Installment One: Snakes, Professional Wrestling, Shosholoza, and a (Sort of) Rainbow Nation

PREFACE

The following is a humble attempt to amusingly portray both the normal and abnormal experiences I am having as a Peace Corps volunteer in South Africa. It is also a forum for sharing my reflections on what I am witnessing and learning, both as an interested observer of South African culture and as a partner with the people in the process of awareness and development. I hope to bring you along in my journey with sufficient light-heartedness and humor, but above all, reflection is my aim. Therefore, woven throughout the installment are moments of musing, moments of questioning, moments of historical analysis, moments of comparing South African culture to American culture—moments where I truly hope that my own learning can also be your learning too!

Lastly, I am obligated to note that this narrative only represents my personal tales and thoughts and does not represent the views of the U.S. Peace Corps. Enjoy!



SNAKES, PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING, SHOSHOLOZA, AND A (SORT OF) RAINBOW NATION

15 April 2008


To begin, an excerpt from my journal:

The unfortunate thing about using a pit toilet before anyone else in the morning is that you enter the outhouse and become immediately delighted to see that there are no bugs swarming the pit, which leads you to believe that they aren’t there. But it is only after your business is complete and you stand up, uncovering the pit, that a swarm greater than you’ve ever seen emerges from the hole, having been awakened to life by your fecal contribution.

Ah, life in rural South Africa. Now, please humor me for a moment as I change the subject completely. I watched the college basketball Final Four on ESPN from my family’s living room (yes, though we have no running water and only sporadic electricity, we do have satellite television which serves my uncle’s voracious appetite for European soccer). So, there I stood, the lone soul awake at 5.45am on 8 April, misty-eyed and pumping my fists in the air, watching my Kansas Jayhawks cut down the nets. Rock Chalk Jayhawk, go KU! With that, I will now keep the celebrations to myself. Thanks for indulging me.

[Note: from here on out, any reference to “family” or family members, whether papa, mama, uncle, brother, sister, etc, is intended to describe the people I live with here in South Africa.]

In other introductory news and notes, Paris Hilton recently visited South Africa. I was disappointed to know that she stopped by this side of the world but didn’t visit the village where I live—or any village for that matter. I would have loved to watch her expression upon being invited to fetch water from the communal tap. “Oh, my god, like, people have to, like, share water?” Apparently, her featured quote from the brief trip—during which she remained in the club district of Johannesburg—was as follows: “I like their accents”. What can I say? Apparently she went on to visit Rwanda—I hope at least the gorillas got a kick out of it.

Poor little Paris failed to make the title of this installment, but snakes sure did, so I’ll get on with it. The other day I walked to my supervisor’s house and found her brother and his friend debating the most effective way to find and kill a snake that was seen slithering in and out of a large pile of concrete blocks. Pause. If I had to choose five characteristics to describe South Africans, one would certainly be that they are universally petrified of snakes, along with any sort of reptile, insect, arachnid, amphibian, and, for that matter, well, just pick an animal (it’s we Americans who like the thrill of the wild—Africans do not describe themselves as particularly adventurous people). Snakes, above all, evoke the greatest fear, which explains why one of Hollywood’s worst films, “Anaconda” (yep, the one with J-Lo and Ice Cube), is probably the most commonly shown feature on South Africa’s four national television channels (human beings are, after all, irresistibly curious about the things they fear the most, and eager to observe those things at a safe distance).

Anyway, after knocking on the mound of blocks with an iron pole and failing to draw the snake out of its hiding place, they began to douse the entire pile with diesel fuel, never mind the price of petrol these days. They emptied a 5 gallon can over every crevice but the snake never emerged. Had she shown her beady eyes I can guarantee that she would have met an awful death, akin to the one that an unlucky cobra experienced a few weeks back as my brother held it by its tail, swinging its head repeatedly against a concrete wall like a miniature wrecking ball—and that was after he’d beaten its body with the broad side of a shovel.

