ' But who are you telling me who to love, how to love? "You were new and strange in Namibia, with your light skin, big hair and political sound. But it turned out to be the right time, the right place , as you let a lot of English flow through your Dutch.
Still, you said, you get via Facebook messages from young Namibian girls who - secretly - sing along with you, for which you serve as inspiration. And so politics and person can not be separated from each other. You do not even need words. On July 1 (keti koti!) You will welcome four San women in the Netherlands with whom you will be touring two weeks this summer. They speak! Kung - a click language - that you do not understand. You communicate through sounds, rhythm and gestures. And who needs words if you can just: do?
Unconsciously you showed me that you do not have to linger in the web, you can also fly above it.
After my conversation I cycled to my office. It was empty and musty. I opened my laptop and sighed when I read my plan. To my distraction I googled your name and appeared at the top: 'I do not want to belong to anything anymore'. I gazed at your Windhoek when I saw your video clip. You made me curious about a Namibia far from predictable tourist roads. I thought of the San women who will soon be on stage at the Bimhuis.
And then I started tapping. I quickly wrote a new zipper, the space filled with energy. This is my first letter for rekto: verso . Often with a 'first' you set a tone, just like you put yours on that stage during the Namibian Music Awards. Unconsciously you showed me that you do not have to linger in the web, you can also fly above it. That's why I spend my first words to you. You do, you go, you blow. And I like to blow with you.
On July 5, you will join Namibian Tales-Kalahari Encounters at the Bimhuis in Amsterdam.
Emma Lesuis studied Word Art at the Royal Conservatory in Antwerp and has since been working as an independent storyteller from Amsterdam with a focus on documentary. She films, writes, conducts research and presents.
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