Don’t Quote Me…

In my second year in China I offered an elective called, rather baldly, ‘Propaganda’. I’d floated the idea the preceding semester with colleagues (and, naturally, the Vice Chancellor), so there was nothing subversive about it. I lectured on the vast subject of the English Language. Propaganda is an aspect of the English language. The University had invited me to extend my initial one-year contract — nothing was amiss.

But three days before the semester began I was approached by three different colleagues who wanted me to withdraw the course because I was — a) mad, b) being provocative and c)going to disappear into a Chinese jail.

All three were North Americans.

I remained puzzled by that incident for a long time. And disappointed. And, yes, somewhat pissed off: what was it that would make three people alone in our enclave of both Western & Chinese society assume that I had lost all my marbles and was about to defy the ruling Communist party by introducing political dissension and division into the University that had provided the city with its last 4 or 5 Mayors?

These three people had known me as long as my Chinese, Japanese, European colleagues. Why then did they then think I’d suddenly undergone a character change?How did they think I’d got it through the Authorities? And what was it about me that had convinced them I possessed the acuity of a Primary Schooler? We were living as guests in the People’s Republic of China — what on earth would inspire me to do anything “seditious”? And, above all else — why would I ever be so discourteous to my hosts, FFS? It’s a question of manners — not personal politics.

It took a lot of time before I understood it was all because of a word. I felt as though, like Alice, I was in the world behind the looking glass. A world in which the word ‘propaganda’ means: ‘ the tool Communists use to control people’. Where the possibility of it carrying the meaning ‘the tool Capitalists societies use to control people.’ simply doesn’t exist. Where the possibility it could mean ‘a tool with which to persuade one to choose a certain brand of washing powder’ was a meaning they refused to believe existed.

Who, in an English faculty, approaches a word subjectively? Strips it of power, narrows its boundaries, loads it with personal bias, and politicises it?

It amazes me now that less than a decade ago I, and all those around me had as much knowledge of America as we did of Lithuania. Was it only a decade ago when, if anyone even knew what the two political parties in the USA were called; those two words ‘Republican’ and ‘Democrat’s carried no baggage, pre-suppositions or opinions with which to weigh down either word?

It was a different world in so many respects: but it’s difficult to imagine there was once a time when neither I nor those about me had ever dreamed the Truth would become open to interpretation. Nor that Fact would carry no weight. It is indeed a through-the-looking-glass world when the purpose of language is to obfuscate; where words themselves have become malleable enough to be shaped to fit only one agenda; where people became afraid of them; where they are no longer fit for purpose; where they bring alienation and render communication impossible.

I don’t have a TV, a radio or subscribe to any newspaper. My social media pages are spaces dedicated to art, to history, theatre, wit and humour, space, knowledge, nature…the things that make my life meaningful.

But even so I, along with people across the globe, have just emerged from one of the largest — hence most successful —propaganda campaigns ever undertaken. And it’s taken root like the physical virus which created the conditions in which propaganda has triumphed over truth.

For over a year now we have been a literally captive audience. Locked into our homes, removed from our familiar surroundings, devoid of human interaction or distractions; people from India to Indiana; from Japan to Java, from Great Britain to Brittany have turned on their devices, and tuned into the sources which, day and night, regardless of time zones, keep their demons at bay by constant, background sounds to reassure them that they are not alone. At the time one could have said we were all in the process of being ‘woke’. Now, only a few months later, even this meaning of ‘woke’ has degenerated into a slur.

Around about 4 years ago I became aware that American elections were coming up and that a bloke called Donald Trump was in the running, much to the amusement of those around me. Now, I’d vaguely heard of this person: he was married to a woman who wore her hair like a cottage-loaf; (I’d no idea cottage-loaf woman had been replaced by pouting woman) they were strident and vulgar and were of the type once labelled and derided by Society from top to bottom, as ‘nouveau riche.’

Now I may be apolitical but I’m still curious so, learning there was to be a Debate between this character and Hilary Clinton, I thought I’d tune in to see what I assumed would be a tongue-in-cheek event with a light comedic touch. I dug it up on Youtube, sat down — and ended up reeling, confused and out of my depth. What the hell was this?

