Elaine Bing: Unmaking of the Torturer

Elaine Bing: Unmaking of the Torturer, Lapa, Pretoria 2014

I am not a quick reader.  I never have been. I am always shocked by those who can get through a book with ease in an afternoon - and even more shocked by those who can do so and still remember the plot or the tack.  But even I have to admit, that it has taken me an inordinately long time to finish this book.

And the reason is not that it is badly written - far from it, (even though there are some edits which the work would have benefitted from).  No, it is the subject matter. I had the same kind of experience, in my early University days, when I encountered the Marquis de Sade for the first time. The fact is, this is all extraordinarily uncomfortable territory.

It is far easier to read a book about human suffering, for instance.  In a book about human suffering, you have the advantage of being able to plunge deep into the well of human empathy.  The other side of it all, perched comfortably upon the summit of Mount Compassion, one is able to survey all that is beneath one - and pronounce in a manner which is difficult to contradict.  And tut tut about it.  And shake one's head about it. But in this book, there is no such easy refuge.  Victims are easy to sympathise with.  That is the hard-wiring we are (mostly) all fitted with.

Several years ago, I had a discussion with the author while she was doing the research which forms the basis of this work.  I was more than curious.  I asked her how she managed to cope with it all. I wondered how she managed to disengage from it. How she remained objective and dispassionate.  How do you do it?  I asked her.

Her answer was both surprising and at the same time so extraordinary, that it has stuck with me ever since. She said these words:  She said "I constantly think, this could be me".

Now, let me describe Elaine Bing to you, for those of you who might not know her, or ever have seen her.  She is a middle aged, white woman. She grew up in an ordinary family, which lived an ordinary kind of life, in an ordinary kind of place.  Her background is that of a fairly typically Afrikaner.  Now, true enough, she has a rebellious streak in her.  She caused some eyebrows to be raised by her choice of partner.  She had the kind of liberal views, which I am sure, many would not have approved of in the day.  She never accepted the expected role of a housewife and a mother - which most women of her generation and her ilk would have resigned themselves to.  But to consider her in the role of a torturer would certainly be pushing the boundaries of one's imagination.

And that, succinctly, is her point.  That, in all its strangeness and in all its ridiculousness, is the point her book is making.  The point is a simple and deeply profound one.  Any of us are capable of extraordinarily evil things.  When you understand that, you will get a glimpse into the mind of the torturer.

Bing records the therapy sessions of three white South African men who became perpetrators of torture, pain, suffering and death.  The times were mad.  The government was rogue and the security forces were completely out of control.  These men were, to all intents and purposes, allowed to do whatever they wanted to do, in the name of maintaining order and security. 

All three men came from fairly typical religious and Afrikaner cultural backgrounds.  Each of them was swallowed into a chaotic vortex of blood and destruction, in the period prior to democratic elections in South Africa.  Each of them was fed an unwholesome diet of propaganda to enable them to believe that what they were doing was right and just.  Each of them lived dual lives - that of state agent and that of family man - and the two were kept more or less separate from each other.

Each person has an individual story to tell.  From the perspective of the reader, I found it very difficult indeed to tell one apart from the other - especially because I was only reading the book on weekly aeroplane trips - with consequent gaps between readings.  That said, it made little difference, because the stories are indeed very similar.  There are context variations. There are degrees of religious belief etcetera, but the story is essentially the same story.  The three voices give one three vantage points of the same phenomenon.

I found myself both repulsed and fascinated - tremens et fascinens.  I felt like I was being taken unwillingly on a journey I would far rather avoid.  It is undoubtedly a rough ride and it is not for the feint-hearted.  But it is a really important journey.  It is all too easy to dismiss men like this as evil and despicable and vile.  It is much more difficult - much, much more difficult, to see them as damaged human beings, in need of help.  That insight - that imperative is the most difficult and at the same time, the most compelling feature of this book.

