Why don't councillors tweet?

So there I was in the voting booth this morning, pen in hand, examining the list of candidates in my ward. I live in the suburbs, so the queue was a classically maid-and-madam scenario. Earlier, a middle-aged man standing in front of me had phoned to postpone his flight plan: this is the sort of place where people fly their own planes.

The list surprised me. It was long, for one thing, much longer than the posters hitched to street poles in the area would have one believe. Until I reached that booth I was aware only of the DA and ANC candidates, and even then I’d have a tough time naming either. Lo and behold, it turned out that we had candidates from Cope, the Freedom Front +, the ACDP, the ACA (whatever that is) and various others, all thoroughly forgettable. Even Azapo, which I found quite touching, considering that the demographics of the area (mostly LSM 10+, all races — Patrice Motsepe lives around the corner, as do many of the new wealthy — and Malawian gardeners) would tend to suggest that they were wasting their time and the IEC’s ink.

Here’s the thing. I knew none of these candidates. Apart from the official campaign platforms put forward by the parties they represented, I had no idea what any of them stood for, not even the ones on the posters. I hadn’t a clue about their track records or what they proposed to do for the residents they wished to represent at Loveday Street. Perhaps if I’d read the Sandton Chronicle I’d have seen something, but, not being much of a newspaper reader, I missed it. My vote, such as it was, was uninformed and therefore unempowered, and I’d imagine that’s true of a large chunk of the votes that were cast on May 18.

Yet there are free tools available, widely used, which would be perfect communication vehicles for councillors — and I’m not talking about the tried-and-trusted SMS. Which is effective, yes, and everyone got very excited about getting SMSs from the DA sent the night before the elections. I didn’t, so I felt rather left out, although I did get an oath in which ANC supporters were supposed to repeat their marriage vows to the ruling party and pass the message on (for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, and so on). But come on. Is that all? In a ward like mine, virtually everybody is online. Not everybody, of course — probably not the gardeners and domestic workers who keep the lawns mowed and the shirts ironed in the big houses behind the high walls — but a fair proportion. And of those, a fair proportion are likely to be on Facebook with the other 3.8 million South Africans there, and a few on Twitter.

Now, the parties themselves use social media (you can read about how they compared here). The ANC in various guises is active on Facebook and Twitter, while the DA owned Sunday nights with their #DAQA sessions. The president is there, as are Malusi Gigaba, Helen Zille and several high-ranking DA politicians, including the Joburg mayoral candidate. Activist organisations like the Joburg Advocacy Group, which advocated spoiling their votes, are also very busy online. (You can find them both on Facebook and Twitter).

But where were the councillors, the people who actually deal with the day-to-day issues of illegal dumping or barking dogs? As a voter, I want to know that the councillor in my ward is actually getting off his backside and doing something. What’s going on in the council chamber? How will my area be affected? If I have a problem, where do I go? Occasional meetings in school halls are not enough. I never hear about them and, even if I do, I usually don’t have the time to attend. But if my councillor tweeted (I’d be sure to put him in one of my lists) and ran an active Facebook group in which residents were able to voice their opinions and interact with the coalface of democracy, I’d be able to participate. I’d be informed. And my vote, along with those of my fellow citizens, would be so much more meaningful.

So, I am putting out an official plea to whoever wins my ward, and, any other, for that matter: please, start tweeting. Start a Facebook group. Invite residents to be fans, even if they didn’t vote for you. (Hey, I’ll even help you set things up.) We voters have a right to know what our vote actually means. Next time, when I’m standing in that booth and I make that cross, I want know exactly why I’m putting it next to that name.