White African

1/10 Jeg har altid kravlet langs væggene. Her fandt jeg lufthuller der gav mig anledning til at trække vejret frit. Det er ikke til at vide hvorfor det ikke var nok at gemme mig i et mørkt hjørne. Her kunne jeg have levet et afdæmpet og behageligt liv. [her i oktober forsøger jeg at samle tankerne om det vigtigste af alt, at skrive den eneste bog jeg behøver at skrive, derefter vil der ikke være mere at gøre, jeg kan gå tilbage i mit skjul og elske den eneste kvinde i verden, indtil da må jeg lide og kun ordenes konstante strøm vil lindre min smerte] 2/10 Det var ikke med vilje. Jeg havde ikke haft nogen plan. En aften meget sent så jeg op på en helt klar stjernehimmel. Da gik det op mig at jeg ingenting forstod. Jeg anede endnu ikke hvilke brutale konsekvenser det senere ville få. [i oktober vil jeg samle tankerne om min egen opløsning, min foretrukne aktivitet, at rejse på tværs af verden har vist sig at få utilsigtede konsekvenser, jeg er gået i stykker forsvundet - ja, bl...

Am i allowed to be myself? I seem to always be objectified as something different and some-one else, than I myself feel that I am, so i cannot be myself. I cannot claim to be invisible, because I have my colour against me. I am white and per definition a white man is always visible. I cannot say that I do not have any space in society, because I have my class against me. I am middle class in a Scandinavian welfare state, where precisely this social entity has it all. Finally I cannot complain, because I have my gender against me - and if I complain I am accused. This is a very odd kind of triple-oppression, indeed.

Since I travelled to Africa for the first time - more than 10 years ago, I have been thinking about the nature of music from Africa. Last Friday evening I went to a concert with Zimbabwean Mokoomba in Copenhagens world music venue Global. I will differ from my usual concept - only writing in English . From now on many posts will be bilingual, sort of. Post in English and abstract in Danish, or vice versa . The reason is that I would like to finalise the book about "my Afican connections, in Danish. Fredag aften begav jeg mig igen til koncert i Global. Denne gang til koncert med Mokoomba, uden support eller warm-up. Det fremgik ikke af Globals hjemmeside, hvorfor. Måske var det ikke nødvendigt, eller blot tilfældigt? Klog af skade kom jeg denne gang ikke for tidligt. Jeg var der præcis kl. 22.00 - og så var koncerten allerede i fuld gang.  Det var som lovet på Globals hjemmeside - Afro pop. I U-landsnyt's kulturguide samme fredags lovede vi Afro beat, og det var m...

There is something about this continent. Every writer, published or not, ever to touch her soil knows what it means, but it will remain unspoken. Listen to this: He had disappeared into history as water in sand and she rediscovered him only now , when music was thrown over the sea. ( Marguerite Duras ) Yes, it is storytelling. The profound deepth of storyness, where cinematisation has given up a long time ago. More than just a storyboard. Here is only sea, water and the sky.

For a decade or so I have been coming and going to Kampala - a truly African City as close to the heart of Africa as you will ever get. That was probably what also the British were thinking when they build the railroad from the coast of Mombasa all the way to the border of Congo. During my time in Kampala (a place that I can sincerely say that I love) I have thought about being a white man among black men and women. Although I never seem to come up with good conclusions or answers, then it has given me ever lasting joy. I have always tried to be one of the crowd. Maybe not the most obvious ambition. My gratitude for the way I have been treated has always been tremendous. I have very rarely, if ever, been in a place, where people around me treated me with so much kindness, hospitality and respect as in Kampala. This is one of the many reasons why I call Uganda my African home. Recently I have come across Nada Andersen via Facebook. She is worried about the relationship between Ug...

I am constantly being asked - and more and more so - where I come from. This has happened increasingly since 2005. I am not sure what I am doing to deverve that question. Every time I answer by stating that I am Danish I see a disappointment - especially if the answer comes from a(nother) foreigner. I 2005 I returned from Uganda - for the first time. By that time I felt very strange and maybe for a while a little bit like a foreigner. I would not say that I feel like a foreigner now, but I feel alienated, whereever I am. Right now I am reading a book about two sisters, one white, or skin-coloured as she call herself. She is supposely Danish, another is Black American. Atlanterhavet vokser Can we talk about our cross-etnical heritage? I do not even know if it is about etnicity or culture, but what is culture anyway! I, myself do not have any colour, so after all I do not know anything about these issues - or do I? The words of the skin-coloured sister in the book does not ma...

As far as I can remember, I have been excluded. I never felt any sense of belonging. I was afraid of the crowd. So terrified that I had to place myself inside every crowd on my way in order to feel alive. I was looking for an entry point for existence - something I have never achieved. For decades I walked along walls to be invisible. Better not to be seen, than being victim of alienation. After years of sweeping floors I am convinced I do not belong. Then I began to travel the world. It did not give me belonging, but made me accept myself. Without the world I would have been nothing.