Bing examines her own reactions to the stories these men are telling, constantly.  And, in doing so, she articulates many of the reactions of the ordinary reader.  Because it is not possible, I would argue, to read this book dispassionately, whoever you are and wherever you are.  The stories are too graphic, too raw, too violent to leave one feeling anything but bewildered and horrified. And if one happens to be South African, one's reaction will be different in texture, depending if one is black or one is white - perhaps also if one is male or one is female.  Perhaps even one's age will mark one out for particular reaction.  But whoever you are, you cannot be unmoved. There is just too much.

My disappointment with the book is that it seemed to me to end too soon.  I did not find the last chapters detailed enough, or focussed enough.  What one is left with is a very detailed journey into the minds of the three torturers, with some insight into the observations of the therapist on the effects the sessions had on the therapist - but little insight into the actual journey towards healing (assuming there was one!) The sessions with the perpetrators are so profoundly devastating, that it is extremely difficult for the reader to disengage from these and, in the space of a few pages to move to analysis and general observation. 

I would have liked the same attention to detail in the process which led to some sense of wholeness.  Instead, one is forced to pick up crumbs in spare sentences - a paragraph here, an observation there, given during the sessions themselves.  I was looking for (and felt seriously deprived of), a much more detailed analysis.

But let none of what I have said here detract from the value of the work as a whole.  This is an area we have generally shied away from in South Africa.  For a range of reasons: because it is unpleasant; because we have no societal mechanisms for dealing with it; because we have been so desperate to build an alternative myth, of a rainbow nation.  But to recognise this level of damage and this kind of unresolved malaise is vital if we are ever to walk the long walk to real freedom as a country.

A friend of mine once said that Nelson Mandela didn't save black people, in South Africa, he saved white people.  Perhaps that is the sad truth and perhaps that is an indicator of the length of the road we still need to travel towards wholeness.  Elaine Bing's book is a critical signpost along that road.  One which we ignore to our collective peril.  

What the President might have said ...

This picture of Nelson Mandela with a/his dog surfaced some time before the remarks by President Jacob Zuma about the different cultures of animal ownership between black and white South Africans.

The holidays, this year, have been dominated by remarks made by President Zuma regarding the way in which white people, apparently habitually, treat their domestic pets better than they do the black people around them.  The President’s mistake, as far as I can see, was not the observation itself – which may or may not upon investigation, prove to be true.  The real problem with his remarks, in my estimation, was the way in which he gets himself entangled in notions of “culture” which are not only spurious, but extremely dangerous.

The ex-governor of the Reserve bank, Tito Mboweni, tells a story about when he was working as a young man, as a gardener in a white person’s home – before Limpopo was Limpopo.He says that round about lunch time – in the heat of the day he would hear “the Madam” calling “Titus!  Titus! Come and get your lunch!”  That was the signal for him to run like hell, because he had to get to the stoep to protect his lunch, before the dog got it.

His lunch would be three very thick slices of bread with jam on them, served on a chipped enamel plate.  There would also be an enamel mug of extremely sweet, milky tea.  “The Madam” had never thought to ask him whether he actually drank tea, and whether he liked sugar and milk, or not.

When he tells this story – and I have heard it often – there are often shrieks of laughter from black people of a certain age, who recognise the scenario, and squirming embarrassment from whites, who recognise their mothers or their grandmothers in the story as well.

It is just a fact that people will not fail to notice when domestic pets are treated way better than they are as people.  They will not fail to notice this because there is a perceived natural hierarchy in the universe, with the humans at the top.  The life of a human is seen to be much more valuable than the life, for instance, of a dog and therefore there is enormous resentment and indignation when the dog appears to be getting the better deal.

The corollary of this is that because humans are perceived to be on top, they can do what they like with other forms of life and treat them as they will or desire.  So, we can starve the animals in our care (whether they be horses on farms, or dogs or cats); we can let them die from neglect; we can beat them if we want to; we can stone them when they come across our paths.  Why?  Because we are the boss of the universe.

