My entry to this earth was early in the 80s. I was born one of too many kids into a poverty-stricken family, headed by an alcoholic father and an oppressed mother. My siblings are all a lot older than I am. I don’t exactly think I was planned. My mother assumed that all the alcohol consumption had killed my father’s sperm factory, but after ten years it became apparent that she was wrong and I made an appearance. I certainly didn’t feel privileged but later reflections in life revealed how “white privilege” can quite easily be disguised when you feel like you’re on the losing end.
“No one is born a racist. A racist is something you become.”
My early days
When I think back on my earliest memories, they are good ones. I felt the sun’s warmth on my face as I played in the sand in our front yard with my He-Man toys. “By the power of Greyscull. I have the power!” If you were a kid in the 80’s you’ll probably have an appreciation for Masters of the Universe. I was around four years old if my memory serves me correctly. The old memory gets a little hazy over time and another happy memory was eating mielie meal porridge with the domestic worker who took care of me at the time. Her name was Rebecca and she made the best mielie pap (a colloquial term for a type of maize porridge that is a staple in South Africa).
I felt Rebecca was no different from me. She was an African woman with dark brown skin, and I was a little boy with lighter skin of Anglo-Saxon or Anglo-Dutch descent. At that tender age, however, none of that even registered to me. She was just the kind woman taking care of me, feeding me deliciously sweet and milky maize porridge and allowing me to play in the garden all day. That sounds like a snapshot of a perfect life.
I was far too young to understand the concept of racism and apartheid, so I just enjoyed my sunny days with kind Rebecca until one day, Rebecca was gone. It was sudden, it was unexplained and it was devastating. My breakfast buddy was gone. Probably accused of stealing from us, accidentally burning clothes with an iron or some other stupid reason.
You see, it was a common assumption back then, that blacks always stole from whites – that’s just what they were taught to do from birth. So any little thing that goes missing and guess who’s to blame? I often shake my head at the stupidity of the human race sometimes. This is one of those times. Perhaps Rebecca did steal from us, I’ll never truly know, but what I do know is that she was far worse off than we were and we were far from well off. People steal things for various reasons, usually because they are desperate and not because they embody a certain skin colour. In marginalised communities like those in apartheid South Africa, skin colour often correlated with oppressed desperation.
The systemic racism and governmental brainwashing during the apartheid regime in South Africa was diabolical. Mandated segregation brought with it the introduction of 2nd, 3rd and 4th class citizens all according to race and language. White Afrikaaners gained the most privilege, white English speakers slightly less so. Indians and coloureds fell somewhere in between and black Africans were at the bottom of the list. I cringe with embarrassment as I write this. I’m ashamed, not so much for myself as for my country of birth, of the people it conditioned us to be.
“There is no effective way to right the wrongs of the past or rewrite a history we are ashamed of. We do however have the ability to create a future we can be proud of starting right here in the present.”
Time of trauma
The first and only time I travelled on the metro train system was in the mid-80s. My older sister was shackled with the responsibility of my care for the day and she needed to be somewhere, so we took a train. How exciting! I had never ridden on a train before – what an adventure. As we walked down to the train station an African man passed us and he looked me square in the eyes and moving his thumb across his neck gestured that he wanted to slit my throat. I had no idea why he did that, terrified, we hurried along to the station. Sadly, I don’t remember much more about the actual train trip but trauma is a sticky kind of glue.
Sometime after that day, I became aware of race. Before then, I was oblivious. Blissfully ignorant, or rather purely innocent. As a young child, I had no idea about the horrific history I was a part of but the idea of being different was being reinforced daily. It became us and them. Two opposite sides of the spectrum that cannot meet. How sad.
Little did I know back then that racial tensions in South Africa had even further reaching roots. It wasn’t just black and white, there were several shades of grey in between. Another clear example of this was also a result of trauma, this time handed to me by my family. It was a warm summer afternoon and school kids were walking home after a day at class. My teenage brothers, who at the time were very lost and had far too much testosterone, decided that it would be a good idea to punch up an innocent Afrikaans-speaking kid. I don’t know if there’s a back story or if tensions between them existed, but on this afternoon they were out for blood.
