Smoking Doctors

Soon after moving to Gauteng in the mid 1990s, I badly needed a doctor – the reasons for which, I now forget. I was newly arrived in Pretoria. The Boerewors curtain (and life behind it) was a strange and frightening place. The entire Department of Land Affairs was staffed by white people. More than that, Afrikaans white people, who were so furious that a white person from “outside” had been appointed to the position instead of them, that they refused to talk to me in anything other than Afrikaans for the first 6 months. So, life was a little challenging. I needed a doctor, so I asked the only person who was remotely nice to me in the directorate I was running, if she could perhaps recommend anyone. As it happened, she could but she was hesitant. I wondered why? “Because, well, because”, she said “… no, make up your own mind about him”. I was intrigued.

Within seconds of meeting him, I understood her hesitation.

On that day, he was dressed from head to toe in black leather. He had long peroxide blond hair, done in ringlets which cascaded down his back and, to the front, to his nipples. He had a black moustache and goatee. He had a silver cross dangling on a chain around his neck, which was lost in a forest of dark chest hair. He was as camp as a row of pink tents. And he was smoking a cigarette.

As you can imagine, I was a little nervous, but I needed a doctor for whatever it was. And so began what is now a 17 year relationship, because even though we moved to Johannesburg and then to Cape Town, he and I have remained in periodic contact.
He had, for a while (what my mother would have called), his “eye” on me. But he really was never my type and nothing ever happened either way. He was (is) a brilliant doctor. It was almost as though he could kind of “divine” the problem. He was certain about many things: his particular version of God; politics; men; women; cats; dogs; climate change – the lot. He was (is) also a thundering, inexcusable, unbearable racist.

Quite simply. He hates “die kaffirs”. Over the years, he had learned to pare that down slightly by calling them “them”. Arguing with him is and was futile. His views were and are based on gossip, prejudice, hate, victimisation, conspiracy theories, lies, hysteria and loathing. (I know it is surprising that he is also a good doctor, but that he certainly is). His heroes were DF Malan, Verwoerd – who knows, probably Hitler as well. He just hates blacks. (We decided very early on, that we would never take our children to him).

Now the area in which his surgery is situated is in, or very close to Sunnyside. And Sunnyside, for any of you who might know it, has become an almost entirely black neighbourhood. The area immediately around his surgery has transformed, from when first I went to see him, from being a tight-lipped, pinched Afrikaner community, to being a Boom! Boom! taxi speakers, sheep’s head on the braai kind of area. He has stayed on, hating and loathing everything and everyone around him.

Every year or so, he gets robbed, or held up, or something equally dramatic and life threatening. Every year, he has his knees removed and replaced, or his stomach diverted, or his lungs replaced, or his heart transplanted. It is always terribly dramatic and life-threatening stuff and the other doctors are always amazed at how strong he is and how quickly he recovers from whatever beset him.

Every year, religiously, he calls me to wish me on my birthday. He tells me a joke, with seemingly no punchline (I suspect it gets lost in the translation) and he tells me of the latest mishap to befall him.

A couple of days ago, I was in Pretoria with a few minutes to spare, so I went to say hello. I got hugged, as usual, so hard that the breath leaves my body for far too long. We started chatting. He had forgotten what job I was now in. Restitution, I told him. I saw his face glaze with fury. He stood up. He started shouting at me, that it was disgusting to take people’s land away from them and give it to morons who didn’t know how to look after it. Well, as it happens, I told him (trying to divert the direction of the conversation), some of the claimants are white. Restitution isn’t about colour. He didn’t hear that. He just went on ranting.

“They were bloody nomads!” he screamed “They owned nothing anywhere! The land was acquired completely legally. They were just too bloody stupid to do it first! And thank God they didn’t manage to get their paws on it first, because then we would be completely up the creek without a… what’s it called? A sort of spade thing you row boats with?... A paddle! Up shits creek without a paddle”.

And so it went for a full 10 minutes. “The whole bloody lot of them are born with their hands like this (he demonstrated hands cupped, open in the begging position). “Why don’t you just get out of here and let me do my work!? I could see that we were in the middle stages of a medical emergency, so I stood up and left.

I am sad, because obviously, that friendship (however strange it might have been) is at an end now. I suppose what is even more strange, is that it ever happened in the first place. His level of hatred is (perhaps it always was) pathological. How he survives where he does, beats me. And what he so ably illustrates is how some white people have managed to weather majority government, without changing their views or their positions (or their outlook) one iota. They are exactly the same disturbed racists which they were under apartheid.

He lives in a parallel universe. The black people braai-ing sheep’s heads on his doorstep are like a tide of garbage which has arrived and which needs to be carefully picked through to get to one’s car and then into the safety of one’s house every evening. It is “them” and “us”. The war continues. The bitterness doesn't end.

And then I remember his secretary. She used to dye her hair a vivid red and wear it in a pile on top of her head. She is a “blommetjie van die veld” if ever there was one. True Pretoria, in every way. Her daughter has adopted two black children – Matthew and Luke. She loves and adores them. They only speak Afrikaans. While I was waiting to see the doctor, she couldn’t wait to show me pictures of her grandchildren, on her phone. She has told me before that she cannot talk about them in his presence, because, well, you know how he is.

Truly, we are a strange lot. And how many generations is it going to take to make things normal? White people, generally, have simply tripped into liberation, without having to do very much at all, except put down their guns. What is so badly missing and so badly needed, is re-education.

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.

To protect or not. That is the question

When you get the newspapers delivered to your house in Cairp Tahn, they are always wrapped in plastic. It doesn’t matter what time of the year it is, sudden, tremendous and unexplained downpours are possible. If people could walk around wrapped in plastic all the time, it would be the preferable thing to do, for the same reason.

So, when I collected my Sunday newspapers from the driveway this morning, and tore off the standard plastic wrapper, there was nothing unusual about it. In fact, there is a kind of delayed gratification thing which happens – because you don’t get to see the headline, until you have done so. So, I tore off the plastic wrapping and ceremoniously opened the newspapers.
I could not really have been prepared for what I saw. A picture of a white man, with a hunting rifle, kneeling over what appeared to be a dead, black, child – as a hunting trophy.

I read the story, my head reeling. It appears that this lunatic has a Facebook page with this picture on it. He calls himself “Terrorblanche”. But he is not alone. He has some 590 friends, on Facebook. So, there are at least 590 people out there, who would actively press the befriend button, to link themselves with a person who would post this picture on his page.

I went to his page, to see what kind of a person this might be. He describes himself (I presume he is a he) as having matriculated at Krugersdorp High School. He is self-employed. He likes Bok van Blerk, Leon Shuster and Afrikanse Musiek, amongst other things. His activities are self-defence and close combat fighting. His lists “knifes”, firearms and weapons as his interests. He has a picture of the original Eugene Terreblanche riding a horse, with the flag of his right wing organisation unfurled. So, in all likelihood, the man is close to psychotic.

