Can it really be more than 15 years since I buried Johnny? He was my
partner in life, love, laughter and tears. He died as a result of
complications from AIDS--and a lack of health insurance. But that was life
times ago. Never, even with my fertile imagination, could I have guessed
the path my life would follow. From artist and gallery manager to
volunteer, and following that more than ten years as an employee of GMHC, a
stint at the "American Journal of Public Health," and time spent in Geneva
helping to organize the last International AIDS Conference. My formative
years were spent in London and Paris. Throw in a divorce and a few degrees,
and what does it all make me? To most people, a white woman with an English
accent. And somehow it seems to makes perfect sense that I'm now working as
a consultant for the Estate Project for Artists with AIDS, among others, to
present a skills-building workshop in Durban on "The use and role of video
in AIDS education/prevention, working with the media as well as activism."
Suddenly after months of planning and anticipation, and a more-than-twenty
hour flight filled with idle, excited chatter and airline food, I found
myself transported from a stifling New York City summer afternoon to a mild
Durban winter evening. I walk barefoot on the beach and fall asleep to the
sounds of the waves of the Indian Ocean.
Riding into the city this morning I look, absorbing all, hungry for signs of
what I'm not quite sure. My mind is racing. Durban, in the province of
KwaZulu-Natal, is currently the epicenter of the pandemic with an estimated
1,700 new infections each day. 4.2 million people are living with HIV/AIDS
in South Africa and by the year 2010 life expectancy is expected to drop to
36. These statistics are repeated so often that their effect is sometimes
numbing. But how does one truly comprehend that these stats represent real
people infected and affected worldwide? Infected not only with HIV but the
attendant consequences: stigma, denial, shame, fear, discrimination, gender
inequality, and violence.
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As we enter the third decade of this pandemic this is the first time that
the International AIDS Conference is being held in a developing country: in
South Africa no less, which is in its sixth year of post-apartheid
democracy. Banners reading "AIDS 2000 - Durban Welcomes You" line our route.
A strange sense of relief and intense anticipation grips me. The first
visual signs that the city is geared up to host the current International
AIDS Conference and its 12,000-or-so delegates. A large billboard proclaims
"Life ain't what it used to be. Use Condoms." We drive near the city center
passing gray nondescript buildings, apartment complexes and hotels--all with
the iron bars and gates that will become so familiar. They are a sign of the
indiscriminate violence and mugging that pervade this city where
unemployment and poverty are rife. Apartheid's legacy has left a people
primarily of have-nots still "immobilized," as one official of the Truth
and Reconciliation Commission sadly told me.
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Palm trees line the waterfront. The wide streets are clean and nearly empty.
We reach the International Convention Center, an up-to-the-minute, modern
complex adjacent to the Hilton Hotel. This might be Geneva! It is one of
the first of the many apparent contradictions I am to discover. The first
world within the third, or the third within the first, a common sight in
most cities, nowadays, whether New York or Havana. It's easy not to even
notice this, but I am acutely aware that I am a visitor. I do not profess
to understand, nor do I believe that I will be able within a few weeks to
translate my experiences into convenient sound bites, but I am determined to
observe and to absorb. The malignant legacy of racism and apartheid lingers
in my mind and in plain sight. Within minutes of the Convention Center
teeming streets and abject poverty abound.
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Registration takes just a few moments. I'm delighted that we chose to get
here a few days before the official opening on the 9th and miss the usual
registration madness. It feels good seeing so many familiar faces, still
alive and involved. Ties that bind, unspoken, unexplored-acknowledged
perhaps in hugs, smiles and kisses. I spot Shaun, the conference's
Community Organizer. Knowing the behind-the-scenes trials and tribulations,
and the certainty that no matter how well things are ostensibly going
disaster lurks, I rush to reassure him. Soon the registration area is dotted
with bright red backpacks--the Conference "bag" proudly displaying its AIDS
2000 logo. And in the days to come the city, too, will be populated by a
curious swarm of red backpacks.
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9 a.m. Sunday morning brings more clear blue skies and sunshine. Walking
quickly through a city still sleeping except for a few blacks waiting for a
bus, we reach City Hall to attend the Treatment Action Campaign's (TAC)
satellite meeting co-sponsored by Doctors Without Borders. TAC is a group of
South African activists who, though severely under-resourced, have succeeded
in altering the national debate about HIV/AIDS, helping to focus it on
collective action and health care access. The meeting will precede a
peaceful march for accessible and affordable treatment. People are crowded
around the check-in desks as the meeting is about to begin. Throngs of
people gather. They are mostly black grandmothers, mothers and young
children, but men and boys are visible, too. Almost everyone wears white and
yellow T-shirts with a deep blue background stating, in white or yellow
letters, "HIV Positive". Yellow T-shirts designate volunteers. The effect
and effectiveness of this army of young and old, black and white, and all
colors in between, marching is extraordinarily powerful--visually,
symbolically and literally.
