Georgianne Nienaber: Author. Journalist.

Reports from South Africa Focus on Crime and Ignore History

In the rural areas of Africa the people's lives and histories revolve around their communities and connections with people, the land and tradition. To people living in Africa, white and black alike, the land is not exotic, wild or foreign, it is "home." And home does not always provide safety and comfort.

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Xenophobic Violence Escalates in South Africa

"It is really a social crisis, of people trying to survive." This writer can confirm the dismal poverty facing residents of the South African Townships.

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Hope

Disaster results from betrayals by humanity and nature. Songwriter Caroline Herring Herring suggests that the true of heart tackle the challenge facing heart and mind anyway; running headlong in the maelstrom.

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Sloppy Forensics Cloud Verdict in DRC Journalist Serge Mahes

The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) supported the acquittal of two friends of Radio Okapi journalist Serge Maheshe who were accused of taking part in his murder. However, IFJ said in a press release that there were "irregularities" in the trial which precluded discovery of who, exactly, was responsible for Maheshe's murder

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Mother's Day Thoughts By an Off Duty Writer

OpEdNews

Original Content

April 14, 2008

Off Duty Writers, Dogs, Children, and Mommas on Mother's Day

 

By Georgianne Nienaber

Is a writer ever “off duty?” Probably not. We try now and then to quiet the mind, sit back and listen to the sounds of spring. We put cushions on the big old wooden rocker that faces the bayou—and watch the barges and occasional gator floating past. The wind can feel like the touch of a mother, smoothing the hair on a brow furrowed with worry that we really should be writing, about something, about anything. How else can we “make a difference”—a euphemism for establishing a meaningful existence?

It is chilly today on my bayou and the rocking chair is tucked carefully ‘round the corner of the cottage, catching the full warmth of the April sun. A cold front came through and dropped the Southern Louisiana temperature from 90 plus to a very uncomfortable 54 degrees. As the wind smoothes unruly hair in a direction resembling symmetry, the “Mother’s Touch” reminds the writer in me of an all-too-brief-encounter on the ferry the day before.

French Quarter Fest in New Orleans was a huge success for the Crescent City, but too crowded and noisy for someone accustomed to the rural countrysides of Africa, and secluded seashores of the United States. With a frightened young Shitzu puppy, who doubles as a newfound traveling companion in tow, a retreat to the bayou seemed the best choice. The serendipity of a chance encounter on a ferry opened another portal for the muse—and a reminder that stories do not have to be headlines.

Late Sunday afternoon, dog and writer caught the Canal Street ferry for Algiers on the West Bank. New Orleans was running the “big” ferry to accommodate the festival—along a Mississippi River crossing that takes minutes and has been in existence since 1729. The ferry is a pretty spectacular ride. It offers great views of the Mississippi and New Orleans and boat and barge traffic. You can take your car, or not, and the only charge is $1.00 to cars on the way back from the West Bank.

Canedog and his writer/owner settled in to watch the water while the overflow crowd rambled aboard, and the ferry schedule was thrown out the porthole once again for the weekend.

There was a tug on the leash, courtesy of a young boy; perhaps eight or nine. He was cute as can be, with blue jeans that were just little too short, scuffed up black shoes, and black hair to match that fell across the palest blue eyes one can imagine. Those blue eyes were so pale, they seemed translucent and I understood once again what that universal “window to the soul” is all about. I have only seen eyes of that hue once before, and the last time they frightened me.

The boy was bold.

“OK if I pet your dog?”

“Sure.”

“Does he know any tricks?”

“Well. Yeah, but he is still a baby and he’s kinda nervous, but you can try. Put your hands in front of him and say ‘give me ten.”’

To prove my point, Canedog rolled over with feet in the air in a gesture of total submission and no intention of performing. The boy tried the “give me ten” thing a couple of times and gave up. He had something else on his mind, and was clearly sizing me up.

“Do you have a son?”

“No but I have a daughter.”

“Does she have a tree house?”

“Sarah, that’s her name, is all grown up and away at school, but yes, she had a tree house.”

The boy stood up now, very interested, and got closer.

“Is the tree house still there?”