Now, the immediate problem we, as parents, needed to deal with was, what to do with the picture on the front page of the newspaper? Do we leave it lying around? Do we hide it? Do we leave it lying around in the hope that they would not see it? What would we say if they did see it?
On a recent holiday to the Devon, in the UK, we went one day to visit Exeter Cathedral. As we arrived, a memorial service for a child was just ending. There was a picture at the entrance of the child, who had drowned and the body had not yet been found. Our eldest child, Gabriel, was extremely interested. Who was the child? Why did he die? More and more questions. And they continued for the rest of the week, because each day, there were more pictures of the child on the front pages of the newspapers – until eventually the body was found.

Our child was clearly dealing with the reality of death. Not for the first time, but this time, it was the death of a child he was dealing with. We explained that death is as natural as birth. That yes, we all have to die sometime. That some people die younger than others. No, only a very few children die at a young age, and it is usually because of accidents, like this one. No, we as his parents are probably not going to die very soon.

These were normal worries and fears, which any child goes through – and especially for an adoptive child. We dealt with them, as best we know how. Honestly and un-emotively. Telling him the truth, without the embellishments of afterlife and religion and bargaining. The moment passed, as is right.

But this! This is a picture, (which is probably staged – but then how does one explain to a child why it is staged?), where it looks as though a black child has been shot by a white game hunter – for sport! It is on the front page of the Sunday newspaper. That, I am afraid, I simply can’t explain. So, for better or for worse, we hid the page, from our two black children.

The Help – by Kathryn Stockett , Penguin/Fig Tree, London, 2009

I have to admit, when I first started this book – many months ago – I had my doubts. (I have to also admit that most of my reading takes place, these days, on aeroplanes, or at airports waiting for them). The doubts were about the voices which are used throughout the book, predominantly of Southern black (African-American) women.

It takes some getting used to. But after not too long, I found it starts to read perfectly naturally. We have all, after all, been thoroughly attuned to that voice through the medium of television and movies. It is nothing unfamiliar. It is just that one doesn’t see it written very often. The first time I did encounter it was in The Colour Purple. (I have to admit it took me one hell of a long time to work out what “Shug” might be!)

But it really is a voice we know, albeit in this unfamiliar form. And once you start getting into the book, it becomes a really exciting and different experience. Through the device, you are suddenly projected into this unfamiliar world.

The author herself, (she reveals in her afterword) had doubts about this decision. Of course she did! The chances of sounding patronising, or of sliding into some really offensive “white” take on African-Americans, were pretty good. But she doesn’t – well not from my perspective anyway. African-Americans will obviously have their own opinions on the matter.

I tried to imagine what the effect would be, if a white person in South African were to write a novel in the black voice – recording the details and mannerisms of accent. The likelihood of misunderstanding and/or real offense would be very high indeed. Does anyone remember that ghastly programme which used to run on Springbok radio called the “Pip Freedman Show”? He had a number of personae – all of whom were racially defined. A “Cape Coloured” man called Ghatipi (I am not sure of the spelling here) sticks in my mind. It was demeaning and offensive – though of course, no-one white thought so for a moment.

When I was writing my novel, “Remittance Man” (UKZN Press, Pietermaritzburg,1997) I started by putting one of the characters in accent. But it really did come across forced and painful – so I dropped it.

But there is none of that here. The voices seem to be to be as clear as a bell and as practised and authentic as you can get. It is beautiful. I read the book in awe of her art and her ability. It is quite spectacular.

The stories she tells, of the relationship between maids and their employers, is by no means an unfamiliar one to any South African. The assumptions are all the same. The fear is kept firmly in check. Some of the conditions are indeed vicious and uncaring. But there are a number of vital differences.

Firstly, the African- American “Helps” drive their own cars. They talk on the telephone to each other and there seems to be very little restriction on them doing so by their employers. They own their own houses. Their children go to school and sometimes to University. They seem to be poor, but they are not living in the kind of abject poverty that we have all around us. The same insane racial sense of superiority pervades the parallel world which the whites are living in. They talk about “Nigras” to each other, in the presence of the Help, as if they are not there. To be human is, nonetheless, to be white.

The story is about several of the people living in Jackson, Mississippi (only one white amongst them) who start making the journey to find each other. It is a truly inspiring and magnificent tale. What is so remarkable about it, is that it gives the reader a glimpse into the world as it was then – on the brink of irrevocable change.
Read through the eyes of a 50 year old South African, it is so easy to simply flip the switch of translation and to remember one’s own youth, with “the Maid” and the kind of complex relationships which developed. The story made me think about a woman who looked after me when I was a child of 6 or7. Her name was Bertha. She taught me my first words in Sesotho. She loved me and looked after me.

One day, she was gone. I was told that she had gone home and wasn’t coming back. S few days later, she appeared, nervously at the gate with a gift for me. It was a vest, wrapped in giftwrap. She said I should take it, and not tell my mother she had given it to me. And when I wore it, I should think of her.

I found out many years later, that our lodger, a certain “Mr Page” had raped Bertha, while we all on holiday. Bertha had laid a change – and that is what got her fired.
My mother and father were good people. Simple people. They were also deeply racist. That was all they really could be, with relatively little education and exposure and living in a system designed to make them so. When the chips were down they would protect their own, no matter what the morality of the issue, no matter consequences.

That is what this book is about. The many consequences.

The day I kicked a soldier's arse

Eugene de Kock: Picture - Times Live

I have been thinking about Eugene de Kock, the apartheid murderer who plied his trade on the state’s behalf at the infamous Vlakplaas. He was one of the very few who came clean at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings. But despite that, he was still convicted on numerous civil charges and sits, to this day, in jail. The rumour is that President Jacob Zuma is considering him for a pardon.

He is a haunting figure - (at least, he haunts me). He looks so completely ordinary. He used to wear thick, beer bottle spectacles. He would appear at the hearings wearing a green jersey, with a kind of khaki shirt. He looked like anyone’s uncle, brother, friend. And yet here was a man who murdered several people personally. A man who would kill, seemingly at will and who engineered the deaths of too many to remember. A man who caused unbelievable suffering, not only to the people he killed and whose bodies be burnt to get rid of, but to their families, their friends and comrades, who continue to mourn their loss. He was dubbed by the media, “Prime Evil”.

I have been dithering, about whether I think he should be pardoned, or whether I think he should be kept in jail for the rest of his life. I watch the polls and I watch the people who take particular sides in the debate. Mostly, they are people whose opinions I admire and respect and I find I just cannot settle on one side or the other.

The whole debate around De Kock which is going on at the moment, is juxtaposed (certainly in the media) with the imminent possibility of the pardoning of the President’s friend, the convicted criminal, Shabir Shaik. Frankly, I find the comparison distasteful. The one is a multiple killer. The other is a crook. I, for one, can’t argue that a crime is a crime is a crime – never mind how irritating I find the fact that the President might be considering pardoning the crook. They are not crimes of the same magnitude. They just aren’t.

That being said, I am not sure, as I have said, that De Kock should not be pardoned. The fact that he has told the truth actually gave the truth Commission the kind of substance it simply would not have had without his testimony. And when one compares that, for instance, to the testimony of Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, (which was shocking in its brevity and economy with the truth) – then I must say, I battle to argue that De Kok should not be pardoned.