One other thing with which many South Africans are obsessed—although not at all because of fear—is American wrestling. No, not the Olympic kind…c’mon, that stuff is so fake. I’m talking about the real deal: WWE. I’m talking about Batista, the Undertaker, and John Cena. I’m talking about high-flying, “roided”-up, dumb-as-a-brick, oiled-until-sufficiently- shiny professional wrestlers forearming each other across the neck, throwing each other over the ropes and smashing each other over the head with tables. I am not lying: South Africans dig this stuff. And it’s not just the men and boys—the go-gos (grannies) love it too. I can’t help but crack up as my go-go makes various expressions (“Sho!”, “Eish!”, or “Aowa!”) as she watches her favorite hulking mass dropped over his opponent’s knee. On Wednesday nights at my home in Leyden (where I lived throughout training) there would always be at least ten people packed into our living room to watch the featured “WWE Smackdown”. On the following morning, the streets would inevitably be filled with boys trying out Batista’s latest move on their friends while they walked to school. Man, I am so glad America is able to export such valuable sports and entertainment to the people of Africa. God bless us. (By the way, I also heard that WWE recently completed a tour of South America, so obviously the wrestling stars are far more popular outside of the United States than within them, which is why my friend and fellow volunteer, John, had the brilliant idea to recruit WWE to lead an international anti-AIDS, pro-condom campaign. Can you just imagine South African boys watching in awe as these bulkified men scowl into the camera and scream, “Use a condom, or else you’ll be the victim of my newest move!” It would definitely be more effective than an onslaught of education programs implemented by a bunch of softy Peace Corps volunteers.)

ﺸ

After nine weeks of intensive culture, language, and technical training with my fellow corps of volunteers, I am finally out on my own and settled at my permanent site, a remote village called Tooseng, which lies about 60 km south of Polokwane (formerly Pietersburg) in Limpopo province. Yes, indeed, this is the Limpopo of Kipling folklore, wherein flows the “great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees” and where the Elephant’s Child found himself a new, advantageous nose. (Recall Rudyard Kipling’s delightful short story, “The Elephant’s Child”?)

Marking my time thus far in South Africa are the painfully sweet and yet oh-so-normal experiences of fetching water, reading by headlamp when the electricity is cut, finding tarantula spiders, singing, washing clothes by hand, getting swarmed by bugs in toilets, and, most joyously, getting swarmed by kids no matter where I am and making them laugh. And in case you had not heard, there is nothing in the world as heartwarming or authentic as African hospitality, even if it means having to eat a sheep’s head including the brains because it was cooked just for you, and then saying you liked it (actually, I did like it).

We arrived in South Africa on 31 January 2008, and our first week of training was spent enjoying good food and relative comfort at a community college near the town of Mokopane (formerly Potgietersrus), also in Limpopo. It was there that we were introduced to the mission of Peace Corps South Africa and where each volunteer was assigned a target language (this country has 11 official languages—eleven!—which makes one realize that the good ‘ole U.S.A. might actually turn out fine if it happened to add Spanish to its list—oh the agony!). Knowledge of our languages—mine being Sepedi, or Northern Sotho, the dominant language in this region of Limpopo—obviously gave us a regional idea where our permanent sites would be, the specifics of which we would not know for another seven weeks. I was glad to know that I would be able to practice the new language in my village throughout the training period—other volunteers were assigned languages not spoken in Limpopo and therefore would have to wait for actual immersed practice. We were placed in study groups led by South African teachers and were then herded out of Mokopane toward the rural villages of Bakenberg, which would be the location of our training over the next two months.

It was also at the community college where I was given my South African name by some of the incredible young students there. From then on, they determined, I should be called Karabo, meaning “Answer”. In Africa, broadly speaking, there is great significance placed on one’s name. A name typically has a profound meaning determined by ancestral heritage or prophetic imagination, and that name is said to shape the life of the individual. A person will grow to fit their name, says the ancient wisdom; how, if ever, I will grow to become Karabo is yet to be seen.