There was no point in telling him we had long since moved, but I wasn’t telling a lie to say the tree house still stood.

“Yeah it’s still there, she just doesn’t play in it anymore.”

We both laughed and the answer seemed to please him even more as he knelt down to pet the pup that was still very much not into doing tricks.

“Could I be your son?”

I heard him all right, but needed to stall.

“What?”

He knew I heard him the first time, but he played along.

“Could I be your son? My Momma left and I’m with auntie and I need a mother.”

Whew. Panic. The boy did not notice my pale shock.

“I’m gonna go ask her.”

I was shouting into the wind.

“Who?”

“Auntie.”

He disappeared up the steps to the upper deck just as the horn sounded that we were about to dock. Should I wait? It would be pointless, and besides I could obviously not be his mother. Mind racing, I thought about the Cajun farmer whom I met last year whose wife had left him for a swirl of drugs and alcohol and how his boy now rode the cane cutter with him “because it is in the blood.” How many more orphans of the storm that was Katrina are looking for a mom, a dog, and a tree house?

The ferry gate opened and the human tsunami took Canedog and my alter-ego "the writer" down the ramp and into the West Bank neighborhood where the getaway car was waiting.

How many of us are all alone on our ferries and front porches and sitting in our rocking chairs with only the touch of the spring breeze to remind us of our own lost mothers?

A Peter Pan experience where the dog takes care of the children is no substitute for a mother’s love.

Mr Bill (Oh NO!) Takes on Big Shell Oil

Walter Williams, creator of the iconic “Mr. Bill” from the glory days of Saturday Night Live, recently sent an email to his “Sluggo” list. In it, he describes a wonderful act of free speech and resistance directed at the sponsors of Jazz Fest, or what has become known as “Shell Fest” on the beleaguered Gulf Coast.

Shell Oil is the “Sluggo” of the Mississippi Delta. Coastal scientists estimate that oil companies have caused 40-60% of the coastal land loss Louisiana is experiencing. Current estimates published by the Gulf Restoration Network to repair the Gulf Coast and protect cities like New Orleans is $50 billion. Taxpayers should not have to fix what Big Oil broke.

In fact, Mr. Bill predicted the flood caused by Hurricane Katrina in 2004, one year before August 29, 2005.

Here is Walter’s email:

Sunday, as sunset approached on a beautiful day, our native sons the Neville Brothers returned home to perform for the first time since Katrina. Suddenly, up in the air…is it a bird? Is it a plane? Yes, actually it is and towing a banner reading “Shell Hear The Music Fix The Coast U Broke.”
 
I heard many exclaim, “I don’t think that’s supposed to be there.” 

Thanks to the Gulf Restoration Network, which did a similar Shell protest two years ago, for taking my idea seriously and financing it, there it was. And thanks to Tab Benoit and his Voice of the Wetlands organization, it stayed up an additional hour and closed out one of the most beautiful closing days in memory. The T-shirts were a big hit also. Two girls at the ticket booth wanted them and wore them and you could spot people all around making it feel like the official theme of the Fest.

Once again, before any feels too sorry for Shell, saying they provide jobs and pay taxes. Well, all of the real jobs have moved to Houston and they’ve been using that line for decades and getting away with it. Now people are starting to wake up to the reality that Shell and the other oil companies involved in southern Louisiana have made us vulnerable to total destruction every summer and fall by eating away our natural defense; coastal wetlands.

And besides, before Shell took over it cost about 25 bucks to get into the Jazz Fest...I paid 50 on Sunday. I guess they are passing on the cost of all of those Shell flags to the customer. Please present the idea of the oil industry paying to restore our coast to your representatives and let them know that rebuilding our coast is a national issue.

Thanks to Michael Sustendal for taking the picture of me when we bumped into each other and for Alycia Daumas for taking the close up from her house. I think the whole event was awesome and everyone’s talking about it.

Keep hope alive,

Walter

Here is a permalink to Walter Williams' documentary titled "Restoring the Gulf Coast: Who Pays?"

Environmental activists contend that Shell Oil has co-opted Jazz Fest, a cultural institution, by becoming a major sponsor. Comments welcome on "who should pay?"