But it has turned me to thinking about the complicity of many of us in the whole nightmare that was apartheid and of a memory of something I did way back then – by way of getting even.

I was working in the underground of the ANC and we were instructed by the ANC structures not to travel by air, when we were attending national meetings, because the state was able to keep track of individuals who were flying, and take note of where they were flying and who else was flying there at the same time. So, we were told to travel to meetings by other means.

So, I booked myself on an overnight train from Pietermaritzburg to Johannesburg, to attend a particular clandestine meeting we were having. When I opened the door of the compartment, I was greeted by 5 burly white Afrikaans speaking South African Defence Force (SADF) members. (In those days, of course, only whites were conscripted and only whites could be in certain sections of the train.) I knew, as I opened the door, that it was going to be a really difficult journey.

Because I was white, I was immediately one of the gang. They passed me a beer. They told stories about Angola and about what was going on in the townships. They wanted me to tell them stories too! They got a bit confused when I said I had not been to the army, but before I needed to fabricate a reason why not, they provided an easy one for me: “Oh!” said one, you are in the medical profession!” I said, timidly, yes I was! Which part of the medical profession, they asked? Fearing I might be asked to diagnose rashes and growths, I said “Psychology!”

Immediately, they were in awe. What could I tell them about them? I plumbed the depths of Psych 101 and produced a couple of profiling tests, which they enthusiastically participated in. They were convinced.

But there was one of them, arrogant, racist to the hilt, profoundly offensive, that I determined to teach a lesson to. I waited until we had all taken to our bunks and fallen asleep. I got up and took his entire uniform, beret, jacket, trousers, and shirt. In the pocket of his jacket was his ID document, and a number of other cards identifying him as an SADF soldier. I bundled the entire lot together and wrapped it in my towel and hid it in the bottom of my rucksack.

When everyone woke up as the train neared Germiston, there was a huge ruckus when he discovered that his uniform was gone. “There is a terrorist on the train!” he screamed. He dashed, naked, except for a towel around his waist, up and down the corridor shouting, “There is a terrorist on the train!” Army boys in various states of undress started prowling up and down the corridor looking for the terrorist.

When I asked what was going on, I was informed “They do this kind of thing. They steal uniforms so that they can infiltrate back into the country”. At one point, someone suggested that everyone’s bags get searched. I started sweating. Someone pointed out that in all probability, the terrorist had long gotten off of the train. A point that seemed to be acknowledged by everyone. I was profoundly relieved.

At Germiston station, clothed in his underpants and a towel, he got off the train, cursing the terrorists who had stolen his uniform. I offered him some money to make a phone-call.

I have often thought of that arrogant, racist boy. The perfect product of apartheid. I wonder if he is still alive. I wonder if he has changed. I wonder if he remembers that night when a terrorist stole his uniform. I wonder what the story was that he told about it.

I can’t remember what my feelings were, besides the thrill of danger and the feeling of satisfactory come-uppance which it gave me. Of course, he never would have suspected it was me, because he was too racist to think it was me. Because, as far as he was concerned, all whites were on the same side.

But of course, they weren’t. And neither were all blacks on the same side. And neither are they still. (Please don’t get me wrong. The amount of whites in the struggle, as compared to the amount of blacks, was minute. The amount of whites who suffered during apartheid as compared with the amount of blacks was minuscule. And I include myself here, I did not suffer under apartheid, I only benefited).

Revenge, even in that small dose which I administered, was sweet. But revenge cannot be the thing which dictates the way one lives. And I think the side of me that wants De Kock to stay in jail, is the same side of me that wanted that arrogant little shit of an SADF soldier to suffer – if only through the loss of his uniform and the punishment which would surely follow.

I don’t think that it is an admirable thing and I know it is not sustainable. And doesn’t the fact that De Kock is in jail simply make the rest of us whites, who benefited in every possible way because of the terror he was unleashing, feel as though justice is somehow being done? When we know, without any question, that it has not yet been done, by a very long shot.

Racism in Claremont

Photo: Jeffrey Abrahams, Cape Argus

I heard an interesting interview on the radio, while driving from George to Knysna. It was with a woman who posted a “For Sale” sign up in her restaurant window, in Claremont, Cape Town. But the sign added, “White buyers Only”. Then underneath the printed sign, she added in hand-written print “Order of the inspector”.

Now, besides the fact that this, in itself, is rather strange in supposedly free, democratic South Africa, the woman who owns the business (whose name is Zikusooka Wamono), is black.

Her story goes as follows: First, she rented a place in a less than desirable area. Business was bad, because of the fact that passing vagrants, would urinate in the alley leading to her restaurant and loiter there. She tried putting up a fence to make the alley impassable. The barrier she had erected got taken down by the council. Business went from bad to worse and eventually she decided to close it down and look for other premises.

She chose upmarket Claremont. She found a suitable site. She designed it, equipped it and furnished it, at considerable expense. However, at every stage, she was pestered and harassed by the police. They visited her at odd hours, demanding changes to this and changes to that. They have opposed her application for a liquor licence. It was clearly harassment. But she soldiered on.

Eventually, after unbearable frustration and constant intimidation, she put the “For Sale” sign up. The police officer had told her that “over his dead body” was she going to open her restaurant, because a black-owned businesses would bring “indecent black people”. His advice to her was to sell her business to a white. And that is the reason she put up the sign in her window.

I called Zikusooka, just to express support and solidarity with her. And to say to her unsurprised I was that she had been subjected to this treatment and how unbearably racist my own experience of Cape Town has been, as well.

She told me that the policeman concerned was, in fact, not white – but “coloured”, or mixed race. That didn’t surprise me either, because the racism of this place is not the preserve of the whites alone. It is something which is the common vocabulary of everyone who lives here. It is largely unchallenged. It is considered acceptable. It is constant. It is widespread and it is encountered right across the board and it is completely debilitating.

Although I was warned about it, when we decided to move here some years ago, I have to say, I had no idea how serious and how widespread a thing it is in this City. I had no idea that it would be everywhere. In the supermarket; in the school; on every road; and in every suburb. Naked, unashamed and unapologetic racism. There is a thin veneer of integration, but it is a sham. You can see it is a sham when you go shopping. You can see it is a sham when you visit a restaurant or the beach or the gardens at Kirstenbosch. Or when you drive down a road. You can see it is a sham when you examine who teaches what, in which schools. As I say, it is across the board. White, coloured and black. Everyone.

So, I salute the courage of Ms Wamono. She told me that she is on anti-depressants and she did this out of complete desperation. But she remains unbowed. She is going to fight, until she has no breath left in her. I salute her and I have told her that when and if she finally opens her doors, that I will be amongst her first enthusiastic customers.

That being said, I have one hesitation. The reasons given by the other side, for opposing the granting of a liquor licence need to be listened to quite carefully and assessed. They argue that it is because of her previous business and the negative effect it had on the area, that they are opposing this application. I am not in any position to judge whether those allegations are true or not. But what I am sure of, is that she has been harassed this time. And it looks very likely, given the racially skewed context of Cape Town, that what lies behind the harassment, is racism.