Like a pack of wolves planning their hunt, two of my brothers waited at the corner in ambush, while another waited at home. You see, they had it all worked out. Two of them would chase him and force him to enter our home out of desperation where they would have him trapped. It all happened very quickly, as hunts usually do. One minute I was playing in the front garden and the next a frantic freckle-faced boy was in our home. The wolves had chased this gazelle from the corner of the street, forcing him to seek refuge in the nearest sanctuary. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the wolf’s den instead. Sprinting as fast as he could he leapt over our front fence and into our open door yelling “Tannie, Tannie, help my!” Which is Afrikaans for “Aunty, Aunty, help me!” Little did he know he was running straight into a trap where wolf number three lay in wait. They punched him up good and solid. I remember his thick ginger hair combed in a middle path, tears streaming from his eyes, as his lips began to bleed.
This sudden act of violence broke me. I began to sob profusely and begged my brothers to stop hitting the kid and let him go. Thankfully, they obliged but I was traumatised. I questioned why anyone would want to purposely hurt another human being like that. Sadness had overcome me and my big brothers were no longer big in my eyes. I despised their behaviour. They had shrunk considerably in stature and importance. I make no excuse for their behaviour, I do however understand how their traumatic upbringing made them into who they were at the time. Thankfully, they are all much better human beings now but that memory has stuck with me.
That day reinforced another piece of the race puzzle. It wasn’t about skin colour anymore. This time it was about speaking a different language. How bizarre.
Not too long after that day, my mother divorced my alcoholic father and we moved away to an apartment closer to where she worked. Soon after that, I was enrolled in local a primary school filled with white English-speaking kids. So much for diversity but back then the word didn’t exist in our vocabulary.
One day after school I went home with my friend Ryan, who lived a few blocks away. Their family had a domestic worker (known as a maid back then) named Poppy, who would fetch the kids from school and look after them while she did the rest of the housework. Poppy led the way while Ryan, his little sister and I lagged dragging our school cases. “Poppy’s such a kaffir,” Ryan mumbled much to Poppy’s disgust. When she challenged him about it, he casually explained it away saying that she heard wrong and he said we should “pop into the cafe”. Very convenient that there was a convenience store or cafe (pronounced ca-fee) at the corner of his street. That was the first time I heard the derogatory term used by a child, clearly something he learnt at home. He and his sister were in Poppy’s care. She looked after them, fed them, protected them, so why on earth would he be mean to her?
I already knew the word “kaffir” was a bad word, but I had no idea of the deep hurt it caused to those that were called it. The definition of the word according to Merriam-Webster Dictionary:
In South Africa, the use of the term Kaffir to refer to a Black African is a profoundly offensive and inflammatory expression of contemptuous racism that is sufficient grounds for legal action. The term is associated especially with the era of apartheid, when it was commonly used as an offensive racial slur, and its offensiveness has only increased over time. It now ranks as perhaps the most offensive term in South African English.
The winds of change
When it came time for my senior primary years, I moved schools because we relocated to a different area. It was also a remarkable turn of events for my family… My father had quit drinking, held a stable job and my parents had decided to get remarried. The 1990s also brought with it a welcomed change. The relentless activism from the freedom fighters had finally paid off sparked by the release of Nelson Mandela, on 11 February 1990 after spending 27 years behind bars. While apartheid hadn’t officially ended, it was all but dead. Imagine my surprise when I started my grade 5 year with kids of different colours and languages!
It was early days and yes the school was still predominantly white, but now I got to be friends with others who would enrich my life as I learnt about their struggles and their culture. I got to sit next to them in class, eat lunch with them at break time and play sports with them after school. It was great. My sentiment wasn’t shared more broadly however and once again deep roots of racism reared their ugly heads. An example this time was more specifically around looks. Different shaped noses, lip thickness, and shape of buttocks, all became uncelebrated differences. While the winds of change had blown, racism remained anchored in the hearts and minds of children, let alone an older generation who found, and still find, it very hard to change.
The main summer sport I played growing up was cricket. Man, I loved it. Being out in the sunshine with your teammates, catching bone-breaking balls, diving to save singles, the feeling of your stomach dropping through your feet as you step out to face a fast bowler – what a rush. The level of skill at our school was rather decent and so was the interest in the game. We had an A, B and C team, while most schools only had one. A teammate, Mohau, was one of the few black kids in the A team with me. He was a great guy with a killer sense of humour and a smile that seemed to last for days. Mohau (pronounced moh-how) was a skilled bowler and a gentleman of the game. Unfortunately, the other cool kids were unable to see anything further than skin deep and they dubbed him “Jelly Bum” because Mohau’s buttocks were larger and rounder than anyone else’s. Mohau seemed to shrug it off, but it was clear that it hurt him. I wish I had the courage back then to stand up for him, especially since I too had my battles with the cool kids. I lost touch with Mohau after primary school but from what I can see from LinkedIn, he seems to have become a huge success.