Clearly, the truth is that both of these extreme frames are wrong.  It has bugger-all to do with that hallowed thing called “culture”.  Stoning a dog, because it irritates you - or because you can - isn’t some great statement of African culture – it is just despicable inhumanity.  Neglecting the plight of a farmworker while pampering a kitten is exactly the same thing.  These things are not cultural, they are the best examples of how ugly and revolting human beings can be.

Whether it be the revolting regular practice of slaughtering bulls with spears for fun in Spain, or whether it be the equally revolting annual practise of killing bulls with bear hands in Kwazulu-Natal; whether it be the neglect of a dog under one’s care or the neglect of human beings in one’s employ – these things are not cultural – they are just wrong.   To baptise a practise as “cultural” does not make it right, it does not somehow allow the practitioner to escape from criticism or critique.  It cannot be a cosy hiding place for acts of cruelty and barbarism.

So, let us be clear – the perennial acts of neglect of human beings, compared with the penchant for pampering pets is going to be noticed and it is going to be paraded as yet another example of ongoing oppression. (Of course, to presume that this is something which is entirely racially based, is just remarkably silly).  But on the other hand, to presume that human beings have the right to dominate and subject (and if so desired, torture and neglect) all other forms of life, is crass and backward.  Do not expect that this is going to go un-noticed either. Neither perspective is cultural.  Both should be condemned.

The President’s recently expressed view is nothing unique to him.  I have heard it expressed as an almost defining characteristic of white people, by many black people.  (And I have also heard the opposite expressed as a characteristic of black people, by many whites.)  Where these are simple prejudices, they are at least something one can attempt to deal with, either by education or by argument.  But where they get entangled in the concept of “culture”, they become dangerous and extremely blunt weapons of analytical destruction.  Culture is, mostly, a fearful and terrifying thing.

When Mandela Goes

Cavendish Mall is one of the key meeting places of complacent, white, southern suburb Capetonians. They have Lattes there, skinny and otherwise, topped with the lightest hint of chocolate powder. They can wander around shops sporting expensive jewellery, overpriced nik naks and the latest fashion accessories. They can meander through the bookshop and shop at a leisurely pace for their necessities at a Woolworths, where even the next available till announcements are delivered in slightly hushed tones.

It is a wealthy environment. But you would not know that if you were not awake to the signs, because they are not entirely obvious. At any restaurant in the complex, you will battle to find a black patron. It is a safe haven for white people. They can see their art movies there on a Saturday evening. They can be at home with each other and relaxed. As they look around them, it is as if democracy never arrived with all its uncomfortable side effects, like taxis on the roads, and riff-raff being given too much freedom, and black people being allowed to do what they want. Cavendish Mall is a safe and pleasant environment. It is tasteful, without being loud. In it you can be assured that standards will be aggressively maintained and everyone will have the same expectations.

You will notice that most people have an attitude. It comes with a particular angle of the nose on the face – as though it has only recently sniffed the unpleasantness of lower forms of life. As I have said, you will notice that wealth is not flashy, nor brash, nor worn on the sleeve. No. The cars are usually ordinary, sun-blasted and with dents that have never been attended to. Even the clothes are not flashy, or loud. Hairstyles are usually the simplest. Makeup is not much in evidence. Things are tasteful and understated.

But it is an environment where like recognises and affirms like. This crowd of people have a set of rules which they all know from birth and follow rigourously until they die. Nothing changes. This is Cairp Tahn. This is the Southern Suburbs.

So I was interested to see some graffiti on one of the walls on a toilet in Cavendish Mall. It read this, in an unsteady hand – “I AM WAITING MANDELA DIE.” I am sure it is already attended to and has been removed – because graffiti is a very rare thing in Cavendish Mall, you underestand – (and we don’t want any of that, do we?)