And there is one other thing which may be at play here. Her name and her accent sound Ugandan. And you know how much we love Africans from other parts of Africa, in this neck of the woods!

Invictus

Let me be clear – I don’t understand Rugby. I have no idea what they are doing when they run in lines across the field, throwing the ball to each other backwards and charging each other down and making spit fly. Even less, when they thud into each other in a kind of low-slung group hug and make a collective kind of “Ugh” sound. I have studiously avoided the game all my life, so it was, you understand, with considerable reluctance that I agreed to go to see Invictus, with a rugby-mad friend of mine from the UK.

The start of the film did not bode well. Mandela’s release from Victor Vester prison, driving past a groups of white boys playing Rugby – the coach (or the teacher, or whatever he was) with a thick Afrikaans accent, says words to the effect of “Remember this moment, because nothing is going to be the same after this”. He says this, like he is reading, with difficulty, from a cue card. I squirmed in anticipation and settled down for a ghastly experience.

But then the whole thing changed!

One could not help being struck by the way in which Morgan Freeman was made to look so extraordinarily like Mandela. (Wait until he speaks, I thought, ruefully!) He had managed to recreate, perfectly, the walk, the stoop, the mannerisms and then - not without blemish, but pretty damn near it - the speech of Mandela. My naturally cynical self started to weaken.

Then Matt Damon as Rugby captain Francois Pienaar. He looks nothing like him, and it took a long while for him to actually do anything besides look handsome and pensive and visionary – (Oh, God, I thought – wait until he speaks!) and then he did – and he actually got the accent! I was now seriously engaged.

Of course there were gimmicks. Like the fact that Mandela insisted on going for an early morning walk every day with a minimum of security; like there were real dangers to his life; like the collapse of his marriage; like the white people who looked extremely grim and the black security people who also looked extremely grim. But you know what? The film really does manage to re-create a moment in our history – an instant – when Rubicons were crossed, and bridges were made and where people changed their minds about other people.

I was too young to remember where I was when Kennedy was assassinated. I do remember where I was when the rugby World Cup was being won. I was in the airport building in Johannesburg, waiting for a flight. I wasn’t watching the match. I was watching the crowd at the airport. I was completely astonished to see black people completely caught up in the moment. (Of course, white people were too, but that was to be expected.) But for that moment we really were a united people, with everyone cheering for the same team.

It was, perhaps, the only time when we have done so. We were not united during the famous election (or any since). We were not united at the inauguration (or any since). Indeed, I cannot think of any instance, besides this unlikely one, where unity has been seriously considered or freely demonstrated. And when I think about it, the reason it happened was this, and only this: because of the kind of leadership which was shown - not by any of the political parties. Not by the sports bodies. Not by the churches or shuls or mosques. It was entirely due to the kind of leadership which Mandela displayed.

Invictus captures that leadership, and it is a timely reminder. We are, as I write, exactly five months away from the FIFA 2010 World Cup. Will this major event have a similar effect on our country? Certainly, the business people (black and white) are slavering in anticipation; the soccer watchers will all have a jolly time; many more white children will be captivated by soccer than ever before; and I am pretty sure we will all be able to pat ourselves on the back and proclaim the event “incident free”. But will it add to our character and substance as a nation? That, as before, will depend very largely on the quality of the leadership.

Go and see this movie, if you can. It is really well worth it. Not least because of the superb acting, but also because of the message it took an American like Clint Eastwood to remind us of.

The nostalgic condition

I read an extract from Jacob Dlamini's "Native nostalgia" (Jacana 2009) today, which got me thinking. He speaks of a range of anxieties at the heart of his nostalgia:

"I am concerned" he writes in the introduction, "that , in its technocratic drive to erase the legacies of apartheid and bring about economic development, the ANC has created an anti-politics machine in which black people - who allegedly suffered the same way, struggled the same way and lived the same way under apartheid - feature as nothing more than the objects of state policies, or, worse, passive recipients of state-led service delivery".

When I was lecturering theology at the Federal Theological Seminary in the 1980s, I came across several students who were Black Consciousness Movement proponents. I have to say, I am extremely glad I came across them, because they did a whole lot to shape my thinking and my politics. And I really wish, very sincerely, that many more white people had the opportunity to live cheek by jowel with people such as them. Because they never gave me an inch!

They were deep thinkers, most of them. (Some of them were seriously damaged racists, but they were very few and far between). But in the majority, they had come to Black Consciousness through a profound philosophical and intellectual journey. Almost always some of the really critical turning-point moments in their political lives had been caused by white aggression, or white brutality, or white racists. In general, I found them to be somewhat more conservative than their ANC counterparts, but also more radical in relation to their politics. Or perhaps, the latter was just the way I experienced things, because I was the nearest white around. But rightly, or wrongly, I seemed to detect that there was always some element of fairly unbending conservatism as a basic thrust - in relation to culture, tradition and philosophy.

Dlamini distinguishes between what he calls "reflective nostalgia" which is "essentially a revelation that "longing and critical thinking are not opposed to each other, because affective memories do not absolve one from compassion, judgement or critical reflection" - and "native nostalgia".

Then what would "native nostalgia" be? It is, according to Dlamini, a "modest contribition to continuing attempts to rescue South African history and the telling of it from what ... has [been] correctly identified as the distorting master narrative of black dispossession that dominates the historiography of the struggle".

This "master narrative" wants us to believe that all black people experienced apartheid in the same way. That they all suffered in the same way and that they all, in some way, fought against apartheid - and in the same way. But of course, this is patently untrue. It is "Native nostalgia" and it is extraordinarily dangerous, because what it does is to create a world view shorn of difference, or of nuance or of challenge, other than that which it has defined and circumscribed.

It is this nostalgia which can produce the statements "we blacks believe" or "we blacks understand" or "we blacks prefer". The truth is far from this, because of the sheer diversity,complexity and nuance which is available in any culture or group.

But the tragedy is, that once you have defined the world as such, and once you have convinced enough people the the world really is like that, it becomes something quite close to heresy to suggest anything different.

I used to listen, seriously and intently to my black conciousness students telling me that "Black is beautiful". And of course, I could see the obvious importance of that view. When all you have ever heard, throughout your life, is that white is beautiful and Black is second-class and undesirable, the assertion that "Black is beautiful" is indeed a liberating one. It took a certain sophistication and intellectual agility to move beyond that assertion - and many of my students appeared not to be able to make that leap - not during the years that I was with them, anyway.

But they were always stymied and extraordinarily irritated by me when I asked them the question "is Lucas Mangope beautiful?" (Mangope was a "Homeland" leader. A black puppet dictator, created by, financed by and protected by the apartheid state. He was a vicious "Uncle Tom"). Was this black beautiful?, I would ask.