Our welcome in Bakenberg was simply unforgettable. As our van turned toward the community hall we noticed a throng of brightly-clad women congregated outside. As we approached the building, the American R&B song playing over the van’s radio was completely drowned out by a glorious chorus of traditional song pouring forth from the mouths of our soon-to-be host-mothers! Kissing, hugging, praising, and more singing followed as our mothers welcomed us with much fanfare to the village. Eventually we walked into the community hall but the singing didn’t stop, and there was an even greater multitude waiting inside, their voices rising to the heavens. After ten more minutes of singing I felt compelled that we should return the favor, so I stood, mustered all my vocal brawn, and began to sing “Shosholoza”, a traditional South African song we had learned during our initial week in the country. My peers followed suit, then our families, and soon the whole place was exploding with a joyful noise, the South Africans jubilant and stunned that we knew one of their songs. From then on I was known in the community as “the Shosholoza guy”.

The sheer beauty and volume of harmonized African song echoing magnificently in a concrete hall was more than enough to bring me to tears. We were all overwhelmed and afterward found ourselves asking: did we deserve this welcome? In our minds, absolutely not; after all, we had barely set foot in the community! We hadn’t even proven ourselves! And did they know how arrogant and stubborn we Americans could actually be? But they didn’t care. To them, the prospect of 30 Americans merely spending time with them—let alone living with them and eating their food!—certainly called for such an overture, and so we humbly accepted it. It was the first time we got the sense that we were truly wanted here in this country, which is an important thing to feel when two years of service lies ahead. In the midst of this tremendous moment, I could not help but ponder how embarrassingly insufficient—even cold—is our practice of welcoming in America, particularly toward foreign visitors and immigrants. Perhaps it is because we are a relatively new nation primarily composed of the descendants of immigrants, and so we are not yet sure of our own identity. After all, the pride of the “first” settlers—or those who claim to be so—is always the most fanatical and insecure.

This euphoric welcome was the first of many examples of the unconditional love that seems to flow in the blood of South African mothers. It was also the first of many lessons to come about the nature of ubuntu, that radical southern African philosophy which asks us to value and celebrate human beings just as they are, and to recognize, ultimately, that one person’s existence is meaningless apart from another’s: “I am because you are” is the most basic translation of the philosophy. Imagine a linear spectrum on which every life-guiding philosophy followed throughout history is organized according to their fundamental aspects. Now, locate ubuntu and then American “rugged individualism”—you will find them on opposite ends of the spectrum.

The village where I resided throughout training, a sub-village of Bakenberg called Leyden, is economically poor but also rather quaint. Homes range from the poorest—one- or two-room shacks made of pieced together corrugated iron—to the fairest—one-story ranches made of real brick. Electricity is present but expensive and therefore used only when needed, and running water remains a far-out dream. Most of the “roads” within the village are impassable by car or even bicycle and appear more like wilderness footpaths, jaunting up and down slopes and around gigantic, red granite boulders. They make for delightful strolls. Most importantly, these paths are always occupied by bare-footed children playing soccer—with a ball made of plastic bags and tape—who were ever eager to pause their game and join me as I walked to and from language class. “Lekgowa, Lekgowa!” (“White person, white person!”), they would shout as I turned the corner toward them, until they knew my name…then, “Karabo, Karabo!”

My family in Leyden, which has the surname Khwinana, was a delightful, authentic bunch, and from the moment I stepped foot in the house I was considered a son and a brother. To be viewed immediately as part of the family was very special to me, and from the beginning I could express myself quite honestly: “I’ll eat chicken feet but I don’t particularly like them,” which would always incite roars of laughter; or, “I’m going to need to take a an hour or so to be alone right now” (a concept rarely understood by South Africans). And yes, the adults spoke enough English to make communication possible.

In Leyden, I learned the hard way that proper greeting is to African life what butter is to bread—and only a fool eats dry bread. One day, I returned home from training and casually greeted my papa, who was sitting outside and drinking tea, as I walked into the kitchen. Wrong. Mistake. Won’t ever do that again. He immediately called me back outside and explained that I must learn to greet elders properly, that I ought to take a chair, sit down next to him, and then begin the greeting process, which goes something like this:

Joel: Thobela, papa! (Greetings, papa!)
Papa: Thobela, Karabo! (Greetings, Karabo!)
Joel: Le kae? (Are you present?)
Papa: Re gona, lena le kae? (We are present, are you present?)
Joel: Re gona, ke a leboga. (We are present, thank you.)