But it made me think. Something about the sentence made me think, immediately (maybe it was the lack of correct English grammar), that it had been written by someone who was black. Not because I think blacks can’t write correct English, nor because I think only a black would write on a toilet wall – no. It was because I am white and I grew up under apartheid and because those are the kind of assumptions I am bound to make. But let us assume, just for the sake of argument, that my prejudices and my instinct are correct in this instance, and that it was written by a black person – what could it possibly mean?
Is it simply a statement of fact? Does it mean nothing more than what is being said? Someone was sitting on the toilet in Cavendish Mall and decided to write those words on the wall, because that is what he was thinking. He is waiting for Mandela to die. It would be odd indeed. Of the same ilk as “The sky is blue”, “I am bored” and “John loves Mary”. Except it isn’t.

The context of Cavendish Mall inevitably makes this some kind of a political statement. It is intended to be read in that context. It has a meaning more like “Troops out of Iran” or “Nationalise the mines”. It is not a bland or a neutral statement. And it is meant to feed into the deepest fears of the majority of the patrons of the Cavendish Mall. When Mandela dies, all hell will break loose. The black hoards are sitting around waiting for the day. It is only out of respect for the old man that they have kept their pangas under their beds, but when he dies! Then we will all be braaivleis.

And I expect, if it hasn’t happened yet, that there is going to be much buying of tinned sardines, stockpiling of water and matches – just as was the case during the first democratic elections. Why? Because it is a real possibility? No. It won’t happen.

Then why? Why the subliminal fear? Why the mounting hysteria? Why the bewailing of certain doom and racial misfortune? I will tell you why. Because deep down, in the recesses of their consciousness, white people in this country know just how big a compromise was made in the interests of peace. When they lie in their beds at night, they know that the poor cannot be fooled forever and the lid has got to blow on the sham at some point. That is why, this simple, ungrammatically correct sentence, written on a toilet wall in Cavendish Mall, has profound resonance.

A death at the office

Well, I have said it many times – the 2010 FIFA World Cup is not for sissies! Some months ago, we purchased six LED screens at some quite considerable expense. We had to go out on tender. It took months and months. Before that, there were negotiations with District Municipalities about which local municipality would be the recipient of these screens. That took months and months and months!

And what was the intention of these screens? Well, twofold really. The first use would be for the screens to serve as count-down clocks to the 2010 FIFA World Cup. This would create excitement about the impending tournament (how little it takes to get people excited apparently.

But the second usage would be for legacy. They could be used as information boards; they could be used for advertisements and income generation for the local municipalities; they could even be used as big screens for mini Fan Parks for the future.

Now, the tender processes of government are agonizingly slow, and often do not produce the best results. This, in my estimation was one of the best examples of the worst results. A company we had already used, very successfully, for the supply of one LED screen, had to be knocked out of the process, for reasons I forget. But, I want to emphasise, that we had very good service from them. So now, we had to go with another company. This company has given us the worst service imaginable. But apart from anything else, to actually change anything on these screens is a complete nighmare!

So, the other day, we noticed that even though the screen outside our office was counting up – i.e. this is the 12th day of the 2010 FIFA World Cup – it was 12 hours ahead and days were changing at Midday, instead of midnight.

So, we ranted and we raved and eventually someone came to fix the clock. On his way out, he dropped dead outside the lift on the first floor. I was not there, but it was apparently very dramatic.

Now, two things happened. After the medical emergency people and the police were called, the news quickly spread that a man had died on the first floor. Black people in the building went into what I can only describe as “funeral mode”. Something deep inside them made them want to sit with the body. To “respect” the dead person. So there they came and there they gathered – sitting with the dead body. To such an extent that it eventually needed to be announced on the email that the 1st floor was now out of bounds, because there were too many people there!

