Cindy McCain Refutes Ethnicity as a Disability

As readers of the blog know, I’m African.

I’ve had my detractors, since moving to the US, about whether I can even make that claim.

Most bizarre, perhaps, were the charges by people, who should know better, that I couldn’t possibly identify myself as African because, as my photo attests, I’m white. I’ll note for the record that these detractors were not of my ethnic identity, not of my culture. They were American, and had never graced the shores of my beloved African continent.

I’ll note further, that in sharing this bizarre state of affairs, my African brethren, informed of my American colleagues’ epithets, were, above all, amused.

I told my story to a prominent national community leader in Zambia. He listened quietly and respectfully, as is the African way. When I was done, he asked me a question that healed my heart: “If you are white, and cannot be African, is it also the case that that, if you are black, you cannot be American?”

In a Johannesburg craft market, I shared the same story with a Congolese trader. He looked at me for many, quite uncomfortable seconds, eyes growing ever wider. Then, as is the African wont, he burst out laughing, shook his head, and told me that my story was so implausible that I must surely be making it up. Assured that I wasn’t, he shook his head and said, “I am sorry, my brother.”

Enough said.

I was reminded of this issue listening to Cindy McCain a few minutes ago, because she talked about Rwanda, and about Rwanda’s suffering in the genocide of 1994.

In 1994’s Rwanda, tribal identity was a lethal, and official disability: Hutu, you live. Tutsi, you die.

Cindy McCain acknowledged a guest in the audience, Ernestine, of Rwanda, a woman who had survived the genocide, and who works for healing and reconciliation, in spite of her painful past.

Making difference a disability is never right. Making disability a difference is no better.

Words to Learn From: I Have Come to Live Before I Die

The guy in the photo with me is my dear friend Tony. Tony is terminally ill with Motor Neuron Disease. Nothing much moves anymore, except his face muscles and the muscles allowing him to breathe.

His mind is crystal clear. Sharp.

Tony has been in hospice for 6 years, outliving every other patient around him. He has to be fed, bathed, toileted, moved, dressed. He relies on others to assist him 24/7.

If ever there was a case for why we should allow euthanasia based on the “quality” of life, Tony should be euthanasia’s poster boy. But that would be a big mistake, because Tony made a decision way back right after he learned his diagnosis – that living was important, not dying.

While I was in South Africa recently, we spent some time talking about his condition and his thoughts. He is a resolute and realistic man. He’s decided what will happen when he can no longer breathe.

But that’s not yet. He is not, by any stretch, yearning for death.

That’s not all. Not the half of it. He has produced two very impressive DVDs educating people about his condition. He routinely teaches batches of medical students, nurses, and other support personnel about his condition from his personal point of view.

There is a steady stream of visitors, often bringing his favorite goodies.

He follows world affairs very closely. He likes to sit in his chair and have a cocktail or two. He is articulate. His jokes are funny, his humor dry, and, occasionally, quite dark.

But not sinister.

He’s writing an autobiography. He read me excerpts. It’s charming, funny, and embodies not a wisp of bitterness. I’ll bet he’ll finish it. He wants his book to be a testament to Tony the person, no holds barred. Or as he puts it,  “the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

He considers himself a fortunate man, all said and done.

If you ever want to see another side of someone with a severe disability, look at the photo.

This is not how the pro-euthanasia crowd wants things to be.

In a major piece in Johannesburg’s Star newspaper last June here’s how Tony described moving to hospice:

“I Have Come to Live Before I Die”

Take that, pro-euthanasia advocates. 

Not a Good Time to Have a Disability in South Africa

I know South Africa very well – I’m a South African. My father’s family arrived in South Africa generations before the US became an independent country.

Today, I weep for my homeland, because South Africa is drenched in African blood. If you can stomach it, it's not difficult to find photos of the unspeakable violence all over the web.

Long-simmering ethnic animosity has seen dozens of people beaten, stoned, burned, shot, and stabbed to death. Thousands are seriously injured. Tens of thousands more are displaced, fleeing their homes ahead of marauding gangs whose chief aim is murder, followed by the usual accoutrements of looting and rape.

Why?

Because the murderers are stoning, beating, burning, shooting, and stabbing people they see as different.

Here’s how it works: If you’re a South African African, no problem. Not a South African African? Watch out.

This horrific thuggery is being aimed at refugees who have fled other parts of Africa in the hopes of making a life for themselves in “the New South Africa” as its often fondly called. Now, they are paying a terrible, unjust price for that hope of a better life.

My birthplace, Johannesburg, has been scene of most of the carnage. Thousands are flocking to churches and police stations for protection.

As the bloodlust rises to fever pitch, the most vulnerable are among the first to succumb to rock, flame, gun, or machete—especially Africans with disabilities. They’re easy prey to satisfy that bloodlust of difference, you see.

Read on.

South Africa’s Mail and Guardian reported that:

A marquee tent had been set up at the police station for mothers and children, but the children were complaining of hunger and cold. At about 2pm, a team from the Methodist Church arrived with boxes of apples and loaves of sliced bread and almost sparked a stampede. 

Scores of blind Zimbabwean beggars who had been brutalised and robbed by the mobs were being pushed aside by the hungry crowds.

The Times reported what happened to an African with severe communication impairments:

One victim was a deaf mute who was attacked outside the Central Methodist Church in Johannesburg. Known only as “Tarro,” the young man suffered a gash to his forehead at the hands of a mob. 

Medical student Herbert Nedi tended to him and said the bewildered Tarro, who could only write his name and could not provide a surname, did not know what was happening around him.“

It was clear he did not have a clue what they [the mob] were talking about. He doesn’t understand what is going on,” said Nedi, as Tarro held a cloth to his head.

Make no mistake. There are, and will be, many others.

Unable to walk.

Unable to run.

Unable to see.

Unable to hear.

Unable to comprehend the deadly blow of a rock.

Unable to stop the body blow of a bullet.

Unable to douse the searing heat of being burned alive.

Unable to understand the swish of the machete.

 

Pray for South Africa. Pray more for South Africans with disabilities.