South Africa's Stain

To say racism is a uniquely South African malaise would be a lie.


I've experienced racism in many forms, particularly growing up. One of my favourite childhood memories among many that involved Dadonator piling us into the car for impromptu road-trips saw us arrive in a small town somewhere along South Africa's back-roads.

It might have been Standerton, but I could be horribly mistaken, and wouldn't want to give Standerton a bad name. We arrived in the town rather late that night, in either a Ford Sierra or a Sapphire (I could tell you which if I knew how old I was at the time, but I don't remember). My dad, Dadonator - with his fair skin, sandy hair and green eyes - went through the front entrance of a hotel to sort out overnight accommodation (we were the adventuring type of family, not one for reservations, but more on that in another post). After paying for the room, my dad proceeded to bring my mom and I in, brother on his arm, asleep. Upon seeing my raven-haired mom, and my mocha-coloured me, The Inn-Keeper hurriedly ushered us back out of the front entrance and into our car.

Now, initially, this had gotten my pre-teen blood boiling, despite having had very little understanding of the recently abolished Apartheid system and the light breezes of change yet to come. But then I remembered, on the same trip, my mom being sent into cafés and taverns in the Transkei and Ciskei to ask for directions because my dad feared his pigmentation would not be met with favourably. The Inn-Keeper then leant in through the driver's window of the Sierra/Sapphire and whispered to Dadonator "pull the car around back, I'll let you in there".

It was somewhat of an adventure. A breakfast buffet was sent up to our room, so as not to disturb the other guests with our brownness upon a chance sighting, despite us checking out of the hotel just before the sun rose. We all have anecdotal stories of our country in her former veil. And yes, the division sown by the regime of the time did much to strengthen our already entrenched, deeply divided and fractured racial and cultural partiality.

The deep racism we bear is not the result of Apartheid. Apartheid just made it worse. Why is it that we South Africans hate each other so much? We encounter it daily. It's as simple as a colleague questioning my African-ness. As simple as brown people from the western coastal regions of South Africa asking why the darker portions of the population traversed the Fish River in the first place. It comes to the fore in our comments about refugees, or letting the word k****r slip forth from our mouths and fingers.

Let me just briefly express how much I hate that word. Not for its racial connotations. Not for its supposed similarity to calling an African-American person a negro, nigger or coloured. But because of its original meaning. Its Arabic root. Unbeliever. Denier of God. Infidel. Hider of the truth. Maker of iniquity. Those preceding N-words and the C-word strangely roll off my tongue easily, particularly when I'm rapping along to Jay-Z or Dr Dre. But I can't bring myself to calling another human being a k****r. See? I can't even type it, I'm so ashamed of its existence.

Now, we look at ourselves and say "that's not me! I'd never say that, even in anger". Watch your racist self when you hear a black reporter or politician pronouncing the word "ceremony" as ce-REM-ony or "circumstances" as cir-CUM-stances. And yet, when Victor Matfield rapes the English language five ways till Sunday, we look at him, fawn and say "shame, he's trying. It's his second-language". English is, for the large part, the second-language of most South Africans. Wait, what's that? "But reporters, anchors and politicians have a responsibility to speak correctly. It's their job". Yes, it's Victor's job too. This isn't about Victor. This is about our reaction to just hearing someone's voice on the other end of the telephone line and thinking "oh, God" with a sigh.

We judge far too easily. And it's that deep-seated, entrenched racism that's holding us back. We are all South Africans. Different, sure. With common threads? Maybe, but sometimes they're tenuous at best.

We forget that the world looks to us with pride that we were able to negotiate a complete regime change without a civil war. Was there bloodshed? Of course! A mass exodus of panicked South Africans packing for Perth? Yes! Did we go to war? Were those stocks of tinned food put to good use? Has the country truly gone to the dogs?

I hope you answer that last question with a resounding "No" and are able to look at yourself and say "I am a racist. But I'm going to change that". Our racism is an inherent disease, and no amount of national discourse, embargoing of words, censorship of tongues or hugs and handshakes and pledges of unity is going to change that.

Make the change in yourself. Then teach your kids. Because it breaks my heart when I hear my daughter say "you know my best friend Tshepiso at school, the black girl?" She's four. Come on, South Africa, we're better than that.