White people on the other hand (and here I include “coloured” people as well, as part of the same kind of cultural milieu),fled. They couldn’t be seen for dust! If they found themselves in the unfortunate position of the lift doors opening on the first floor, they would suck in their stomachs and hide in a corner of the lift. They wanted to be as far away from the dead body as they possibly could be.

And then, after several hours, the wife of the dead man was brought to the scene. For whatever reason, and who knows what it was, the black guardians of her dead husband were shocked to hear that what she seemed to be most concerned about was that he had been carrying Dollars and she was worried that the Dollars might have been taken from him!

So, this is the way it played out. There was this white dead body lying on the floor, outside the lift. The black employees – or several of them – felt in some way culturally bound to come and “look after the body” and show it “respect”.

On the other hand, apparently, the man who had died was supposed to be going overseas the next day and had gone to the bank to get Dollars. These were apparently in his pocket. But what the black people sitting around, being respectful to the corpse heard – not having that piece of information - was that the wife was concerned that they might have robbed her husband’s corpse.

Who knows why she said it. It could have well been part of the confusion which profound shock brings. It could have been anything. But that is what got heard across the racial divide. (It was reported to me, some time later, I have to say, by a black colleague - and in good humour).

Such is everyday life, in a country - and with a people - which has effectively been robbed of its humanity. We are on the verge of bidding farewell to the hundreds of thousands of foreigners who have visited our shores to watch the soccer. At the same time, there are persistent rumous of threats being made to black African foreigners, whgo happen to be living here. We are, all of us, damaged. That is just the truth.

Does the worm inevitably turn?

Pic: A dam just outside Worcester - where the meeting was held

“To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
The smallest worm will turn being trodden on,And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.'"
Shakespeare Henry VI Pt. 3.

I am interested to note, these days, how quiet the media is, (and more interestingly, the white public is) about Jacob Zuma. Just a matter of months ago, you could have sworn that the sky was going to fall, the earth was going to heave and we whites would all be swallowed up in the disaster which would follow the victory of the ANC at the polls and his ascendency to the Presidency.

I note with further interest, a recent newspaper report about a meeting which the leader of the opposition and Premier of the Western Cape, Helen Zille had with the President. She came away from it saying that it is “hard not to like him”. She went further and said that this was all the more remarkable, seeing she had run a specific and individually targeted campaign to “Stop Zuma” during the election.

I also see how silly former President Thabo Mbeki is seeming these days and I can’t help seeing some kind of vague similarity between him and “Die Groot Krokodil” – former apartheid President, PW Botha. When he, in his day, was kicked out by FW de Klerk and the new breed of Afrikaners (who were seen as crazy reformists in some circles) and the ANC, Communist Party and other Liberation movements were unbanned, Botha continued to breathe fire and brimstone, never seeing the wood, for a forest of trees.

And some whites, many whites, perhaps even the majority of whites today, are still breathing the same fire and brimstone. I hear them all the time, all around me. The other day I was in a meeting in a rural area way out of Cape Town. There were a total of five whites in a meeting of about 20 people. At lunch, being fairly early in the queue, I happened to sit at a table with no-one else at it at that point. I could not fail to notice that within a short while, all the other whites in the meeting had gathered at my table. And then it started…

They simply assumed that I was one of them and would therefore agree with their reactionary position on things in general. They spoke about “them” and they spoke about “us”. They lamented the passing of the old days. I chewed on my salad and said nothing. Not because I am shy. Not because I am slow in coming forward, but because I was totally gobsmacked!

These were four people I had never met before in my life. They work in significant, public interface related jobs. They deal with black people on a daily basis. But their minds are twisted and distorted and their understanding of South African reality is profoundly skewed. The world which they apparently live in is monochrome and diseased. And here is the tragedy – they have no idea that this is their reality!

The tragedy is that they position themselves as liberals – as people who “never supported apartheid”. Now they are merely observers. Now they are the experts on democratic government. Now they are the victims of affirmative action. They chose to ignore, I could not fail to notice, the fact that three of them were actually employed in the state itself or para-statals!

