Desperate times, desperate protesters

I was in tears today as I watched the TV coverage and looked at these images of today’s ANC Youth League demonstration outside Luthuli House in Johannesburg. The visuals of attacks on media, riot police, water cannons and stun grenades are so reminiscent of the very bad old days that I am filled with despair.

For some time I have been seriously concerned about the political and economic future of the country that I love. I am no politician, nor am I an economist, but as an ordinary South African citizen it is plain to me that the country is becoming increasingly divided as our “leaders” either ignore or exacerbate the problem.

It is undeniable that there are massive social problems that we need to address as a nation. If I, as a middle class and comparatively privileged South African, have reached the end of my financial and emotional tethers; how much worse must it be for the truly poor and disenfranchised? We are all the victims of the poor service delivery. We are all victims of the ever-increasing crime. And unfortunately, we can’t all move to the supposedly greener grass of “developed” nations.

So as despicable as I often find Malema and his methods, I have to concede that he does represent a large number of South Africans. As much as I may disagree with his methods, I must recognise that the problems he seeks to address are legitimate.

But Malema himself does not scare me. To my mind, he is a shrewd and greedy man who has been lucky enough to make a space for himself in a country beset by division. It is his supporters, who appear willing to engage in whatever violent  action occurs to them when the mob mentality hits, that truly frighten me. Not because of their tactics – which I think we can all agree are morally reprehensible – but because, to me, they represent a people pushed to desperation. A people pushed to the very limits of poverty. A people unheeded by their president and government representatives. These are fellow South Africans so desperate to find an enemy that they are willing to turn on the party that spawned them. And people desperate for an enemy are dangerous.

Today’s demonstrations scared me more than the countless break-ins and crime, more than the seemingly endless upward spiral in the cost of living. They scared me because of the attitudes and desperation that they highlighted. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all is that a large part of me understands. While I could never condone violence against anyone, I have a tiny inkling of how it feels to believe that things are not getting better. I know what it is like to fear that they never will. I understand the hopelessness. I get it. I too am tired of feeling like – despite my best efforts – the realities of living in South Africa are engineered to keep me financially and emotionally fragile.

Looking into the eyes of these demonstrators, I can’t help but wonder what will happen when we truly reach the end of our collective rope. There is so much rage and hate, so much fear and desperation; that I am no longer confident that we can overcome the sins of the past. Or the sins of the present.

Like oil and water, I fear that South Africa’s many factions will never mix without an enormous amount of agitation. I fear that Malema will get his revolution. Because what other option has been left to the millions of South African’s struggling to endure an insufferable situation?

Is crime damaging my child? Cos its sure damaging me!

At about 5h00 this morning our house alarm went off. J got up to switch it off and make sure that everything was OK. As it turns out, everything was not OK.

Some nasty little frakker had broken into our home and stolen both our mobile phones and J’s MacBook. As soon as he realised that the stuff was gone, J charged out of the house and ran down the street to look for the scum and/or the private security company. In his underpants. Which would be funny if it wasn’t so downright scary.

I keep thinking about what would have happened if he Had found the guy. Would I be dealing with even more trauma right now? He didn’t find the culprit, but he did find one of the local security companies’ patrol cars. He notified them of the burglary and asked them to search the area for the guy, which they did. No luck though.

This is not the first time that this has happened, so we were prepared and familiar with the process that then started. About 15 minutes after the alarm, our security company arrived (with big guns) and searched the property to make sure that the criminal was no longer on the premises. They examined the criminal’s access point, took a statement and called the cops.

Standard procedure for our security company is to call after they receive an alarm signal to find out what the problem is. Because our phones were stolen, they were unable to reach us. So they called J’s mom and told her that our alarm had gone off and they couldn’t contact us or gain access to the property. I cannot imagine how scary it must have been to receive that phone call. Obviously, she freaked out and rushed straight over.

A while (about 3 hours) later the police arrived. With even bigger guns. They then searched the property, examined the site of the break in and took statements.

Thankfully, E slept through all of this and didn’t have to witness the parade of security personnel with large firearms. This time. He has been witness to this before though. More than once.

I hate guns. I hate the look of them. I hate what they do and I hate the fear that they inspire. I really hate that they seem to be a necessary evil. More than anything, I hate that when the men with big guns arrive, I feel safer. Most of all I hate the fact that guns, and the big guys in bullet-proof jackets that carry them, are a fundamental part of my son’s reality at only 3 years old.