Sadly, kids continued to use derogatory slurs of every kind and the dreaded ‘K’ word featured all too often.
1994 was the dawn of a new era for South Africa and for me. South Africa was about to conduct its first free and open democratic election and I started high school. I found myself in a mixing pot filled with teenagers from several feeder schools, each with their unique flavour. While the school was still predominately white in the grades above me, our year was a lot more multicultural and the subsequent years even more so.
Fear of civil war was palpable right before the elections. No one knew what to expect and everyone wanted to protect themselves. Radicals from each side wanted to get involved to ensure posterity and the unease resulted in many families leaving the country to start lives abroad in fear of their safety. Right and left-wing militia stood ready to engage at the drop of a hat. Fortunately, the hat didn’t drop and by what can only be described as a miracle, peace ensued.
“Change is hard only for those who are unwilling. The reed that doesn’t bend surely breaks.”
Birth of the Rainbow Nation
A new nation was formed, with new provinces, a new constitution, a new coat of arms, a new flag, and a new-old anthem. For some, new attitudes also formed, while for others, racial hatred remained intact.
The pinnacle of the peaceful change came a year after the elections. South Africa as a new nation was still uneasy. The transition of power was less than seamless and tensions were that of an over-tuned guitar string – ready to snap. At just the right moment South Africa was fortunate enough to host the Rugby World Cup for the first time after recently being allowed back into international competition. This is something the nation needed. We needed to get behind the Springboks, our national team. The results were beyond incredible. “Shosholoza” became the anthem at every game.
For the first time in the country’s history, you saw people from different races and walks of life come together, sit together, sing together and celebrate together. Strangers embraced each other like family and tensions were eased. Much of this was carefully orchestrated by the newly elected president, Nelson Mandela and the Springbok captain, Francois Pienaar. The film Invictus does a fairly good job of telling the story and who doesn’t love Morgan Freeman? It’s totally worth the watch.
Basketball was another great love of mine, some would argue my greatest love at the time, and I had some serious hoop dreams for an average-height white kid who stopped growing at 15. The sport wasn’t widely played and finding courts to train on was near impossible. I met Lawrence, a guy who loved the game just as much as I did, in 1995. He was a few years older than me, a senior in high school. His father was a devout man, a preacher, who raised him with good values. The humility and kindness in his eyes were some I have yet to find in another human being.
Lawrence invited me to shoot some hoops and hang out at his place after. He gave me lunch and introduced me to his family, who were all lovely. I had never been in the home of a black family before. It was modest, to say the least, but it was a happy home.
I returned the favour and invited him to my place after school one day. I don’t remember much from the afternoon but that evening is forever seared into my hippocampus. My father learnt of my friend’s visit and he was indignant. He had never met Lawrence and had no idea of the calibre of person he was, but that didn’t matter at all. All that mattered was that he was black and that was a problem. My banshee of a father let rip. Shouting so loud that the whole neighbourhood heard his spewing but the worst part was what he said to me. He yelled, “Don’t you ever let a kaffir into my house ever again!”
I was crushed. Ground to a fine powder, ready to be scattered by the wind. There were many times I had felt deep disappointment and dislike for my father, but this time his drudgery had gone too deep for me. Amid his booming voice and contorted face, I challenged him with all the courage I could muster, but the crushing blows persisted. Over and over again shouting “You will never let a kaffir into my house ever again! Do you hear me”. I went from weeping to a deep sickening sob as rivers of tears cascaded down my cheeks. I never looked at my father the same after that day and certainly respected him less than before.
The working world
My first real job was at a large charismatic church in the city where we lived. Our family had attended the church for years and the brainwashing and trauma inflicted on all of us was extensive, to say the least, but long before any of that was realised, I was super excited to work there. It was a large church with a few thousand members and a large team of clergy and support staff.
Something that quickly became apparent to me, even in an inclusive organisation like a church, was that there was still an “us and them” mentality. There were only whites on the clergy and management staff. The black staff were employed to maintain the grounds, clean the facilities and serve tea. Diversity and inclusion policies didn’t exist back then it would seem.
