Im Vorlauf des World Cups 2010 in Südafrika schreibt die in London lebende Soziologin Dr. Natascha Müller-Hirth für Munitionen über Johannesburg, Hoffnungen und Versprechungen, die WM des Protests, den südafrikanischen Staatspräsidenten Jacob Zuma und weitere Ein- und Ausblicke im Land des WM-Gastgebers. Natascha Müller-Hirth hat in Südafrika gelebt und gearbeitet und vor allem Johannesburg hat einen speziellen Platz in ihrem Herzen eingenommen. Nicht wegen der Schönheit der Stadt (denn sie ist es nicht), sondern ihrer atemberaubenden Schnellebigkeit. In ihrer akademischen Arbeit beschäftigt sie sich mit südafrikanischer Politik nach dem demokratischen Übergang. Normalerweise meidet sie Fußball, doch bei dieser WM unterstützt sie - natürlich - die “Bafana Bafana”. Und bringt uns in vier Artikeln ihr Südafrika näher.

Many Europeans will not know too much about South Africa’s 4th president, other perhaps than that he is a polygamist. Here in the UK, this biographical fact dominated the media coverage of Jacob Zuma’s state visit earlier this year – so much so that the ANC released a statement calling the British media appalling and disrespectful. So who is the charismatic ‘JZ’?

Binaries and a message of change
What I found particularly interesting about Zuma’s rise to power was his portrayal as the polar opposite to his predecessor, Thabo Mbeki. For example, Zuma would be identified as ‘the traditional polygamist’; Mbeki, the suited cosmopolitan diplomat, appeared as the ultimate modernist: rational and disconnected. This portrayal allowed a powerful message of change to be produced – most significantly, that there would be a shift to the left in the Government’s economic policy under Zuma’s leadership. This was important because of the extent and scope of inequality that had persisted more than a decade after the transition, and the popular discontent about the lack of service delivery. Indeed, Zuma’s eventual victory in the national election last year was achieved with the support of the ruling party’s African National Congress’ (ANC) left allies, the trade union organisation Cosatu and the South African Communist Party (SACP), as well as that of the ANC’s Youth League (the latter’s controversial president Julius Malema now being in open conflict with Zuma). But arguably just as significantly, Zuma’s charismatic persona also responded to the widespread sense of betrayal – of the liberation struggle, of the promises of freedom – felt by so many South Africans. A message of change and renewal was embraced and projected by his supporters despite assurances by Zuma to the business community prior to the election that there would be no substantial change in economic policy.

Mbeki was still in power when the World Cup bid was won and it was he who claimed that the opportunities afforded by the tournament in South Africa would ‘send ripples of confidence from the Cape to Cairo’ and that it would give momentum to the ‘African Renaissance’. This idea of an African Renaissance was central to Mbeki’s leadership of South Africa (from 1999 to last year, when he was ‘recalled’ by his party after a prolonged succession battle with Zuma) – as central as the image of the rainbow nation was to that of Nelson Mandela. In it was contained not just the need for sustainable economic growth and democracy on the African continent. It was also a call for the rediscovery of a pan-African identity at the end of the millennium and a challenge against the familiar image of Africa as starved and war-torn. But public perceptions of Mbeki were that of a technocratic and distant leader, who seemed only to become more out of touch with the lives of ordinary South Africans as his presidency continued.

By contrast, Zuma came across as a real ‘man of the people’ who consciously draws on tradition and ethnic identity. JZ is known for singing and dancing in public in traditional Zulu attire (one rarely saw Mbeki publicly doing anything other than speaking, in tailored suits). The son of leading ANC and SACP member Govan Mbeki, he was groomed from his youth for leadership – he was part of ANC royalty. Zuma on the contrary was too poor to attend school, working as a cattle herder in Northern Zululand and later as a kitchen boy in Durban. His lack of formal schooling contrast to the intellectualism of Mbeki, who was well-known to be writing many of his own speeches which drew on an extraordinary amount of sources and literary references from African poetry to Shakespeare. Apart from establishing the difference between the two contenders, between elitist and populist, this careful management of biography was productive in terms of making Zuma’s recent and longstanding working relationships with Mbeki increasingly disappear from view.