I’m no novice at debating. As Third Speaker of most debating teams I was included in, I studied the trio of ethos, logos and pathos; I read Greek philosophy, I studied history: it was a familiar world.

But what I came across that day shocked me rigid. I remember sitting in stunned silence for a long time afterwards: what the fuck had I just seen? Two elderly adults behaving like members of a street gang: striding around, stalking, shrieking, not listening, talking over each other, indulging in personal invective. ..with no structure, no guard rails, no control. The person who was referred to as the Adjudicator/Moderator sat there blandly with, apparently, no inkling of the fact that that he had any role to play other than presentation? I’d seen dog-fights conducted better!

But, mostly of all: WHY call it a debate? What did the word ‘debate’ have to do with this spectacle? What relevance did ethos, logos or pathos have to this embarrassing display? Were the full corps of organisers and participants in this spectacle unaware this undignified slanging match was being shown all across the world? Did the three people involved (though what purpose the ‘adjudicator’ played remains a mystery to this day)really believe that presenting this horrific display would inspire confidence in choosing who should assume the mantle of the most powerful leader of the free world?

My rather puzzling encounter with educators whose understanding and dissemination of a common word had been pared down to reflect not merely the personal, but personal politics, had astounded me. This had torn at my soul.

Of course people all over the world utilise language in this way, and vast oceans of literature have, and continue to be, written about it. But that had been my first inkling that the halls of academia were already under siege. This farcical usage and acceptance of the word ‘debate’ became the starting point of a four-year observation of how language — its distortion, its understanding, its maladroit usage and its politicisation — would result, by 2021, in the dystopian world of violence, anger, division, confusion we currently inhabit.

But even then it didn’t occur to me that, on a personal level, this distortion of language had robbed me not just of power as an educator; but of my own personal voice.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been confused, diffident, and self-doubting.

While the title “Don’t quote me” may suggest to some the title of some witty BBC word-game, it is meant as an injunction. I don’t harbour any delusions about my status in the world; I’m not engaged in any fatuous bid to build a ‘following’ or ‘friends’ or ‘likes’. I don’t picture myself as an ‘influencer’ a guru, or superior in intellect & knowledge.

So no, don’t quote me: I’m neither prescribing nor, importantly, proscribing. I am, however, angry: Seventeen years in South Africa and seven in China — two of the most repressive regimes for anyone whose life revolves around language - didn’t rob me of my voice. But now, in the land of my birth, the land of my ancestors, I’ve been rendered mute.

I’ve never had a book published — but I’ve always been a writer. I broke away from any alliances with established news sources because I could not write within the restrictions each imposed through policy. And as a free-lance writer I was free to be the me who used my voice to make people laugh, to transport them into different worlds, to gain understanding, and, damn it all, to do good. I can claim, at the end of my life, to have bettered some people’s lives: not the world’s — but individual people and families. Ordinary folk, not politicians or plutocrats or ‘stars’. Those whom I’ve encountered on my own pathway through life.

And that has always been what I considered to be the meaning of my life.

During the last lockdown I admitted defeat: I’ve come to a point where everything I’ve ever had or done is gone. I’ve accepted that I’ll never get any of it back. Why not hunker down in my Council flat, gracefully accept the Government teat that keeps me alive, devote myself to my family, have casual, mirthful lunches with friends, take the dog on long jaunts in the countryside?

It only took a week of ‘coming out’ from that lockdown to provide me with the answer to that. Why not? Because I can’t. I can live in a world where I no longer have status, or money, or recognition, or possessions. But I can’t live in a world without meaning. And without words, or a common language, one cannot give meaning to anything.

So I’m not trying to change lives or opinions; I’m not a zealot recruiting for a cause; I have no delusions about the value of my ideals. This is personal: I’m just a woman in the world on a lone journey to get her voice back. I have chosen this platform to work my way through to reclaiming it in the only way I can. Anyone who wants to is welcome to come along for the ride. Just don’t quote me: I have no idea where I’m going.