Naturally, it was not easy for them to answer yes. But they also did not want to answer no. And the reason behind that was that then their whole ediface started to become unstable. Steve Biko had a brilliant answer. He called the Mangopes of the world "non-white", cleverly co-opting the terminology of the apartheid state for his own purposes. But Biko was neither nostalgic, nor sentimental. He also happened to be one of the greatest brains South Africa has ever produced. He saw the problem of making all people one thing. Even all in one particular group, one thing. It is, simply, not possible.

So, Jacob Dlamini's anxiety, to my mind, is spot on. Nostalgia of the type he describes, has the effect of seriously objectifying people, and treating them as a same-thinking, same-feeling blob.

The truth is, they are not. It is a critical mistake to see them as such. However to take the other path, one would be forced to give up some of the monochrome view of the universe which has been developed so lovingly and so relentlessly, over the years.

Yesterday in Mosselbay, with a darkie

My work colleague is beautiful. She has one hell of a body. She wears high heels that require the equivalent of tightrope-walking skills. She dresses like a model and shops to calm her nerves. She has long, LONG dreadlocks - natural ones; she boasts well manicured nails. She gets up at five in the morning to start her beauty routine. She eats like a horse and never seems to put on weight. And, oh yes, did I mention she is black? No? Well, she is.

I see the way men look at her. They pause, when she walks into the room. Their eyes tear her clothes off of her. They find themselves lingering over her lips, her boobs, her crotch, her bum, her legs. They follow her around the room. And, because we appear to be together, they sometimes stare ruefully at me. Normal behaviour, I would imagine.

But in Mosselbay, I also saw something else, which she pointed out to me. We went to the restaurant in the hotel we were staying in, for supper. As she entered, men and women looked up, and kept on looking. Ah yes. This wasn't lust, it was unfamiliarity. It was something just this side of alarm. Because then I noticed - which she of course had noticed in a glance - that the room was entirely white.

Then I get glared at. I glare back and they back down. But only after some point has been made. Some strange point which they are making. Only after they have maintained the hostility for just a millisecond, do I get the point.

You see, apparently, in Mosselbay she would have to be my whore. So unlikely is it, that a man of my age and a beautiful black woman could just be enjoying an evening together.

The same old story

So, a naked hairy white man enters the steam room at the Morningside Gym in upmarket Johannesburg. He greets me. Unusual! Not what one has come to expect in Cairp Tahn, but anyway. So far so good.

His opening remark is something like this. "They", he says, gesturing in the general direction of the sound coming from the television outside, "They are kicking out those counsellors in Mapumalanga (sic!) just to replace them with more corrupt counsellors". I keep quiet. I think Oh God! What did I do? Why was I born? And I wish I was dead - all of these simultaneously.

But he continues. "Its bladdy disgusting! It was never like this before!" Now this is where I made my mistake. I engaged. I said "Pretty much the same as the previous government." - a fatal error. He reluctantly conceded the point, however "it was done with more subtlety", he said - as though that made it OK! "There were never any of these service delivery strikes before", he averred. "No", I said, "because the previous government just shot protesters dead!"

He agreed, albeit reluctantly. But then he went on, musing on the possibility that perhaps "they" need a bit more heavy-handedness than they are getting at the moment. "Oh?" I said, "like shooting them dead?"

He went on. "They" burn their buildings. "They" don't appreciate anything that gets given to them. "They" mess everything up. By this stage I just kept quiet. It seems nothing changes. I wanted to ask him if he would be having the same conversation if I happened to be black. I wanted to ask him why the buildings "they" were destroying were "theirs" and not "ours"? I wanted to ask him if he would have preferred an all-out racial war, rather than a negotiated solution which guaranteed that the former oppressor lost nothing. But I didn't. I just dripped quietly and said nothing.

And as it happens, that day was also when the Rector of the Free State, Jonathan Jansen withdrew charges against the white students who, last year, humiliated workers at the Reitz residence of that University - apparently urinating on meat and then forcing the black workers to eat it on video. He did so "in the spirit of reconciliation". He then went further by inviting the offending students to complete their studies at the university. Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu immediately congratulated him on his action? I think he was wrong to do so.

When a black person sees, in their mind's eye, a white student urinating on food and forcing an older black woman to eat it, be under no illusion, that incident is not seen as isolated. It is seen as just another act of brutality and humiliation, which has centuries of history as a precursor. And it awakens all of that. Every act of racist brutality. Every act of humiliation. Every pain and all the suffering caused by apartheid. It is not just an isolated event. And it will not do to say, "Oh, we need to forgive!" because it is blacks apparently, who need to do the forgiving, and whites can just go on humiliating, with impunity. It will not do!

Besides anything else, you can't forgive on someone else's behalf.

Return to Gay Eden

For the first time in a very, very, very, long time, I went to what was known in the 1970’s and 1980’s as a “Gay Bar” on Friday night. (I suppose, more correctly, it would be true to say that I went to a Gay Bar on Friday night that fairly closely approximates what I had experienced in the 1970’s and 1980’s). It was the Amsterdam Bar in Cobern Street, in the Cairp Tahn City centre.

Johannesburg in the 1970’s was a fairly difficult place for a Gay teenager to explore sexual orientation. Mostly because there was so little to explore! One heard whisperings of a bar which operated in Hillbrow, called the Butterfly Bar, in the Harrison Reef Hotel (I think by my time, it had been renamed the Skyline Bar). Entering the Amsterdam Bar, the other night made me remember my first experience of the Skyline Bar.

Of course, we are talking here from the hindsight and not inconsiderable experience of some 35 years or so – so I didn’t walk around the block for 15 times, too scared to go in. I wasn’t sweating profusely and wondering whether or not my paisley shirt with fashionably long collar and skin tight light green bellbottoms with a big zip in the front would have the desired impact. No, I just parked outside and went in, taking in the strange drapery on the outside of the building and the gold angel-hair curtain one needed to go through to get inside.

The moment I stepped inside, memories came flooding back to me. Because here, like so many other places I experience in Cairp Tahn, was like walking into a time warp. I remembered the absolute relief I first felt, when entering the Butterfly Bar, all those years ago. To see gay men, in numbers – not just isolated camp queens walking down a street every now again – but clumps of them, gaggles of them sitting around tables, smoking and drinking, laughing carelessly, being at home with themselves. That was a huge and fabulous relief.

The person I went with was a school friend and a regular at the bar. I was jealous of how many people he knew. He waved to this one over there. Told me conspiratorially that that one over on the other side of the bar was trying to “camp him up”. Kissed (dear God, that was a revelation and a half!) another one, who was mincing around in extremely tight pants which showed off every asset he had below his naked belly button.

I was jealous of my friend but extremely relieved for myself. Because at last, after what seemed like years (all 18 of them!) in the wilderness, I had come to a place which I could call my erotic home. And believe me, never a Saturday night would go by, after that, without me being there for at least some portion of it.

The Anaconda Bar, which was, as I remember it, near the Drill Hall, was a far seedier place – and in many ways more outrightly sexual. There was Disco music playing extremely loudly. The place was very dark. The corners all occupied with writhing couples in various states of undress. There was even an outside area where you could get a breath of smokeless air every now and again. It only opened late in the evening, which meant that the crowd would start at the Butterfly Bar and then migrate to the Anaconda.