It is this killing, whinging mindset which is so totally reprehensible. Crime is “their” responsibility – and “they” don’t have a clue how to solve it, because “they” are either criminals themselves, or stupid – or, of course, more probably both.

And what does this kind of attitude do (besides making the bearer into a bitter, twisted human being)? This is what I think. I think it infects everyone – the good and the bad, the criminal and the victim, black and white. It sets up a societal dynamic which corrodes and insinuates itself into every aspect of life. It is there in the shopping centre, the gym, the Church, the street, the airport. It feeds on itself. It grows fat and it spreads. It is insidious. It is contagious.

But here is the issue. It is not just a “white” thing. There is nothing genetically involved here. It can equally become a “black” thing. In the Western Cape, it is undoubtedly now a “coloured” thing.

I see yesterday in the press, the African National Congress in the Western Cape issued an apology to the Western Cape Province, for its previous fractious, inefficient and nepotistic government. It was a government which was fairly trounced at the polls, bringing the Democratic Alliance to power again.

I think the apology is well intended and it is a desperate attempt to salvage some level of credibility. But I do not think it will work. It is not the case, after all, that previous Democratic Alliance governments were wonderful. In fact, they were disastrous. But the ANC has managed to completely alienate vast swathes of the Western Cape population – a population which is already deeply conservative, racist and divided. What the ANC has managed to do is to compound fears, prejudices and racist beliefs. It has done so by ignoring people, by marginalising people, by arrogance and by greed. This is the consequence of its actions.

So, whatever good President Zuma may achieve - through openness, or accessibility or through tight controls on corruption – it won’t matter a damn in the Western Cape in my estimation, for a very long time to come. Because the party he belongs to seems to have forgotten the primary matter of race in the equation. Race isn’t an issue which can manage itself and in this country it isn’t going to just go away. And as long as there are some South Africans who feel more important than other South Africans, we have all the ingredients we need for a profoundly depressed and diseased society.

Practical hints for race relations

Living in Cape Town, one has to learn to do things a bit differently. Like, for instance, being constantly aware of where “the Mountain” is. Because all directions to anywhere and everywhere are given in relation to “the Mountain”. The weather, also, seems to be determined by which side of “the Mountain” you are on.

You have to get used to rain in winter. You have to scale everything down in relation to your living requirements, because buying the tiniest little dwelling here, would probably buy a whole street anywhere else. So, in the spirit of all of this, I decided that I needed to get rid of some of my books. To be honest, I don’t know why I had so many of them. It isn’t as though I am constantly referring to them, but somehow, like old friends, and pleasant memories, it felt nice to have them around.

But – given the fact that space is now at something of a premium, I decided to get rid of many in my collection. And in the process – which brings me to my point – a yellowing newspaper article fell out of one of them. It was a clipping from what I think was “The Star”. It is entitled “An Afrikaner’s Diary” and is signed Jan Burger.

The date of the piece is 4 May 1958 and is mostly about an interview which the author did with poet and dramatist Uys Krige, condemning the prudishness of the censors at the time. But it was the last few paragraphs which caught my eye. The author refers to a “recent Sabra congress” (apparently this is short for "Suid-Afrikaanse Buro vir Rasse-Aangeleenthede" which I think means something like the "Bureau for race relations", or something) where some pactical hints were shared about how whites could create a bit more goodwill between themselves and “non-Whites” (sic). I am going to quote the paragraphs in full, because – well you will see why…:

“Mr F.J van Wyk, Assistant Director of the Institute of Race Relations, asked whether the names of Native casualties could not be mentioned in newspapers. Natives feel that the omission of their names is discrimination.

Mrs E.S. Bell of Bloemfontein asked parents to restrain children from mocking Natives in the street. Mr Krynauw of Worcester said that our attitude that Natives must greet us first is wrong. The Bantu’s tradition is that the superior should take the initiative.

