By Sandi Caganoff
Last night my friend dragged me to a debate on the Palestine/Israel issue. She thinks I need exposure to such debates. I was promised it would be an extraordinary panel and the subject matter “will be riveting” she said, as I stifled a yawn.
The subject of the debate was Israel and Academic Boycotts. Not whether there should be one, but rather how best to institute it. This is not subject matter that keeps me awake at night. I consider myself a fairly liberal thinker and I understand the pro’s and con’s on both sides, although I have got myself into big trouble before with my relatives who tend to see considerably more pro’s on the one side, and absolutely none on the other. In any event, I just thought I’d go along for the ride.
I walked into the lecture hall at Wits, a room steeped in academic history and the subtle smell of student sweat.
I was immediately distracted by the long haired students, their oversized winter sweaters, and the vague hint of marijuana in the air. I wondered if I should try and score myself some. It would certainly make the evening more interesting I thought. We seated ourselves two rows from the front as my academic friend was determined to engage fully in the debate.
I stared longingly at the emergency exit.
The discussion got under way. It was passionate, well reasoned and heated at times. “With respect, Comrade” said the one. “With respect” added the other. “No, no, no — with respect, my friend”, said yet another. There were huge amounts of respect being doled out on all sides. It struck me then that if this amount of respect was shown in Israel and Palestine there wouldn’t be any need for this debate in the first place.
My mind then began to wander to more pressing matters. Like the fact that I had just about zero petrol in my car and wondering if we’d make it back home, or whether we’d have to bum a lift from one of the long haired marijuana-smoking students in an oversized top.
“With respect, Mr Chairman … the Gaza tunnels are a separate issue” said one of the panel members.
The Gaza tunnels? I snapped into full concentration mode. A little business light went on in my brain.
Gaza has an intricate tunnel system, and while it does get bombed from time to time, it works pretty well. The people of Gaza — Ghazains, or is it Ghazanians? — struggle for many things. But never petrol! The tunnels are used for smuggling in food, fruit, women’s underwear, even the odd Ndebele cow. They have an unlimited supply of black market petrol smuggled in through the tunnels.
And my car was on empty.
We also need a tunnel system, I thought. And we have the basics already. Our Potholes. Unbombed, unguarded and unproductive. They used to be used for Nigerian 464 scams and to provide extra accommodation for the World Cup, but now they sit empty. Just like my fuel tank.
We need to extend our pothole system, I thought. Link them all and begin smuggling some of that black market petrol. And to hell with the fuel industry and their constantly stalled negotiations. Maybe bring in a couple of Palestinian and Israeli “consultants” to set it all up. It was a genius idea.
“With respect, my comrade brother chairman!” I shouted with my hand shooting up in to the air. “We need to end this boring academic crap and focus on the real issues … ”
“I think it might’ve been the marijuana in the air”, I mumbled weakly to my academic friend, as we sat quietly together in the car after they had thrown us out.
She glared at me and said nothing. I started the car and we headed home in silence.
On the bright side — it’s unlikely I’ll have to sit through one of those riveting academic debates ever again. On the negative side — it’s going to be really difficult to see potholes as just potholes ever again.
A fair trade off I think — with respect.
A prince with dignity and determination
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