I was one of Those parents. You know the ones that won’t even allow toy guns into their homes? But how do I maintain this ban on weaponry in the home, when E has seen men with the real deal tramping through my house in the early hours of the morning on more than one occasion? I don’t think I can, because weaponry in some form is becoming a part of our every-day lives. Like a friend said this morning, I can keep him away from the movies and video games. I can keep him away from the violent TV shows. But, short of drugging him when we have a ‘security incident’, I can’t keep him away from the harsh realities of life in South Africa. I am so angry about this.

It would appear that I’m angry about a lot of things.

While I’m extremely grateful that he is safe, I am angry with hubby for running out of the house and risking actually finding the guy. I am angry at our government and police for not making sure that I am safe in my own home. I am angry with myself for not being able to protect my son and for feeling so helpless. I am angry that that he has to grow up in a world where the bad guys can actually come into your home, take your stuff and get away with it. This sort of anger can’t be healthy to carry around.

More than that, I’m afraid. So very very afraid. Once the police left, J had to go out to get the phones sorted. I was too afraid to be left at home alone. I recognise that this is a slightly paranoid reaction, but the fact is that my sanctuary has been violated for the umpteenth time and I simply do not feel safe in it.

Each time we have a break in (and this is about the 5th time in the 2 and half years that we’ve been in this house) I feel less and less safe. I feel more stressed and paranoid. And I have no idea what to do to feel safe again.

My electric fence is not enough. My alarm system and private security company are not enough. My dog (who kept E company and slept through the experience) is not enough. The padlocks and burglar bars are not enough. What is? What do I have to do to sleep soundly at night?

Every time this happens, for at least a few weeks after the event, J and I have trouble sleeping and startle at every little sound. We just got E out of our bed and I have been so pleased about that. But I know from experience that for the next few weeks – perhaps months – I will want him in my room because I will be completely paranoid about someone breaking in, but coming through His room. I am constantly running through various possible scenarios and what I would do in each eventuality to ensure that my family and I stay safe. I am becoming increasingly distrustful and jaded. I am afraid to let my son out of my sight for even a moment. I obsessively check that doors are locked and the alarm is armed. Not that this seems to make any difference whatsoever.

I know that it was just stuff that was taken (well, that and all the IP and data stored on the devices) and, as is the norm in South Africa, we have had the usual stream of messages saying “At least no-one was harmed”, “At least you didn’t get held up/stabbed/shot/beaten” etc. I appreciate the sentiment and that people want to make us feel better. But I can’t help wondering and worrying about how many ‘free’ passes we get before someone Is hurt.

Besides, the fact is that I WAS harmed. The stress and emotional distress of having this happen on a regular basis is starting to take its toll on me. How is it that, as South Africans, we have become so good at down-playing the trauma of having someone invade and brutalize our personal space.

I’m really beginning to believe that this ongoing exposure to crime and the threat/fear of it becoming violent is causing me to experience some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Wikipedia sites the diagnostic symptoms for PTSD as:
“re-experiencing the original trauma(s) through flashbacks or nightmares, avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, and increased arousal – such as difficulty falling or staying asleep, anger, and hypervigilance. Formal diagnostic criteria require that the symptoms last more than one month and cause significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.” (http://tiny.cc/jycvp)

Pretty much all of those apply to how I live my life. I don’t think that I am naturally a paranoid person, but I do feel as though I am being forced to be. I have been told (by people older and wiser than me) that I get to choose my reaction to this situation and I believe that to be true, to a certain extent. But I also know that because it has happened so often, I feel incredibly dis-empowered so it is difficult to feel in control enough to choose a positive approach to the stress.

And if this is how I, as an adult react to crime, what sort of impact is it having on my 3 year old son? I don’t know the answer to this question, but the possible answers terrify me.

Of cultural mash-ups

Last week I wrote a post about race and cultural identity. The response was awesome and left me questioning why the issue of race is such a perennial favourite. Is SA just race obsessed? I haven’t travelled much – certainly not as much I would like – but I have the distinct impression that this obsession with race happens all over the world. But why? And will it always be this way? Surely, humanity will one day reach a point where we say “Screw it, we’re all people. Maybe the colour of my skin doesn’t matter all that much. Like the colour of my hair or eyes.” Because, lets face it, at best race is a boring dinner conversation and at worst a divisive force that keeps us apart and prevents understanding.