It was, naturally under Apartheid, a very white world. Yes, it was occasionally raided by the police and these raids were spoken about in hushed tones (as several businessmen blanched and then hastily swallowed their drinks and fled). But generally, it was a fairly safe environment. Or at least, that was my experience of it.

Stepping into the Amsterdam Bar the other night, made me feel like I was back in Hillbrow in the late 1970s for all sorts of reasons. Firstly, the clientele is almost totally white. Secondly, no-one seems to find that fact in any way strange! Thirdly, and this was something I have to say I really enjoyed, there is a real sexual mix of people – I am talking of within the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered and (possibly even the Intersex community).

There were a good couple of Drag queens there; Lesbians of various shapes and forms; Leather boys; Fems; Butch boys; Muscle boys – you name it, they were there. Missing were the black boys and girls. And the Coloured boys and girls. And that is a strange, but not untypical thing, in this racially divided city in which I live.

I was told by a much younger nephew, many years ago, that I was really out of date, when I asked airily one day, what had happened to all the gay bars. He said that it was almost as though the distinction had fallen away and that no-one cared anymore whether you were gay or straight. So everyone went everywhere and you danced with who you wanted to dance with. And you kissed whoever you wanted to kiss. I was astonished by this and listened in be-wonderment. How the world has changed, I thought!

Well, I am not sure what clubs or bars he went to, but I would think what he was describing has never really become the norm. Homophobia continues everywhere. And there remains a real need for spaces where gay and lesbian people can just get on with what they do naturally, without having to constantly justify themselves to the hetero-dominant universe. I think we need our own spaces, just like the black management forum needs theirs. And what we do in those spaces has bugger–all to do with anyone else.

Trans-racial togetherness

After much to-ing and fro-ing we were invited to attend what was described as a “trans-cultural” adoption group yesterday. Now, what might a “trans-cultural adoption group” be, you ask me?

Well, this particular group was one where white single mothers, who have adopted black children have got together on a monthly basis – for reasons of support, I suppose. I would have called that a trans-racial adoption group. The fact that they call it a trans-cultural adoption group is cause, I would say, for some concern. It goes back to the substantive matter of whether or not culture is racially defined. This, after all, was one of the fundamental tenets of apartheid ideology – that we are all racially and culturally separate-able and circumscribable. It then took it further. It said that culture was something fixed for all time. It was something which was defined primarily by skin colour, and once defined, it was something one could not escape.

Now, to assume that the culture of the children in this group - because they happen to have black skins - is of a different culture to the parents with white skins, to my mind, is highly problematic. There was even some casual discussion, in the group of nodding in the direction of the “culture” of a particular child. So, I heard that one child’s biological background was Zulu. I wonder what, in reality that is going to mean for the child? Lessons in Zulu dancing? I discovered, when I did a DNA test of myself, that I had Croatian roots - what on earth does that mean in my life, other than vague curiosity?

We were invited to the group somewhat curiously, being neither single nor mothers, you understand. We went, because we feel it is in some way important for our children to understand that they are not alone in the world – that there are other families like ours. But the problem is, what happens when there are some fundamental discordances relating to values? Is that something we want them to be exposed to as well?

As it was, the leader of the group revealed that there was some issue about us being a same-sex couple. Apparently there was some discussion in the group about having men in the group, because there was a lack of male role-models. When our names came up, apparently, one comment was “but do we really want two gay men in the group?” Again, it is really a question of values. Of course, in the real world, our children are going to need to realize that not everyone is accepting of gay men parenting children (trans-racial or not). But do we want to belong to a group where some of the parents are not completely affirming?

It’s difficult. This is, after all, Cairp Tahn. This is one of the most racially divided spots on the African continent. So, there is some sense in taking what is on offer. But does that mean that values need to be compromised as well? I really don’t know. I suppose I also have some missionary zeal left in me, which means that I still feel constrained to convert the infidel, but does one do that in the context of one’s children? That is a question which we will be considering in the next while, for sure.

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.

Our Canadian Refugee

A friend of mine, whom I visited yesterday in Johannesburg wondered why on earth there was so much publicity, here, around Brandon Huntley – the 31 year old “crime refugee”, who has somehow managed the Refugee board in Canada to believe his ludicrous stories about being repeatedly and violently attacked by black South Africans. I think the reason is simple.

No-one is going to claim that there is no violence in our society. No-one is going to claim that there is no racism in our society. And no-one is immune from either of those. And, I suppose, there is no comparison between Canada and South Africa in that regard. But the issue is this. We have come through an extremely violent history. An extreme, one-sidedly racist, violent history. And that violent racism was honed to perfection, not by black people, but by whites. It cannot be a surprise – not even to Canadians – that there are consequences to that history.

And the thing is, the transfer of power from a violent, racist minority, to the remarkably democratic majority has been unbelievably peaceful. That has been the reality for white South Africans. By and large, white people are still living in luxury; they still have access to the best education; they still have jobs, and salaries and cars and bank accounts. That is the reality.

So, to base one’s claim on a fiction, is not only outrageous, it is profoundly disingenuous and extremely disturbing. That is why his case has evoked such anger. (Of course, those people who have actually been criminalised or attacked have come out in support – but they would be extremely unwise to see this man as their mouthpiece.)

After first trying to get citizenship through marriage, his next alternative was to paint himself as a victim. But he does so with no regard for anything but his own wellbeing and his own extremely selfish needs and wants.

There is an interesting article in today’s “Star” newspaper, where social historian Patric Tariq Mellet, who apparently shares common ancestry with Huntley, says that both he and Huntley descend from a woman of colour – Francina van der Kaap. She was great-great grandmother to both of them.

And so it is for most of us so called “white” South Africans. It is certainly the case for me and my family, and I tried to capture some of that sort of story in my recent novel. We all share a common history. We all share a common heritage. It is not something from which any of us can easily escape. Rather than trying to escape it, surely the challenge is to make our future safe and secure for everyone? Democracy, and the long struggle which that entailed, has made that future a real possibility.

My novel:
Remittance Man by Michael Worsnip, UKZN press, Pietermaritzburg, 2007

Poor, set-upon white boy gets asylum in Canada

At the same time that the End Conscription Campaign is celebrating its 25th anniversary, a South African man has been granted refugee status by Canada's immigration and refugee board, which apparently found "clear and convincing proof" he was persecuted for being white.

The Board’s panel chair, William Davis said in the decision that Brandon Huntley (31), "would stand out like a 'sore thumb' due to his colour in any part of the country". Davis found Huntley "was a victim because of his race rather than a victim of criminality". Davis said he found Huntley a credible witness as his story was consistent and "plausible". Lara Kaplan – another White South African (and the sister of his lawyer) whom he used as a witness, apparently enhanced and supported his claims that "persecution of white South Africans by African South Africans (is) a common event today in South Africa". Apparently Huntley also said he had been able to find employment only because of family connections. He was otherwise prohibited from finding work by the country's affirmative action policies.