Only at this point can a conversation truly begin, and only after a conversation has been fulfilled am I free to go about my business.

The whole mentality of proper greeting, right down to the meaning of the greeting words, is rooted in ubuntu. As an American, I am so accustomed to greeting only the people I need something from, and to assume that others will understand that if I don’t greet them it simply means I am tired, busy, or in a hurry. But what matters most in this culture, more than how you feel or what you are busy doing, is simply that you are present, that you are alive, for in your existence you are whole and in your existence you are in fellowship with others who are whole. Rather than “I am fine, or I am present” one says “We are present” because it is the collective (“we”) that matters more than the individual. Failing to greet is the greatest insult in South African culture: it is analogous to denying the humanity of the other. Greeting is the acknowledgement of life lived in the context of the community, to the extent that you realize that your life is meaningless apart from the life of your neighbor. Again, ubuntu.

At first I was slightly irritated at the insistence of this culture of incessant greeting. I naturally tend to offer a smile and a quick greeting to most everyone I see, but the drawn out, deliberate nature of African greeting initially bothered me. Chill out, I would think as someone scolded me for not greeting properly; I’m not ignoring you, I just don’t feel like talking right now. But the culture—and my papa—were telling me: No, you chill out. And yes, you are ignoring the people around you. Relax, have a cup of tea. Say a few words in earnestness before going about your next task. There’s more to life than your agenda. Finally I listened, and since then I haven’t had trouble with greeting. More than that, I have been transformed by the realization that in greeting I can truly show another that they are a precious. I can show someone, as in the ancient Indian wisdom of namaste, that I acknowledge the divine Source within them. There is much to be learned about a culture from the way the people greet. Consider how you greet in your society and discover what that communicates about your own lifestyle and cultural philosophies.

It also bears mentioning that my papa, who is teaching me about the seriousness of African traditions and the depth of Sepedi greeting, is almost always wearing a blue baseball cap with “Eminem” written boldly across the front. Needless to say: extremely high on the unintentionally funny scale. (For those who don’t know who Eminem is, try Google.)

My daily routine throughout training consisted of waking up at the crack of dawn, going for a jog, catching the sunrise, or jumping rope, and then bathing (in a large bucket) before walking to language class in the home of another volunteer. After toiling through early morning sessions in Sepedi, a language drastically dissimilar to English, we would be picked up by Peace Corps transport and driven to our training site in Bakenberg where we would participate in a full day of seminars, discussions, and community-based activities designed to prepare us for service in organizational development, community outreach, and HIV/AIDS education and prevention.

Training sessions were engaging and helpful for the most part, but if they ever got too boring I would meander outside and take in the beautiful scenery of the region, characterized by rolling hills, wide open savannah, distant mountain peaks that appear in shadowy layers as they approach the horizon, resilient marula trees, prickly bush, and an intense sun that only relents at the emergence of clouds threatening to bring an afternoon rain. And oh, did the rain come at times! An African thunderstorm, often accompanied by spectacular lightning shows, is just as powerful as the literature depicts, and the rain which pummels the tin roof above you renders hopeless all conversation on account of its deafening roar. After I leave this place one day you will certainly hear me singing that famous song by Toto…”I miss the rains down in Africa…”

Usually home before sunset, I would then spend the evening with my family playing games, exchanging English and Sepedi with the children, and eating supper, which typically consists of some kind of gravy-drenched meat, a vegetable dish, and the ubiquitous “pap”, a thick, white porridge without which there is no meal (Lennox, one of our language trainers, once said, “Without pap, even a four-course menu is still just a snack!”). The evening together always concluded by watching South African “soapies” (soap operas) modeled shamelessly after American prototypes but made interesting by the infusion of local languages and relevant socio-cultural dilemmas. Never in my life did I ever think I would watch soap operas, but here they serve as prime time television. Thereafter, I would retire for the evening to read, write, and—after I finally was able to purchase a guitar—make music, until sleep or mosquitoes overtook me.

