BEFOK ZINE

Feburary 2013

Contributors
Joel Pearson Lauren Rawlins Anton Scholtz Rose King Tim Stewart Lesh Reddy Simone Loxton

HAT W

WANT
We want you to understand. Not to judge, not to disagree, well, no, of course you can disagree. But give us a chance. A quarterly feature magazine, content will explain, situate and historicise the topic in question. We dont want to convince you to start believing/ listening or watching out for something, but rather to understand. We will use our voice & our eye to show you the way towards something bigger than ourselves. Facts and opinions written side by side will always be brought back the effects/influence on and relevance to the South African youth. That bit of information that you know? That genre, your idol, the little fact that has been on your mind for years? That little thing you want to share? Thats what we want. Not some rehashed opinion piece on the state of the nation or advocating a commercial radio take-over. Just something that has never been told before. Remember, its all in the details. Is jy Befok?

WE

from you

A man begins to rebuild his home on the outskirts of Khayelitsha after a fire tore through the township at the end of January, leaving around 200 people homeless.

Cape Town, 22/01/2013.

The devastating effects of these fires (which happen very frequently in the townships around Cape Town) highlight the fact that the majority of people who lose homes and personal belongings are very poor and are forced to start again from scratch, with no assistance from the state in most cases.

Sc

m ers rea
We are screamers All of us Listen as we scream A symphony of what is not yet But will be Paths take shape at our feet Transcend time Hope is knowing that A linear prison Well turn the world upside down Look toward a future Which may already exist We have made ourselves invisible For all to see The surface is what Weve been made to see All the cracks covered A structure in perfect symmetry But from the depths of ourselves Comes a mutiny Which resonates With every scream And delights In A-symmetry Its no secret That our hands are tied But There is so much more to us Than this Oh There is so more to us Than this

So Think from the unseen Deep inside the volcano Scream from the unseen Turmoil waits Reverse the polarity To meet the light of day We have to turn the world upside down No more talking I want to hear every string In the symphony Of the not yet That will be We have to Turn this world upside down.

A WORD

A word that provokes uneasy connotations when used in general conversation. A word that immediately subscribes the user to one of its extremities. A word that demands certain thought regarding its subject. Like a lot of words, this one has been tainted by myths and historical references that create an environment of accusations and negative attributes. So many times the position of a feminist has been questioned by their actions: wearing make-up and perfume seems to undo what it is that women have fought for. But, as within all theoretical alliances, there are many sub cultures under this now umbrella term. I have never been on the extreme side of the notion that argues the fight for womens rights will succeed only once the idea of what we are has changed the uprooting of the past to create some sort of neo-patriarchal system where it is the females who have the upper hand, literally. But, apparently, god created us all as equals and for good reason too. Both men and women have been constructed to create: work together to inform and debate, argue and love, understand and share compassion, learn and invent. Just as individuals are capable of existing as a lone species, we are programmed to thrive in community. These ideas of how our gender constructs us get in the way of what could be a great world. Being a female in South Africa today causes great concern for anyone close to us corrective rape, the chauvinistic idea of polygamy and women not being included in important debates regarding their future are all ideas that need to be crossed over and forgotten about, NOW. The slipping of control of the young male seems to be a huge factor in causing these unforgivable thoughts. As myself, a female living in South Africa, I am in fear of the outcome of it all. I feel that it is these thoughts - the cultural chauvinism that exists so strongly in many sectors of our society - that will be the downfall of this potentially amazing country (because it is great already). Sure, there are other factors corruption, power hunger, money entities that influence all sectors of life, globally. But it is the backward idea that it is the male who is the only one whos right and should always be respected that hinders our potential to defeat these other measures. I am not saying that women are always right either I know some dumb ass bitches but as someone who has lived in this society, worked on a team with great people, both male and female, it is so important to understand the qualities of each individual, gender not withstanding, nor race, class or any other classification that seems to define who we are, to ensure absolute greatness. I dont subscribe to the unhealthy idea of feminism where males are hated, I like penis too much, but I am a feminist and will stand for what I believe. Dont be the pussy you find yourself attached to and lets see where we end up.

Y pull me closer as you grind your body into mine. Y ou our tongue forces my mouth open, making me taste you. Y our hands grope my body in that rough manner that you know I enjoy. Y our fingers are cold as they slide under my skirt trying to pull off my panties. I instantly push your hands away and recoil my legs. Y oure taken aback by my rejection because every inch of my body is screaming that it wants you. I avoid your gaze, as you switch the television on to drown out the sound of my rejection. I know youre disappointed, angry that I keep dismissing your advances. Y ou sit there silently. The taste of you lingers on my lips. I try to will my mouth open, to explain why I dont want to have sex. Instead, my soliloquy begins. I dont want to have sex. I avoid it. Not because Im afraid or because Im waiting for someone special to come serenade me with roses. But, for the simple fact that, I dont enjoy the overwhelming feeling of isolation that accompanies sex. Y kiss. Y touch. Y thrust. Its over. Its a ou ou ou release. Some describe it as cathartic, hardly. It feels the same as it always did when Im alone lying in bed trying to make myself come. No great explosion from beyond my vagina and the world glistening with a new hope. Its just the same empty sadness that reminds me that Im alone. The fact that your naked sweaty body lies here right beside me is immaterial. Im alone in this feeling, in this experience of myself. Y may have been present ou during this act but you didnt share it with me. Its not that you didnt want to but youre unable to. No one is. This inability to feel anything beyond my own existence is what stops me.