Huntley, who grew up in Mowbray, said he had been attacked seven times and stabbed four times "by African South Africans" between 1991 and 2003. Huntley told the tribunal he had been called "a white dog" and "a settler" when attacked. He had not bothered to report any of the attacks to the police because "the majority of them are South Africans and he did not trust them".

I have to tell you, I find this exceedingly difficult to believe. Mowbray is hardly the Wild West. Mowbray is a fairly sedate, fairly quiet little middle class suburb, not 10 minutes from where I live. To get himself attacked by “African South Africans” seven times and stabbed 4 times, he must either have been utterly provocative, extraordinarily stupid, or he dealt in drugs. There can be no other explanation for it. Because I have lived 52 years in this country and never – not once – have I ever been attacked, assaulted, or called racist terms by any “African South African” – aka black. Furthermore, I have been working in a GOVERNMENT job, as a white South African, for the past 11 years. And in my present job, I am surrounded by white South Africans - far too many of them proportionately - who are also working in a government job.

Oh, there could be another possibility, of course. Brandon Huntley, (31) formerly of Mowbray, could also be a disgusting, self-serving liar. That is also a possibility. And, I want to say, a much stronger possibility than his being a poor little set-upon white boy, whom horrible racist blacks want to tear limb from limb and persecute.

I do sincerely hope that this opens the gates for other “non African, South Africans” (is that what they are calling themselves?) - aka white people, like Huntley to pack their bags and leave. Personally, I am deeply ashamed to be even vaguely racially associated with his ilk. He certainly does not speak for me. It’s just a crying pity that he speaks for so many other deluded, ungrateful, revolting leeches like himself. Canada is very welcome to have him. I hope he never returns here, for any reason. I hope he is never allowed to – but I know that won’t happen.

But the really disturbing thing about the whole matter is not that we have racist whites in South Africa - because that is the basis for all of this. What is really disturbing is the Canadians! What the hell are they thinking? And who are the idiots who sit on this board? And what does the Canadian government have to say about this complete and utter nonsense?

District 9 and why I liked it

Some of the write-ups have indicated that District 9 is, in an underlying kind of way, about apartheid. And I suppose, yes, shunting people off into sealed areas and treating them like animals is a little bit of what apartheid was about. But having just seen the movie, I think that is an extremely facile interpretation.

A spaceship hovers above Johannesburg. After a while, when the initial fascination wears off, the authorities decide the vessel should be boarded. What they discover there is hundreds of malnourished aliens, which look a little like Parktown Prawns (aka Libanisidus Vittatus) - on speed.

Now for those who don’t know these creatures (Parktown Prawns) – if you have lived in certain areas of Johannesburg, where they abound – you would know that living with them is a real trial. They are extremely ugly. They appear when you least expect them, and if you challenge them, they have a tendency to squirt a dark blue liquid all over the place and jump at you. No-one would want to keep them as a pet. There seems to be a fairly clear allusion to these in the movie, because the alien creatures are called, dismissively, “Prawns”.

The movie takes us into the relationship between humans and these aliens some way down the road. The “Prawns” have all been herded up and kept in compound squatter camps. There is a band of Nigerians who have seen the chance for making serious money in the supply of contraband. And there are the authorities, who, because of popular demand, have decided to evict the “Prawns” to a location further away from the city.

The human population is united across all sectors – race, gender, class. They want them removed. There are one or two slight impediments – such as “rights” which the aliens are seen to have, by the international community. So, there are a range of token nods in the direction of these “rights” but the general idea is clear. Come Hell or High Water – they will be removed.

The story is fairly blood-spattered and scattered with a range of villains. The sound effects, and the camera work spectacular. But there is one aspect which is really surprising. The aliens start to take on a significantly more humane character than their human “hosts”. Greed is the only determinant with the humans. They will stop at nothing to satisfy that greed. And the veneer of “rights” is just token adherence to the notion of ethics, rather than anything in any way substantial.

The lead character is nothing more than a naive and useful idiot, who has no idea that he is being used. The lead aliens don’t really have much personality – because their means of communication is a series of clicks and grunts, which makes engagement, for the audience at least, rather difficult. But the point is abundantly clear. The humans recognise none of their abilities. The aliens are dependent on human provision entirely. And that dependency creates a relationship of extreme and mostly one-sided violence on the part of the humans. They have no interest in the well being of the aliens. They only have interest in their own well-being. And these are degrees of exploitation.

The Nigerians (who also live in what is called a “camp”), in close proximity to the aliens, are the first level of exploitation. They believe that actually eating aliens will give them power. There are other more systematic, more clinical attempts at exploitation going elsewhere – but the theme is the same. It is simply a matter of level and degree.

And that is what I liked so much about the film. The violence is simply the outward symptom of an inner, almost psychotic impulse to dominate, rape and pillage. And when the whole scheme starts to come apart at the seams, then the media is there to lie and to spin and to distort reality. I think it is a really good movie. Go and see it!

Back to school

In Cape Town, in a way I had never understood it to be in Johannesburg (or even, for that matter Pietermaritzburg), access to resources depends pretty much entirely on where you live. So, when we decided to move to Cape Town, a friend implored me to only consider buying in the Southern Suburbs. Her reason was straightforward. “That is where the best schools are”, she said.

So, being the compliant type that I am, I obeyed. And subsequently, we spent a few months of laast year looking for an appropriate school for our oldest child. Now, yes, it is true, our circumstances are not the usual. We are a same-sexed, white couple, with two adopted black children. And most of the time, life is just as ordinary and as straightforward as anyone could want it to be. But sometimes, one is taken aback by how different, apparently, other people’s reality is. Our first interview with a prospective school principal was a case in point.

She is a homely looking, somewhat pleased with herself white woman, with very clear understandings of what a teacher is and what a parent is. Things have changed somewhat from our first encounter, but I could not help feeling vaguely patronised, then. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the situation. It was difficult to tell.

Now understand, this interview process is, by its very nature, a lopsided one. She is in a position of some considerable power. And you, the parent, are trying to put your best face forward, because you want your child to have access to the school, which, from all accounts, is one of the “good” ones.

So, when she sits you down, folds her arms and says “Look, I’m a very straightforward person. How long have you two been together?” you might be pardoned for wondering whether she would ask a heterosexual couple the same question. You may be pardoned, too, if you bit a large hole in your tongue and refrained from asking her that question, which would certainly be what she deserved. The problem is, she is in a position of some considerable power in this situation, and you are not. So you sit there like a deer in the headlights and meekly say you have been together nine years, for what it is worth.

Then you are then told that your child would not be allowed dreadlocks, if he were to be accepted at her school. You are given a bogus anthropology lesson on the “meanings” of various styles of black hair. They were so preposterous and bizarre, that I can’t even remember them, but what they pointed to was a mindset which remained, shall we say, underexposed?

This was followed, some time afterwards, by an orientation session with all the parents and children, she started by addressing the children. “Let me tell you”, she said, “this is a safe place. And the teachers are going to be just like your mummies. You will get to love them, and they will get to love you, just like your mummies love you”.