Mr B Steyn, senior information officer of the Department of Native Affairs, asked Whites serving behind shop counters not to throw change at Natives. It hurts.”

I have read and re-read the passage, wondering whether behind it, there might be some attempt at humour, perhaps. Perhaps in the last sentence? But then the other “hints” don’t seem to indicate this. The passage gives one a glimmer of what the majority white mindset of the day was. You will agree with me, even without the considerable benefit of hindsight, it is as extraordinary as it is absurd.

But then, at the same time that I found this piece, I read of a court case where a certain Zanele Magubane was given an apology and R10 000 by her employer, Cameron Forsyth, in settlement for a text message which was about her and mistakenly sent to her, (but intended for his wife), calling the childminder a “kaffir bitch”.

The ongoing tragedy today, besides the fairly substantial mess we are in politically, is that most white people still have no concept of their absolute continued contribution to that mess. By thinking the things they think, by believing the things they do, and by saying, the moment they think they have a sympathetic ear, the sort of crud they say. In Cape Town, (in many ways the last hiding place of the un-reformed), I hear these opinions, beliefs and statements, more than I ever have before elsewhere.

And the most irritating thing of the lot, is that they continue to think that they are somehow superior – even after apartheid!

The Night of the Long Knives

I had a brief look yesterday at a new book by Charles Cilliers on the shelves of the "Cairp Tahn" Book Fair- For Whites Only. What White people think about the New South Africa, published by X Concepts Publications, 2009. And then I heard him being interviewed on the radio and fielding questions and comments.

He deals with a range of "white" issues in the book - like, "My domestic worker is my best friend"; "I never benefited from apartheid"; "I always disagreed with apartheid"; "Affirmative action is reverse racism" and the one we all know and love - "When Mandela dies, chaos is going to be let loose in the country" (aka the "Night of the Long Knives").

On radio, the author is sharp. A little bit too "Cairp Tahn" University sounding for my immediate liking - but razor sharp. He says the kinds of things most white people really hate hearing, like - that actually, the country is in a much better place now than when they were running the show; that there is no way that your domestic worker is your best friend; that every white person benefited personally, directly and very comprehensively from apartheid; that affirmative action is necessary to get the historically skewed situation (which white people made), corrected; and that it is highly unlikely that a frail, retired, 90 year-old is holding the whole thing together and that this kind of belief is a prime example of the unfathomable unwillingness of white South Africans to change.

My view is that the political settlement which took place in the country favoured white people far too much and it failed completely to deal with the sense of utter entitlement; arrogance and almost criminal ignorance which abides to this day, in most white heads and most white families. I suppose that was the price of peace at the time. But not anymore! We are 15 years down the line. And 15 years down the line, white South Africans still think black South Africans are lazy slobs; that every one of them is a criminal or a would-be criminal, or rapist or murderer; and that the government is full of crooks because they are black; and that government itself is hanging by a thread - presumably thanks to the whites there are still in government!

I am very grateful indeed to Gordon Brown and David Cameron and the mostly white band of crooks they have in the leadership of their parties, for providing us with the kind of comedy of errors which has been the case in British politics for the past few months. I am extremely interested in the lack of comparison which white people in this country are making with them. They who are usually so ready and so able to dismiss our politicians and a band of incompetent brigands and crooks and who hanker so profoundly for all things "civilized" (read British, European, Afrikaner or what-have-you).

The point Celliers was making on the radio, and doubtless in the book, (which I doubt will be read by many whites - naturally) is that White South Africans have not really changed at all, in the main. The problem is, if they don't change pretty soon, another dynamic may well kick into play. And I don't think it will be very pretty at all.

And please, this is not to say that crime isn't a problem and that idiots and lazy people don't get employed, or that corruption isn't becoming overwhelming. It always was a problem and it always will be a problem. It just isn't a racial problem. That's all.