Asexual

We might be able to relate or share but its just in the superficial sense that implies presence or likeness. The beautiful subjectivity of human nature is something we will never escape. Y ou will never be able to experience what I feel. I am alone. Y are alone too. ou Y just havent realised ou it yet.

SO WHAT IF A MAN BLINKS IN MORSE CODE WHILE HE SCREAMS HIS HEART OUT

Lesh: Is that Charlie Chaplin? Well, the ghost of Charlie Chaplin? Lauren: Haha, yeah, or Hitler. Or Dali. Or Tesla. Up to you really.

When I was in high school, James Dalton was not infrequently referred to as a hero - not because of his compassion, humility or kindness, or any other outstanding quality of character. We were meant to revere him as a demi-god simply because he could play rugby. Most of those elected as prefects earned their places on the back of their sporting credentials. I count more than ten of them among the most rotten creatures I have had the misfortune to know. Anyone who went to an all boys school knows the sort of pathetic humiliations that these so-called leaders dealt out on a daily basis -- especially to those who were weaker, less athletic, or, for want of a better word, more effeminate. In 2007, James Dalton was in court for attempting to drown his wife. The model of masculinity that I have time and time again been made to believe is the benchmark by which my worthiness as a man is to be judged is built on nothing less than a torrent of violence. It silently roars, not just on our streets, but through our homes and schools too. Anyone who believes that what happened to Anene Booysen and Reeva Steenkamp are isolated evils are deluding themselves.

Jacks best served alone

For the last three years I have perfected an unsavoury habit of consuming vast amounts of Jack Daniels, alone, after everyone else has retired to the comfort of their beds. I sit at my desk and type vigorously in a fit of rage about the state of contemporary music. I slug back whiskey after whiskey in an attempt to channel my outright disgust upon the world. The reasons, to me, are somewhat clear and justified. To others, this is the practise of a sour geriatric longing for the nostalgia of a

youth well spent, but alas these are truly the ravings of a wasted youth and a dissatisfied customer living in the consumer driven narrative of today. Let me come out and say it outright: contemporary music sucks, there is no soul behind what these heathens produce. The rotten bastards down at the Universal Studios and Sony Records are to blame, Young Money Records is to blame, Rolling Stone Magazine is to blame and so are the Beatles (thats right I said it). Hell, the entire damned music industry is to be blamed and I feel as if I have unearthed the underlying issue that is to blame. As a 22 year old who obsessively trolls the internet for music that is worth its salt, I often wonder why music that is honest and holds no punches is unpalatable to most listeners (and I am not talking about the good wholesome sounds of the swine

that make up the folk pop group Mumford and Sons) the bands that I am talking about are bands like Queens of the Stone Age, like Ty Segall, like Spoek

awards held earlier this year), like the Slashdogs and one of my favourite South African bands, Japan and I. One thing all these musicians have in common is balls, big

Russian punk band Pussy Riot to take note of this fact. Those women have balls bigger than a raging bull. The problem, of course, is skin deep. Music is not intrinsically about the music anymore and it hasnt been for some time. The hounds at the record companies and the now 30-somethings working at the MTV studios all see in one colour and that is green. I remember the days when MTV Cribs did exposes on musicians and artists like the Wu Tang Clan and the rank old Mausoleum belonging to Dexter Romwebber - trully heart warming tales. But those days are gone, will they ever come back? I doubt it, not in the mainstream media anyway, which is quite a pity because I, like you, am sick and tired of the tirade that plagues my ears and eyes, the excessive adoration of money and superficial sex appeal. So what I am about to do is

Mathambo (whom astonishingly won not a single award at the South African Hip Hop

brave balls. Balls are not something that only men have - one only need look as far as

sift through all the regiments of music that languid underneath the public eye, in the sewers of democratic freedom. I will find them and I will bring them to you. I am going to bring you the self-confessed lunatics, the I dont give a fuck musicians. Who play instruments, who live their art. One such band is Powersolo, an American band from the south that are self-confessed lunatics, I can only imagine them prancing around in denim overalls, with sticks of straw hanging from their frothing mouths - true hillbillies. Their lesser known demeanour is slowly starting to become evident and it was truly refreshing to hear their single Baby you aint lookin right end off the premiere of the gruesome yet riveting first season of American Horror story. If you are anything like me, which I highly doubt, you will enjoy this band and revel in, well how do I put this, their creepiness.

Diep binne die mond van die man met die mikrofoon is my twyfel gebore Elke woord verdrink dieper tot stilstaand en elke lettergreep vrot net waar hy val. Elke oog elke oor besoedel en die bevlekking word al hoe erger in die skemer van n lydende bestaan.

Die mikrofoon
val net valsheid en van sy keel beraam slegs spielbeelde wat stadig deur die lug versprei En skril deur elke skedel wat die onsuiwerheid uit sy hande eet en soos bome voor die wind buig gehoorsaam om by sy voete te drink Van sy lippe Sonder dink Sonder droom Sonder dink Sonder droom Ons is klaar dood.

there comes a time when we must do something. create produce work for it know about it live it from dreams to reality day to day banalities must cease to exist unless its for the cause the cause you ask? what is it? this word we have heard over and over. this step into activity this reach into humanity its ours its our voice its our youth its heartfeltness its hatred its that emotion that wells up inside and breaks out against all control we have it well use it well create it and well make it Dis Befok.