Because I’m a parent, I think it’s pretty natural that my next question is whether it will be like this for my son. And that Really got me thinking. Because in his three years on this earth, I have been unable to adequately explain or clarify for myself what my son actually is in terms of race or culture. My own race and cultural identity is difficult enough to define, but on a good day I can make some headway. For my husband, I think that it’s easier – not many people would dispute that he’s a pretty WASPy South African with some Germanic influences. But what does that make my son? Is he coloured because he has a coloured mother? Or does he follow in a long line of WASP males like his Dad?

The way that my husband and I look also makes it difficult to define our son. Is E a light skinned coloured kid, or a white kid with a really great tan? And is skin colour/hair curl/nose shape a reliable indicator in the first place? I know lots of Jewish people with curly hair and Greek people with great tans. So really, the physical indicators of race seem to be pretty meaningless.

The issue of E’s culture becomes even murkier when you consider the fact that, because of our different cultural backgrounds, my husband and I are in all likelihood creating a brand new culture. A mash-up, as it were. So are we creating a new and unique race/culture or is this just the way the world is going? As inter-cultural and -racial marriages happen with increasing frequency around the world, will we one day end up with one giant global cultural mash-up? I kinda hope so. Because when this happens, race and culture’s divisive abilities just fritter away. Its tough to hate <insert appropriate nationality here> when your great-grandfather hailed from that very country/religion/whatever.

At the same time, there is obviously something to be said for maintaining cultural identity. Knowing that there are other people out there who share your history and ideology provides a sense of identity and security. Each culture has great things to offer the world and it would be sad if these disappeared. Which I think happens.

Jason and I are very aware of the traditions and values that we pass onto our son. And yet there are things being lost along the way, simply because of the time and place in which we live. We don’t live in the predominantly white northern suburbs of Jason’s youth. Nor do we live in the coloured townships of mine. The suburb that we live in is an eclectic mix of religions, races, cultures and socio-economic groups, which is one of the reasons that we chose it. Unfortunately, this means that E is missing out on many of the ‘sights and sounds’ of his parents’ cultures and loses something in this. I suppose he will form his own reference points over the years. Will these be more generically South African or will they just be particular to our familial ‘mash-up’? And what will the effect of that be? I’m not sure. I wish I could answer these questions. I hope that his life experience will be richer because his parents come from different backgrounds, but I also worry that he will never have the sense of belonging that comes with fitting into a particular group.

Not that living in a single group community necessarily guarantees a sense of belonging. I should know. This has always been a problem for me. Growing up, I was obviously a little coloured girl living in the appropriate Group Areas Act-assigned suburb. My neighbours were coloured, as were my friends. But because of my parents’ particular backgrounds I spoke a little differently, my hair was a little too straight and light, my skin was too pale and my eyes too green. To compound it all I didn’t like the right music and was a little too into Nirvana and The Cure to garner true social acceptance. I was the odd one.

Then, as I was about to enter high school, government decreed that South Africa’s schools should be opened to all races and my parents dutifully made the financial adjustments necessary to send me to the closest ‘white’ Model C school. I was going to get the best education that they could possibly afford. This was both burden and blessing. I did, in fact, get a great education. And suddenly I was around kids who shared my tastes and viewpoint. Unfortunately, they were almost exclusively white. And being the coloured Goth-girl with almost all white friends was not a good thing to be. So my oddness became even more noticeable and I felt estranged from both groups.

My friends’ parents would still obsessively lock their doors when they gave me a ride home. My parents would never feel comfortable at the school PTA meetings and they certainly never formed relationships with my school friends’ parents. The fact that my friends were labelled at all is important. I had ‘school’ friends and ‘home’ friends. My ‘home’ friends had mothers and fathers who could pop in and chat to my parents. My ‘school’ friends’ parents dropped me off at the gate and high-tailed it out of ‘the hood’. So despite finding individuals who I could connect with, I was worse off in terms of general societal/community acceptance because, essentially, I didn’t belong to either one – straddling the fence of the South African racial divide. Which may explain my own obsession with this topic. (The tale of eventually marrying a white guy is a subject for a whole new post.)

I just hope that E doesn’t experience these sorts of issues, because I know from experience that it is hard for an angsty teen to deal with racial acceptance while working through all the usual hormonal and existential crises. Perhaps by the time he is a teen, there will be enough mash-ups for it not to matter. Maybe belonging nowhere means that you belong everywhere.