Identity talk (and dance, and song)
And Zuma’s youth was not the only aspect of his biography that the campaign centred on. His career in the ANC began in its military arm, the MK, linking him up with what is without doubt the most important narrative of Post-Apartheid nation-building: the shared memories of the liberation struggle. Whilst Mbeki was apparently cherry-picked as future ANC leader, Zuma spent ten years in prison for his activities as a soldier in the MK – giving him impeccable freedom credentials. This is summed up succinctly by Zuma’s trademark song that simply reiterates umshini wami (‘bring me my machine gun’), and was frequently sung at rallies and on the occasions of Zuma’s court hearings.

Yes, the court hearings. Zuma was chosen to become Deputy President by Thabo Mbeki in 1999 and held that post until 2005 when Mbeki dismissed him over his involvement in the Department of Defence’s strategic Arms Acquisition programme (Arms Deal for short). Shortly after his dismissal, charges of rape were brought forward against him by a young woman whose father was a friend and struggle comrade of Zuma’s. This is not the place to go into either at length, but it is worth asking what subjectivities or national identities were offered by the discourses that Zuma’s campaign mobilised. ‘Bring me my machine gun’ crucially resonated not just with his past as a soldier and struggle hero, but also with the figure of a Zulu warrior. Interwoven in Zuma’s performance of ethnicity have been gender and sexuality, with the rape trial serving as a platform for supporters to perform a traditional and patriarchal Zulu identity.

Zuma’s conscious reference to his ethnic identity seems to reflect a broader change towards a Post-Apartheid resurgence of ethnic cultural identity and politics. Liberation politics largely disregarded ethnic identity, as it tended to be linked to Apartheid’s divide and rule policies. Zulu nationalism was primarily associated with the Inkatha Freedom Party and discredited homeland politics. In fact the dominant nation-building narrative of the immediate Post-Apartheid period was that of the rainbow nation, employed to evoke a shared Post-Apartheid identity. The xenophobic attacks that shook South Africa in May and June 2008 – tens of thousands of immigrants were forced to flee their homes – marked the definite end of this rainbow nation utopia.

During the rape trial, Zuma told the court that he knew the woman was showing sexual interest’ in him by the fact that she was dressed in a skirt but ‘had not crossed her legs’. He explained his behaviour through reference to his Zulu identity: ‘as we grew up in the Zulu culture, you do not just leave a woman in that situation’. These and similar much-cited statements at the trial served to establish a particular – macho and misogynist – version of Zulu culture and Zulu masculinity as proper and authentic.

Such an essentialised version of ethnic identity reflects stereotypical notions of black men’s (irresponsible) sexuality. From this perspective, Zuma then embodied a political process of re-traditionalisation. South African academic Steven Robins put it succinctly: ‘South Africans witnessed a televised ‘postmodern’ spectacle in which a tribal elder-cum-liberation struggle icon performed ‘Zulu traditional masculinity’ for consumption for both the court and the wider citizenry’. And again, Zuma’s Zulu identity appeared as polar opposite to Mbeki’s modernism – which goes some way to explaining his populist appeal across various constituencies and ideological camps in the run up to last year’s election.

The stakes are high
What is at stake in these performances, as in those of a particular version of Zulu ethnic identity, is of great importance: South Africa is characterised by very high levels of gender-based domestic violence with the past few years witnessing a further rise of violence against women in the public sphere. There are serious concerns about the mobilisations of national identity that have become associated with the ‘Zuma phenomenon’. On the level of metaphors, where his predecessors drew on imagery such as the rainbow nation or the African renaissance, Zuma has become associated with metaphors such as ‘100% Zulu Boy’ or ‘Bring me my machine gun’.

Crucially however, some of what may have appeared like support for Zuma on the basis of a misogynist and exclusionist identity politics has revealed itself as protests against the neoliberal direction of previous Post-Apartheid governments and expressions of a deeply felt betrayal. From that perspective, some of the support for Zuma has been strategic and has been/ will be withdrawn if and when promises of change are not kept.

Zuma has just celebrated his first year in office and tensions inside the ANC are becoming more pronounced; the global economic crisis is impacting on growth and employment in South Africa; revelations about several love children have weakened at least some of Zuma’s support base. It is sometimes said that mega sporting events do not actually deliver on the promises of economic growth and job creation, but serve a purpose in uplifting the mood of a population. It remains to be seen whether the World Cup can inject a new lease of life into this presidency.

Foto: Copyright World Economic Forum www.weforum.org / Eric Miller emiller@iafrica.com