Our two-month training period was concluded quite nicely by two exceptional events. First, a “braai” (read, barbeque) for our host families, which we the trainees and our training staff planned in order to express our thanks for their profound graciousness and bottomless hospitality. I was honored to conclude the program by performing my own “Singing of Redemption” and Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” (which I changed to “Big White Khumbi” in honor of the 15-seater taxis—called khumbis—that dominate South African roads), leading into a resounding chorus of “Shosholoza” that nearly blew the roof off the building once everyone joined in. Dancing and singing abounded, as they always do during community gatherings, and many of us found ourselves in the arms of our African mamas. It was a powerful moment and an ideal way to bookend the experience of living in Bakenberg, especially considering the enormous welcome we received upon arrival in February. Saying goodbye to my host-family a few days later was difficult, particularly after my father stood to tell me with uncharacteristic emotion that I was welcome back anytime, even unannounced, and that I had truly helped his family to realize that they still possess the spirit of ubuntu. Wow.

We swore-in as Peace Corps volunteers the following week at the place where our training began over two months before: the community college near Mokopane. Performing “Singing of Redemption” before all those in attendance, including the U.S. Ambassador, was truly a joy and an honor, and I heard from several people afterward that they had been moved to tears as I sang (this convinced me once again of the awesome power of a simple song with a message). After a final meal, my fellow volunteers began to leave with their supervisors, giving hugs and promising to stay in touch. The reality that training was over was beginning to sink in, and I knew I would miss my new friends. I realized, however, that the excitement of finally getting started with the work I came here to do far surpassed any sadness about seeing us go our separate ways. Ahoy! Onward! There is valuable work to do!

ﺸ

Looming large over the whole experience of immersing in South African life has been the acute feeling of drowning in a lake of confusion while trying to make sense of the complexity of this infant democracy, its history, and the relationships between its stunningly diverse populations. My passion for history—for knowing the past as a guide to understanding the present—has led me into countless conversations and periods of contemplation on this question: how is it that South Africa is the way it is?

Several friends have recently written to me about the soul-searching in which America has been engaged in light of Pastor Jeremiah Wright’s controversial comments last month and Barack Obama’s compelling response speech. As much as I believe that the people of the United States have some serious soul-searching to do, there is no comparison to that which is needed here in what is endearingly—if hopefully—referred to as the “Rainbow Nation”. I have never in my life been so in awe of the complexity of a place as I am here in South Africa, where a horrific colonial past featuring the worst kind of racist oppression somehow transitioned peacefully into a modern democracy ripe with both miraculous breakthroughs and rotten problems. Following is a meager attempt to give you a glimpse into the country where I live and serve.

South Africa is in the throes of many of the great ideological, economic, and social battles of our time, beginning with the struggle to include and embrace people of every color and creed despite all-too-recent memories of racism and abused power. As recent as 1993, black South Africans (who make up nearly 80 percent of the population), along with their Indian and so-called “Coloured” compatriots (those who were deemed to be of mixed race), enjoyed virtually no political or intellectual rights and suffered under an apartheid (Afrikaans for “separate”) system that institutionalized racism, poverty, and the destruction of families and indigenous dignity. Only since 1994 have all South Africans benefited from a one-person, one-vote democracy and enshrined civil liberties, thanks almost entirely to the heroic efforts of formerly jailed or exiled African National Congress politicians (Nelson Mandela and co.) and the willingness of then-President F.W. de Klerk to accept the inevitable. As one might imagine, fourteen years is hardly long enough to see a widespread change of heart. Racism is still served fresh and resentment is the heaping, spoiled leftover.

