I am a white, female South African, born in the 1950s, within a working/middle-class family environment. This narrative focuses on two of my earliest and most significant experiences of apartheid.
1960s — A time of awareness
During my teenage years, I was deeply involved in the youth work of a local church in Cape Town. The minister of the church, and his family, exposed the congregation to ‘life in South Africa’ through sermons (the minister), and through a very vibrant youth club developed to respond to local neighbourhood needs. The political and social stance of the minister (who was later centrally involved in the Christian Institute of South Africa, and was banned in 1977) resulted in my being exposed to the ‘real’ South Africa: the reality of apartheid.
This was a time of life-changing awareness raising for me. Through the youth club activities, I became involved in visiting the poorest areas of the Cape, becoming aware that so many people (all of whom were black) lived in terrible poverty, and becoming painfully conscious of all the ‘whites-only’ signs – everywhere! I became aware through ‘seeing’, but also through becoming friends with black peers. My direct contact with my peers resulted in my becoming aware of their feelings of pain and anger at being treated as ‘less than human’. One of my most painful memories during this time relates to the stories I heard from other young people living in Woodstock. Many of them, classified as coloured in those days, were in families that had ‘some white, and some coloured’ members of the family. I saw how this shattered their family lives. I saw how they ached. I ached.
My response to all of this (and more), at the level of feelings, was … pain, and shame. My ‘white guilt’ began. Being who I am (reflecting my personal way of responding to difficult circumstances in my life), I responded to these feelings by trying to ‘make it better’, and by ‘fighting injustices’. I immediately looked for ways that I could ‘help’. Because I was steeped in a social gospel/liberation theology interpretation of Christianity at the time, my beliefs and values spurred me to get involved in fighting apartheid. I became involved in community projects (primarily relating to the terrible poverty referred to above), in local youth work, and in social justice campaigns.
During this period (the 1960s), through the contacts I made through the youth and community work, I was exposed to the influences of the civil rights movement in the United States. In particular, I was exposed to the teachings of Dr Martin Luther King. His dream made it possible for me to dream in South Africa. I was shattered when he was killed.
1970s — Moving from ‘helping’ to ‘solidarity’ in the context of Black Consciousness
As a white, working/middle-class person, my initial responses to my ‘raised awareness’ was to ‘help’, within a traditional, Christian ‘missionary’ framework. I started this decade by working for the newly formed Christian Institute of South Africa, and stayed there until it was banned, along with other Black Consciousness organizations, in October 1977.
This was a time of further exposure. I was privileged to have the opportunity to work with a variety of people and groups – from homeless people to senators and archbishops from around the world. This forced me to face my ‘class’ identity, in addition to my racial location highlighted in the previous decade. In order to survive and flourish in this inter-class environment, I was forced to see myself, and others, as ‘one’ … equal in every way. This paradigm shift was permanent. I can never see the world differently.
My life in the 1970s was characterized by being part of the Black Consciousness movement. This had a major impact on me, as a white woman in South Africa. My colleagues, almost all black, were key activists in the anti-apartheid movement that was growing in strength. They/we were all informed by Robert Sobukwe and Steve Biko’s perspectives on the South African struggle. This was a time of great personal pain yet meaning for me.
The pain related to the rejection I experienced, often, from the very people who loved me and whom I loved. They were clear: “We love you, but come the day that we have to take up arms, you are not safe”. I had to learn to ‘not take it personally’ … to understand the bigger picture … to accept that I was an unwitting part of apartheid. I was black (I was told by many), but I was white. I had to accept the historical burden. In so many ways, whether I liked it or not, I contributed to the system of apartheid.
So, how could I ‘help’? Well, this decade, more than any other, taught me about the dangers of ‘paternalism’, of ‘missionary zeal’, of ‘wanting to help’. I had to go through a lot of self-reflection (it never ends!), to see how I was reflecting an unacceptable attitude of ‘up-down’ – power inequality. So, yes, I was certainly a product of apartheid! I always will be. Once I understood what was happening, I explored alternative ways of being in the world – where I really accepted myself and others as ‘equal’. With the help of my brothers and sisters in the struggle, I learnt to work in solidarity. I learnt to be a partner in the struggle. I learnt to do it ‘because’ … and not for recognition. I learnt to do it for all of us, for the oppressed and the oppressors, all of whom I knew were being harmed. Most of what I ‘did’ was quiet, behind the scenes, only recognizable to me and those immediately connected to me. This entailed enormous ego work … which had both positive and negative effects on me. I learnt the value of communality in the struggle, and on making a contribution without expectations of reward (except intrinsic value). I also, however, embraced a self-harming approach to my own contributions at times, finding it difficult to push for my own position, or to fight for myself (when needed), or to take a front-line, publicly recognized stance. I became comfortable with being relatively hidden – even though, in later years, I unwittingly found myself gaining a public reputation as a community psychologist.
And now?
Although I did play a more public role in the anti-apartheid movement and then in the reconstruction of the country for a couple of decades (1980s – 2000s), I find that I still have the same tendency to want to contribute to my country and the well-being of people, quietly, in the background. This may be because of my learnt behaviour during the 1970s, or it may be that I have a very strong introversion tendency. The links between the personal and the political are complex! Anyway … I have made choices to spend the final part of my life ‘working next to people’, who are making amazing contributions to our country and our people, through various forms of mentoring and support.
So, my life choices are still informed by the stories outlined above; only now I am not driven so much by guilt, as by ‘accountability’, and by my ongoing need to live meaningfully and to learn to love during this short span of life-time.
In the 1960s, Dr Martin Luther King had an enormous effect on me – on my empowerment as a citizen. In 2008, I went to Memphis and saw where he was shot dead. I found myself sobbing uncontrollably. It is interesting that, so many years after the legal destruction of apartheid, I still cry so easily. My tears fall when I see the ongoing suffering of so many of my co-citizens, particularly in relation to poverty; and my tears fall when I experience or observe the enormous ability to forgive on the part of those who were structurally oppressed during apartheid; and my tears also fall when I reflect on the many positive developments that have occurred in South Africa in the last decade, despite the many weaknesses and problems that also exist.
Although I feel lots of joy because of what we have achieved in this country in the last couple of decades, my body still holds the pain of my apartheid past. One doesn’t forget these things! But, I am comforted by ex-President Mandela’s words that we should ‘not forget’. Despite all my efforts to contribute to the development of a more caring society, I am aware that I have been, and continue to potentially be, a perpetrator and victim of racism. I hurt in both roles. I find healing in continuing to try to address these challenges, personally, professionally, and as a citizen in South Africa, and the world.