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The power of the image of the simple graphic-emblem Silence = Death, which
continues to unite activists worldwide, comes to mind. I'm also reminded of
the words of Daniel Cohn-Bendit who declared at the time of the 1968 student
riots in Paris "nous sommes tous des juifs allemands" (we are all German
Jews). Endorsed by 230 organizations, the march, a dignified procession
ringing with chanting and singing from representatives of 33 countries, was
a mix of Conference participants and (predominantly) South Africans. Many
of the latter are not attending the Conference. Few can afford the
registration fee which is the equivalent of an average month's salary here.
It's grown cold and the skies are darkening. The realities of what South
Africans face hits home. Why do I think of early-eighties New York
characterized by fear and moral judgments leading to discrimination,
denial, and stigma? Close to twenty years later there are millions more
infected, millions more dead. "Break the Silence" is the conference theme.
No easy matter. One woman, Gugu Dlamini, an activist who broke her silence
was stabbed and stoned to death in a township close to Durban at the end of
1998.
Immediately following the march we hurry to take our seats for the opening
ceremony in the gigantic Kingsmead Cricket Stadium. My mournful thoughts
were interrupted by a spectacle of Broadway and Las Vegas proportion.
President Mbeki, who has been surrounded by controversy and criticism for
questioning HIV as the cause of AIDS, addresses the thousands congregated
and fails to mention HIV. He chooses instead to focus on a World Health Organization
report about poverty as well as attempting to diminish the role
of the Conference before it has even begun. "Perhaps in thinking your
conference will help us to overcome our problems as Africans," he says. "we
overestimate what (it) can do."
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Justice Edwin Cameron
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In the course of the Conference's first two days, however, one voice
demonstrates the power of a single individual to make a difference.
This resonant voice was that of Justice Edwin Cameron, an affluent, white,
openly gay, HIV+ and very proud African, not to mention a judge of the High
Court. Ironically he has become the face of AIDS in South Africa, revered,
respected and beloved by all infected and affected by HIV/AIDS. Using his
position of privilege, he asserts that he is providing a platform for those
without a voice to be heard. A speaker at the TAC meeting as well as the
opening plenary speaker at the Conferences and a participant in countless
panels and press conferences, Judge Cameron clearly and unfailingly
articulated the failure of his government to adequately address the
pandemic.
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Noting, not without pain, that his survival stands as "An
embodiment of iniquity in drug availability and access in Africa. My
presence here embodies the injustices of AIDS in Africa because on a
continent in which 290 million Africans survive on less than one US dollar a
day, I can afford medication costs of approximately US$400 per month.
Amidst the poverty of Africa, I stand before you because I am able to
purchase health and vigour. I am here because I can pay for life itself."
He apportions blame broadly: "Drug companies and the African governments
seem to have become involved in a kind of collusive paralysis.". And, he
publicly condemns UNAIDS for its failure to carry out its institutional
responsibilities.
Today I also learned about an African custom that would haunt and intrigue
me throughout my stay. In daily greetings here there is an act of naming and
seeing that is in and of itself affirming. An affirmation that we in the
West often strive to achieve in literature, for example. "Sawubona" (from
siSwati the language of the Swazi and very similar to isiZulu, both widely
spoken within this province) is loosely our equivalent of "hello" and means
"I see you." (Its plural form is "Sanibona".) Yet it is much more than an
informal "hi!" An important part of the daily greeting ritual it demands
that time be taken to stop and to see. To truly connect and to affirm.
"Sanibona" was the first word uttered by Judge Cameron everytime he spoke
publicly. And those in the audience who spoke and understood the word--that
is the majority of South Africans infected and affected by HIV/AIDS--went
wild. They responded in turn with loud and loving ululating; a tableau both
humbling and inspiring. For so many who have grown cynical at years' of
institutional bureaucratization and failure to assert a collective political
will vis-a-vis HIV/AIDS, Cameron's voice was like oxygen.