South Africa is also sitting squarely in a vortex created by the collision of two opposing worlds: on the one hand, traditional African culture remains alive in the hearts and minds of many, and, on the other, an intruding Western model of modernization and liberalization threatens to extinguish it. The collision is evidenced best by the city-village dichotomy: fact-paced economic progression in cities and large towns has squelched traditional culture and might lead the casual visitor to conclude that South Africa is exceptionally modern, even “Western”; but a few kilometers away, just beyond the outskirts of the town, lies a village that hasn’t gained much from modernization and still isn’t sure that it wants to—here, the older, deeply-rooted mentalities pervade. The contrasting environments of cities and villages represent the social and cultural extremes of South African society, and each has its glaring advantages and disadvantages. That is why the “true” path is so difficult to find.

As is common among poorer nations that are pursuing a course of “development”, there are staunch guardians of the culture as superior to anything new, avid defenders of “modernity at any cost”, and then there are advocates of a more balanced view, namely, that this country can and should emerge as a modernized society that still holds onto the indigenous philosophies and traditions that have long sustained the people of southern Africa. Then again, it must be remembered that there is a significant portion of South Africa’s population (nearly 20 percent) that isn’t originally African. Black Africans share the land with Afrikaner (the dominant white settler of mixed Dutch/German/French descent), British, Indian, and multi-ethnic peoples.

The question “What does it mean to be African?” becomes all the more complex when a nation is composed of such profound diversity and, on top of that, has enjoyed only 14 years of actual independence from oppressive minority rule. Internalized oppression—the feeling of inferiority inherited by a people after being victimized under sustained domination—plays a huge role in South Africa, and it is only now that many black nationals in particular are able to truly embrace the culture of their elders. (Can you imagine how you would feel after having been told for generations that your culture was meaningless and inferior?) And so, to urge local people to consider the question of African identity is one of my quests as an advocate for local empowerment, because I believe that progress and development can never succeed until there is self-awareness within a community. You must know who you are before you can move forward, otherwise you just end up searching for whatever feels good and looks shiny (case in point: the music best-seller list in South Africa is monopolized by American hip-hop and R&B, while most of that which is produced in South Africa is basically a replica of the American mold).

In the rush to become “modern”, there remains a great thirst among many for something authentic, something grounded in the old. This thirst is brought to light by the recent popularity of a Tswana music phenomenon called Culture Spears. This dance and song group from Botswana produced a music video featuring time-honored folk songs, dance, and traditional attire set against a backdrop of tribal life and African bush. One cannot possibly walk more than a block in any village, town, or city without hearing the familiar sounds of Culture Spears blaring from a house, a store, or the television of a street-side vendor. Black South Africans love this “new” musical group precisely because it is not new at all. They are parched by the copy-and-paste of modern life and anxious for reminders of the traditions of their youth, for representations of the life their ancestors lived, and for a taste of the things that have held African societies together for centuries.

But lest I seem to suggest that modern “economic development” is primarily responsible for leaving South Africans in this cultural bind, it must be remembered that it was actually apartheid which was the instigator of this “culture war”, having intentionally—and somewhat successfully—shred the cultural fabric that had long existed among indigenous peoples. The apartheid regime, which essentially began in the 1910s though it was instituted officially in 1948 by the ruling Afrikaner National Party (the leaders of which admired Nazi philosophy), took a number of radical actions to ensure their supremacy over the considerably large majority of blacks. First, they seized 85 percent of fertile land for whites, who made up less than 20 percent of the population. Then, they drew millions of black men into the cities to work in mines and live in total squalor, unable to visit their families except once a year. After that, they forced millions of black families off of the farms of their ancestors and into African homelands, called Bantustans, solidifying tribal distinctions and assuring systematic control of black politics. If that wasn’t enough, they trivialized education for Africans, forcing the masses into ignorance and pitting African tribe against African tribe, making the formation of an independence movement all the more challenging and setting the stage for the skyrocketing crime rate that exists today (which is mostly black-against-black crime induced by poverty and lingering anger). Other, lighter-skinned ethnic groups, such as Indians or so-called “Coloureds”, had it a little better, but not much—they too were harshly discriminated against. That is the legacy of the “nation” of South Africa—a nation that was, in the first place, a concept of colluding Afrikaner and British colonialists.