The reality at the time was that the majority of black South Africans were poorly educated, albeit through no fault of their own. The segregatory system was designed this way. Many were subject to Bantu Education, a far inferior education by design and others simply dropped out of school early or never attended school because they were burdened with the responsibility to care for families at a young age. The result was that most of the laborious or mindless jobs were given to them.
When I moved on to other workplaces, there was a definite shift in the diversity of skills and cultures. One such workplace was at a progressive university in Johannesburg. I was privileged to work with an incredible creative team, many of whom are still my friends today. Designers, writers, journalists, marketing managers – all people of colour, all amazingly skilled. Not surprisingly the place where Nobel Prize Winner, Nelson Mandela,obtained his degree.
One of my colourfully creative friends, Thabo, educated me on the nuances of tribalism and clanism within his culture. I got to learn about clan names, what they meant and how they influenced people’s lives beyond provincial borders. I also got to sharpen up on the few isiZulu phrases I learnt. Thabo explained that the Zulu nation is extremely proud and they have a massive superiority complex. So much so, that they regard non-Zulus as animals, especially other black tribes who don’t speak isiZulu. They will accept English and isiZulu only. Anything other than that and they put you in the zoo.
During this time in the late 2000s, many illegal immigrants were streaming across the borders into South Africa, the majority were Zimbabweans fleeing the dictatorial rule of Robert Mugabe. With a sudden influx, big problems become even bigger, especially those of housing and employment. These immigrants were forced to live with the poorest in unsafe, unhygienic shanty towns, colloquially known as “squatter camps”. The benefits that some of them had were a good education, skilled work experience and well-spoken English. The result was that they gained employment faster than some of the locals and outright genocide broke out. This was the first time I heard the word “Xenophobia” being thrown around and unfortunately got to see racism extend further than colour or ethnic group, this time tribalism made things ugly.
The awakening
I have never regarded myself as a racist but systemic racism and societal norms have a very real way of permeating your soul through osmosis. I didn’t realise that my thought patterns had been shaped by family, friends and my community. Subtle, yet deeply ingrained. Being unaware is almost as bad as being complicit.
We generally tend to be a product of the people around us. We become like the people we hang out with, whether good or bad. Evil people can drag you down to their depths and change your very nature if you allow them to, or hang around them long enough. The same is true about hanging out with excellent people, ones that push you forward, raise you up and enlighten your consciousness. The choice of association is ours to make and not making a decision is in fact, a decision in itself. It’s hard to part ways with the ones you love. Ones that have done life with you. The path less taken is often lonely but the peace it allows is invaluable.
My father passed away a couple of years ago. He was fluent in isiZulu but he was a racist his whole life. He may have changed in the remaining years before he died but I can’t say for sure because I didn’t get to see him before he passed. International travel during the pandemic made it impossible. I can only hope.
My mother claims to love all people equally but is blissfully unaware of her racial superiority complex. For example, she will refer to “the boy” or “the garden boy” instead of the gardener and also, “the girl” or “the maid” instead of the domestic worker, cleaner or helper. These words flow naturally from her and she finds nothing wrong with them. That doesn’t stop me from correcting her and making her aware of them. Those words have deeper connotations. Ugly ones.
Our parents were cut from the blood-stained cloth of segregation. A generation born into the founding fabrics of apartheid, it’s all they ever knew. Their actions, behaviours and outlooks, while perhaps understandable, are not excusable.
“Darkness is a matter of the heart and not the colour of skin.”
I have had to do serious introspection to examine my thought patterns, ideology and automatic speech. Cleansing myself from the rot of racism has been a conscious journey. good intentions are of no value when your actions don’t match them.
To this day there are family members and old friends who struggle with or outright or masked racism. Some of them disguise it as best they can but it it suddenly appears like an over-ripe pimple waiting to be popped. Others are unashamedly racist for many different reasons, many of which have to do with circumstances, corruption, poor governance, social deterioration, crime etc.
“Just because the majority of bad eggs you’ve had were a certain colour, doesn’t mean all of the same coloured eggs are bad.”
I’ve been called a “kaffirboetie” (a derogatory Afrikaans word that loosely translates to: traitorous brother of the blacks) and I’m okay with that. I own that. I am the brother from another mother.
Some of my happiest moments were shared over a humble meal with my black friends. Celebrating our differences with stomach-aching laughter and accepting each other for the beautiful people that we are.
“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”
Nelson Mandela
