Misery Business

People bother me. And I mean that. I don’t like big crowds, I’m not a fan of communal living, and I hate having people I don’t know in my personal space. So I suppose this is why I might be seen as a bit of a bitch sometimes.

In our media studies lecture on Thursday we were shown the documentary War Zone. In the documentary, director Maggie Hadleigh-West takes to the streets with a camera and a microphone,confronting men who openly stare at, hit on or harrass women on the street.

We had a long discussion about it in class – a class made up largely of women around 21 years old. All of us have had at least one experience of being harassed on the street by a man who feels that he is within his rights to hit on you because he is a man and you are a woman.

This has been something that has always irked me. In high school my friends welcomed the attention, and revelled in the stares from men. Instead I got furious – especially when they abandoned innocent flirtation and became aggressive or intimidating.

In my class, every girl could recall an instance where she had been harrassed by a guy, either on the street or in a bar or club. Why is it that some men cannot see the line between flirtation and harrassment? Some men feel that they have a right, as a man, to pursue a woman, regardless of her level of discomfort. Where does this come from? From the days where women were expected to be submissive?

In South Africa we have a massive problem with rape and sexual assault. It is estimated that only one in every nine rapes are reported to the police. In 2006 alone, over 50 000 rapes were reported. You do the maths. So it’s no wonder that everytime a guy becomes a little forceful in trying to hit on me, I become afraid. No longer angry. Afraid. How do I know that this guy is going to realise when he’s going too far?

I hate that because I am a woman in South Africa, I can’t walk alone at night without feeling that I might be attacked. I hate that I have to worry about what I’m wearing, where I go, who I hang out with, and whether or not what I say might attract the wrong type of guy.

So this is why I generally give off a “don’t-come-near-me” vibe. It’s safer that way. If I don’t want you near me, I won’t have you near me. And it saves me a whole lot of trouble.

Scifest, Scifest, Scifest. Or Scifest Africa, as it is now called. You want a crash course in new media, go to Scifest.

Tracey, one of the girls in my class, and I are preparing an audio slideshow on patients with TB, writing an article on genetic modification, writing an article on using science and technology on solving waste problems in Grahamstown, and I’m probably doing an audiocast on whether or not science can prove or disprove the existence of god.

So this morning was spent at one of the TB clinics, taking photographs and interviewing people. We then sprinted off to a lecture being held by Professor Marc Zimmer to interview him and take photographs. Which is very intimidating, but there you go.

I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with interviewing people – I find that the whole process is very invasive, and I don’t really enjoy stepping deeply into people’s private spaces. But taking photographs is somehow so much worse.

Yes you can hide behind the camera, but here it’s capturing – in immediate form – a moment of somebody’s life. It’s a very strange feeling, but I think I could get used to it.

So this week is topped by my 21st – and I can see indecent amounts of Red Bull being consumed by the end of this week.

Wish me luck – I’m going to need it. And yes, this is a short post. But yes, it’s going to be a very long week.

Where is the love?

Yes, I’ve been a bad blogger. But it’s not my fault, I swear. I’ve been working on another blog for new media, discussing cyberculture. It’s been pretty interesting so far, more interesting than I thought it would be, but trying to come up with ideas proves to be problematic! Check it out at cyberculting.wordpress.com – it’s still in the opening stages, so don’t worry if the form changes a bit!

Anyway, I was sitting in a photojournalism class last week, and learned something quite interesting about myself. We were looking at THAT Kevin Carter photograph and obviously our lecturer asked us the vital question: would you have stopped to take that photograph? And everybody ummed and ahhed about the ethics of it in the first place – and what was the context, and what happened to the child? But would I have stopped? Yes, I would have. Without a doubt, I would have.

But then the question arises. Once you’ve taken the photograph, do you scare the bird away? Swoop the child into your arms and save the day? Call me cold-blooded and completely heartless, but that’s not our job as journalists. A journalist is there to report and report only – not to be a humanitarian, not to save the world one starving child at a time. Ideally, I would like to combine both, yes. But what about the 300 other people at the feeding station? Do I try help them, too? The line needs to be drawn, clearly. And I believe it’s up to the individual to make that choice.

Obviously, however, I am contemplating this from the safety of my keyboard. Who’s to say that my maternal instincts (and apparently, because I’m a woman, I have to have those) won’t kick in, and suddenly I’ll find myself clutching the hands of four children and becoming the poorman’s Angelina Jolie.

And once I find that the child has starved to death, would I be able to defend my actions by saying: Well, it wasn’t my job? Who knows. Maybe I’ll slowly go mad with guilt and anger at the world, for something I could not have realistically prevented. But it’s not my job. It should be the job of those with the power to help. I read somewhere that Ethiopia has requested around $68 million dollars for aid after the recent droughts. Now if you think about it, that’s not too much to ask for. Most blockbuster movies rake in that amount without blinking. America spends billions on its defense budget (defending who, from what, I ask?)

So spread the love around, that’s all I’m asking.