So, where in the contemporary picture do the white people fit? Having not truly sat down at the table with more than a handful of Afrikaner or British South Africans, I am not yet fit to answer that question completely. But for now I can say that there are many who are truly wonderful people and who still feel right at home in this country. These are the ones who have faced the ugly past, apologized for it, maintained their dignity, and opened up to the reality of freedom and equality. They are those who understand that the consequence of democracy after years of apartheid is that there must be an era of relative disappointment and discomfort for whites in South Africa. In other words, there is a price—albeit a small one since all-out war was avoided and since rights are protected by a remarkably progressive Constitution—to pay for what had been done. I can safely say that these people are a growing minority among white South Africans.

The majority, however, are at best quite anxious and at worst genuinely petrified, evidenced by the iron and brick fences and modern security systems that protect Afrikaner neighborhoods. In fact, since 1994, the percentage of whites in South Africa has dropped to just below 10 percent—most have fled in droves to Australia, New Zealand, Europe, and the U.S. (Malan, one of our trainers who is Afrikaner, facetiously calls it the “chicken run”). Most of those who remain are sitting on the edge of their seats. The good news is that as each year goes by it seems that racism is slowly being squeezed out of the white South African consciousness. Political correctness has played a role in this, but, as we know all too well in the U.S., the leap from mind to heart is essential for a racist culture to be truly renewed. And that leap, a true advancement in consciousness, is one that every individual must decide to make on his or her own.

As a deeply invested visitor in this nation I cannot help but feel that South Africa is a paradox. It is at once a tangled, disunified mess and a purposeful, determined community. It is both a ticking time bomb and a radiant pearl, a place that could erupt into chaos but is indefatigably hanging on because the world treasures it as an enduring example of the power of freedom over oppression. It is a nation where lofty ideals inspire many and are slowly breeding new mentalities, but where those ideals mostly falter at the hands of a crude reality. It is motoring full-steam ahead in the project of globalization and development (leaving behind a great deal of the poor) and yet stuck “in-between” a rock and a hard place, desperately searching for its identity. Right now, South Africans are wondering, what is the right path forward for us?

The paradox plays out dramatically on the political stage, wherein the ANC (the party of Mandela which dominates South African politics) is on the verge of splitting along ideological—and potentially ethnic—lines, particularly over the concern that many South Africans are being shoved aside in the development dance. It also plays out on the streets of towns and cities, where I mostly find segregation, avoidance, and sometimes outright racism, but where, on occasion, I also smile to see an Afrikaner joke with a black African, thereby shattering the barrier. Finally, and most tragically, the paradox plays out on Boer (Afrikaner) farms, akin to the American South’s post-Civil War sharecropping systems, where black South Africans still serve as hired workers receiving little pay and suffering inexcusable abuses that often go unnoticed and remain beyond the reaches of a justice system in its infancy.

As for my present environment—the Sepedi-speaking village of Tooseng— it is not exactly a microcosm of the South African paradox. I am the only “white” person around, and the village itself is not one that was reconstituted into a tribal rainbow by apartheid-induced relocations. Instead, Tooseng remains much the same as it was 50 years ago, and many of the families consider it their true home and the home of their elders. Weddings, funerals, community gatherings, and daily life still basically reflect the traditional “African way”, for lack of a better idiom. Of course, the village does suffer somewhat from being caught “in-between” and from having been tricked and trampled on by the apartheid system (more on that in the second installment and on how it shapes my goals and affects my work). Despite their difficult life, though, the people are lovely, peaceful, and oh so welcoming. They may not be dressed in traditional tribal attire, but their hearts are still rooted in Pedi culture, in ubuntu, and in the natural pace of life, which is wonderfully—though at times agonizingly—slow. And for those of you who know all too well the excruciatingly slow pace at which I prefer to walk, you will certainly understand why I feel quite at home here in rural South Africa.

ﺸ

Until the next installment, I offer this pearl:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be?...Your playing small does not serve the world…We are all meant to shine, as children do…And as we let our own light shine we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of a Course in Miracles (1992) – often attributed to Nelson Mandela’s 1994 inauguration address