Now there is nothing essentially wrong with this. The sentiment is obviously well intended. But she hasn’t thought a centimetre beyond what is usual. Our child doesn’t have a “mummie”. (And, I bet sitting in the audience, our child wasn’t the only one without a “mummie”. ) Furthermore, “Mummies” sometimes don’t love their children. “Mummies” sometimes run off with others and leave their children with someone else. That isn’t something gay, or straight, it is just the way the world sometimes works.

In our search, we also went to another school – a much more “free-spirited” school – where the same-sex thing was seemingly of no consequence. But the prospective teacher, with both parents and the child in the room starts saying “Oh, but he doesn’t have parents, does he?”

I don’t despair. I have no doubt that they are all good and kind people. But isn’t it weird that in this day and age, that this kind of thinking is probably the norm?

It is, essentially, about the dominance of one particular world view over everything else. It is there when whites do it to blacks. It is there when blacks do it to whites. It is there when straights do it to gays and when gays do it to straights.

The problem is, it is mostly unchallenged and unchecked. It is insidious. It gets passed on down the generational line. And it is reinforced, fed and nurtured in the school environment, unless something is actively done to challenge it.

Talking of which - the school my child now goes to has a "diversity group". Very nice. My partner sent them an email, enthusiastic and willing. We never got any reply.

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!

A strange sense of business

Now, the place I love to stay in Plettenberg Bay is a B&B called - somewhat alarmingly - "Sunshowers". It is on the lagoon and there is one room - room 5 - which has this utterly amazing view. Besides which, it is a HUGE room, tastefully furnished and wonderfully comfortable.

Over the many times I have been coming here, there has been a range of women who seem to run the place. Straightfoward, ordinary types. Not unpleasant. In fact, I have to say, very sweet and accommodating. I usually come with a black work colleague. Seeing I found the place, I have made it clear, that when I am in town, I get room 5. There has been grudging acceptance of this. However, my colleague also has her preferences, within the limited choices of the 5 suites that there are. So, she asked for another particular room.

Now, since coming here, and chatting with the people who run the place, we heard about the owners, who apparently, live on a farm in the Free State and don't seem to take a huge amount of interest in the place, leaving the people who run it to do just that. They weren't complaining at all, and as I said, the place is really wonderful. Well run, immaculately clean, efficient and very easy to return to.

So tonight, for the first time, we met the owner. She is a kind of stick-thin woman (I would say in her early thirties). She has that kind of "modern" look about her. Somewhat grungy - you know the type - layers of odd clothing - too tight fur collared jacket buttoned once in the middle, tie-dyed blond hair looking badly cut. Boots.

She greeted us at the door and told my colleague, immediately, that she was aware that she didn't like the particular room that she was going to put her in, "but I am the owner" she said, as though that settled the matter, "and I am staying in the room you usually stay in - so you have to have this other room".

Of course my colleague was disappointed, but accepted it, because it is, after all, only for one night. But I started to think the thing through. How absolutely weird! What extraordinarily peculiar business practise! Was it the same as me demanding to have room 5?

Well, no. It isn't. Both of us are guests, for goodness sake. Surely, the issue is that both of us should be made as happy as we possibly can be? How come I was being given the best room in the place and she the worst? Could it possibly be ... a little bit of racism? Just a touch, maybe?

Well, it is hard to tell, and impossible to prove - and naturally will be denied. But it is a question I have in my mind.

Low GI Hamburgers- vegetarian or otherwise

We went, last night, to the Five Flies Restaurant, in Keerom Street, in the city Centre. They have being doing this birthday celebration thing, where prices are taken back 10 years - so your whole 3 course meal costs under R100 - which is fairly amazing. (You need to book weeks in advance, and the restaurant is completely full).

The place has a slightly snooty reputation and, being opposite the High Court and near the financial district of Cape Town, is obviously well positioned.

The dishes were a little sparse, but adequate and the clientele the usual "Cairp Tahn" fare of 99.5% white and 0.5% coloured. Black Africans - 0%

The waitrons were ALL white, except for the Maitre D - who was black, but with a pronounced former model C (read white) school accent. In this day and age, I think this is utterly unacceptable. How is it possible that an institution like this, situated where it is, is staffed ONLY by white waitrons?

Likewise, I had tea the other day with an ex colleague from Gauteng, in a place called Bravura in Greenpoint. (It used to be Melissa's, but now seems to have changed hands). Again, exactly the same thing. ONLY white waitrons! I had brought along some hand painted Kelp Vuvuzelas to show my friend. She asked one of the waitors what he thought of them. He had never heard of a Vuvuzela, in the first place, and had no idea what they might be used for, in the second. My friend was so astonished that after the tea, she asked a second waiter whether he knew what a Vuvuzela was. He not only had never head of one, but couldn't even pronounce the word!

These are the kind of goons given preferential racial employment within spitting distance of the Greenpoint stadium - which is one of the venues where the 2010 FIFA World Cup is going to be played for the first time on African soil, in less then a year's time! This means, basically, that they have never opened a newspaper, and never even so much as glanced at a soccer match on television. Because, of course, in South Africa, Soccer is regarded as a black sport and Rugby a white sport and ne'er the twain shall meet.

Of course, there is a history to this all. The apartheid state funded and supported Rugby and tried to keep black people out of it. And soccer, which became the sport black people followed and played, was naturally completely inadequately resourced. But one would not expect the Greenpoint white waitron goons to know this. I would not be surprised if they had never heard of apartheid!

Several of the people at my table at Five Flies ordered the Lamb Hamburger, and were very pleased with it. The potato chips left a bit to be desired, but the Hamburger itself was very good.

Here is a really good recipe for a low GI healthy hamburger patty (veg or otherwise). It's from the amazing Eating for sustained energy 1, by Gabi Steenkamp and Liesbet Delport - works really well and is fabulous. You need to do the BBQ sauce as well to get all the GI values right -The end product is really great!

Hamburger patties and BBQ sauce

1 x 410 g tin brown or sugar beans drained
1T vinegar
1T Worcester Sauce
½ t crushed garlic
200g ostrich mince or 1 cup dry soya mince reconstituted
1 medium onion finely chopped
1 slice brown bread crumbed
1 cup oat bran
1t beef stock powder
1t Marmite
2 t dried mixed herbs
1t dry parsley
Black pepper
1t salt
1 egg

BBQ sauce
1 onion, chopped
1 large apple, finely grated
¼ t crushed garlic
1 t olive oil
4T tomato sauce
1 tomato finely chopped
½ cup water
4t brown sugar
2t Worcester sauce
1t salt
2t mustard

Process together beans, vinegar, Worcester Sauce and garlic. Add mince, onion, herbs, breadcrumbs, oatbran, beef stock, pepper and egg and mix lightly to a firm consistency. Form into meatballs. Fry in olive oil at a fairly low heat.

BBQ sauce

Saute onion and garlic in the oil until transparent. Add the rest of the ingredients and simmer for 5 minutes