Of Race and Cultural Identity

As I get older, I am grateful for the peace that comes with having a few more years under your belt. Mostly, I am pleased about the dwindling relevance of the angst of my teens and early adulthood. I no longer feel the need to question who I am, why I am here and how I want to be be perceived. Yet some questions linger. Perhaps it is because my circumstances and cultural reference points today are so different to those of my youth and childhood, but one of the things that I just can’t seem to shake is the question of racial identity. I know that this is a minefield in South Africa, and probably everywhere else in the world. Its just not something that I have ever been able to answer adequately. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps the fact that there are no easily identifiable answers points to the fact that race really shouldn’t be an issue at all.

Over the years, I have had many discussions with family and friends about what it means to be coloured and what the coloured cultural identity is. I have had as many answers as discussions.

I have heard, “Of course there is a coloured culture! It can be difficult to explain, but coloured people can recognise each other.” Coloured koeksusters are different to Afrikaans koeksusters. Our roti is different to Indian roti. ‘Play-whites’, ‘twanging’, Jack Purcells and Bomber jackets – worn together. These things are (supposedly) ours alone. While I recognise that there is some truth in all of this, I also know that there are so many similarities between various South African cultures that the differences are almost completely cancelled out.

Some say that there is no specific coloured culture because coloured people are by nature so diverse. Our cultural references are tied not only to the languages we speak at home, but to which part of South Africa – or even a particular city – we grew up in. “Even the slang is different,” I’ve been told. These differences can be distilled down to the suburb and street you grew up in, the school you went to and the amount of curl your hair holds. Then again, isn’t this true of everyone regardless of colour? And yet we wouldn’t argue that there is no such thing as culture At All, would we?

I can’t count the number of times that I’ve been told that there is no such thing as a coloured person. Supporters of this theory are particularly fond of citing the fact that ‘coloured’ is a created race that exists only in South Africa and no other country. ‘We are all black,” I’m told. “Calling yourself coloured is to take on the false racial stereotyping of the apartheid regime that sought only to divide and conquer.” Again, I can see a kernel of truth in this. But I can’t ignore the fact that there Are coloured people in South Africa and we Are a separate racial group and this Has led to a whole new set of cultural references. Perhaps the way in which it happened was false and engineered, but it did happen and to deny that is to deny our history. Also, I must admit that this response makes me really uncomfortable because – to my mind – it is inflammatory in its implication that an entire group’s existence and experiences can be negated by saying, “It should never have happened, therefore the consequences do not exist.”

Being exposed to such diverse opinions since childhood has left me confused and unsure of what to believe a lot of the time. So its probably easy to understand why Chris van Wyk’s Shirley, Goodness and Mercy and Eggs to Lay and Chickens to Hatch had such an impact on me. Here, I am presented with literature that speaks not only to the human in me, but the South African and – undoubtedly – the coloured.

Van Wyk grew up in a time and place separated from my own youth by a few decades and a considerable distance. Yet I understand the picture that he paints of a Riverlea in the 60s and 70s, that goes beyond his proficiency with the written word or our common ground as South Africans. I recognise this place. I recognise the dog tied up in the back yard while children play in the street. I have tasted the somewhat bizarre combination of roast chicken, roasted potatoes and biryani served on special occasions. I close my eyes and can smell a multitude of curries being cooked in a dozen different houses as I walk up the street with my friends. What I will always think of as ‘the five o’clock smell’, because that is when most of the mothers came home and started the cooking. My jaw aches in sympathy at the horrific surprise of biting into an elachi seed cleverly disguised in a lamb curry. I know how to play kennekie. Perhaps there are white and black people who know these sights and smells as well as I do. And yet the special way in which they are combined, I am convinced, is particular to coloured people.

When I first heard of van Wyk upon the the release of his first memoir, Shirley, Goodness and Mercy; I went straight out and bought a copy of the book – just as I did with Eggs to Lay and Chickens to Hatch. Here was a man who grew up in a suburb not too far from my father’s home in Coronationville. A man who was what I had always looked for while growing up – a coloured literary role model. These books have meant a lot to me. They have connected me to a people from whom I have often felt disconnected in my later years. They have provided a sense of familiarity, recognition and comfort that I have rarely experienced in my years of reading books produced by Americans, Englishmen and even white South Africans.

And so I say thank you to Chris Van Wyk for answering a question that I have been asking for close to 30 years. Clearly there is a coloured cultural identity, for I share it with you, across time and space.

But I am still left wondering, “Is race really important and should it define us, colouring our interactions with each other?” I don’t know. Perhaps that’s a question for another book… If you know what that book is, let me know.