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This year's conference organizers had promised that the "Cultural Program"
would play a bigger role than in previous gatherings. To a degree
this was certainly true. Events were plentiful and ran a gamut that
included: the African Film Festival Retrospective on HIV/AIDS; theatrical
productions and story-telling; performances by local choirs and Afro-Jazz
groups; poetry readings; exhibits of crafts; the creation of a
participatory mural; the showing of "Bodies of Resistance," an exhibition
organized by Visual AIDS; and, of course, the display panels from the
NAMES Project Quilt. And yet, much of it seemed to be there to conform to a
broader canvas of human rights, as if tacked on for the occasion. Nothing
wrong with that, per se, but if we believe that the power of the arts can
help educate and create awareness then the role of the arts needs to be
better integrated within the conference; artists need to be brought into
the planning at an earlier stage. Especially if one adheres to the belief,
as I do, that artistic expression possesses the ability to transcend
barriers of language, culture and class, dispel myths and misconceptions,
and inject what is usually not spoken about into public and private debate.
And, certainly one test of the validity and effectiveness of such
expressions is their ability to be sustained, and sustain their power, apart
from such gatherings.
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Bodies of Resistance
by Aziz & Cucher
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Walking through the park that was one route from the Conference Center to
City Hall provided an arresting site: a giant Red Ribbon sculpture atop a
brilliantly colored mosaic mound where children play standing out starkly
against the trees. And then City Hall itself appears transformed into a
striking public artwork wrapped in a giant red ribbon. Now it offers art
inside and out, since the beaux-arts building also houses the Durban Art
Gallery. The effect may be kitschy but it's also effective, a Christo gone
garish. The ribbon measures 500 by 4 meters, weighs 700kg and is the
culmination of a community effort including panels decorated by over 1000
AIDS orphans, schoolchildren, people living with HIV/AIDS, art students and
professional artists.
Once inside City Hall--and always on the run it seems--I bound up the stairs
leading to the second floor intending to view the photo-exhibit
"Positive Lives,"
a photo-documentary project about HIV/AIDS that has been touring
globally and adding new works since 1993. But I am sidetracked. In a small
gallery measuring barely 8 x 11 feet is a series of paintings and inscribed
ceramic tiles strung together like a curtain. They are the result of a
lengthy workshop process with children infected and affected by HIV/AIDS who
live in city shelters and range in age from 5 to 17. This small but powerful
exhibit is appropriately named "Postcards from the Edge." I am immensely
moved. I struggle to comprehend the realities of these intimate reports, of
these voices in much the same way as I did yesterday when reading the
headline: "9 year-old heads household."
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It's almost time for our skills-building workshop. It's finally happening!
A project that grew from a simple idea to an amazing, international
collaboration involving some of the foremost AIDS activist video-makers from
the US, Canada and South Africa. Key to this effort was the sharing of
experiences and lessons learned. And then moving beyond what is increasingly
a topic for historical debate and study in the U.S. to the potentially
vital application of these lessons elsewhere.
Where's our comrade Jack (Lewis)? We now have just over a half-hour until our
final review. We--James (Wentzy), Gregg (Bordowitz)and myself-- are growing a
little concerned. Thank god for cell phones; Jack is on his way. He was
held up in the midst of filming, of course. We arrive at the Royal Hotel
where our workshop is scheduled, a mere ten-minute walk from the Conference
Center. Terribly grand, it feels like a throwback to colonial times. I
almost expect someone wearing white gloves to serve us tea on a silver
platter. We begin. Within moments of brief introductions we are a group.
We are (mostly) South Africans, North Americans, Malaysians and Filipinos.
Discussions range from video as positive cultural legitimization, to
problems of getting air-time on public and commercial TV. Silent tears are
shed as videos are viewed. Hours pass in minutes, it seems. It goes well
and contacts will be maintained and developed.
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The Conference ends with a tumultuous ovation for Nelson Mandela who
delivers the closing address. In stark contrast to Mbeki's intransigence
and disdain, Mandela's humanity inspires admiration and offers hope. "It is
never my custom to use words lightly. If twenty-seven years in prison have
anything to teach us, it was to use this silence of solitude to make us
understand how precious words are and how real speech is in its impact upon
the way people live or die," he begins. "In the face of the grave threat
posed by HIV/AIDS, we have to rise above our differences and combine our
efforts to save our people. History will judge us harshly if we fail to do
so now, and right now....Let us not equivocate: a tragedy of unprecedented
proportions is unfolding in Africa today." If saintliness exists in the
modern world, Mandela is its exemplar.
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But ultimately it is one image from South Africa that remains with me: a
painting from the "Postcards From the Edge" show, depicting a red cube
centered on a deep blue and gray background with the explanatory label
"..it's a toy, Gugu Soni, 9 years old. Gugu lives at the Edith
Benson Children's Home in Durban". Is this the toy of a child or of the
head of a household? It could be both. Sawubona Gugu!
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