The intention behind writing these narratives is to highlight that most of us have been affected by apartheid, but in different ways. We are confident that White South Africans too have also been affected differently. Both Black and White reflections on what apartheid meant and resemble has profound meanings and effect in our various life trajectories.
We don’t want apartheid liberalised. We want it dismantled. You can’t improve something that is intrinsically evil. Desmond Tutu.
Prof Ramchander is a Professor in the Department of Operational and Quality Management.
The context
Much of my childhood and primary school years, in the 1970’s, was spent residing in a shanty town-an Indian community surrounded by affluent White suburban. The community was located on approximately 30 acres comprising about 100 households. The single postal address for all residents was 25 Pemba Lane, Redhill, Durban North. The immediate surrounding areas were White areas, bordered on one end towards Umhlanga Rocks Drive, Longwoods Drive and Malacca Road on the other two sides and the last side was bordered by a graveyard.
The walking distance to the White communities was about five minutes. Most of the Indian dwellings were constructed of wood and iron, with dirt roads in between and no electricity. The only municipal service was the collection of bucket toilets. A short distance away were modern White homes, with picket or wall fences, many had swimming pools, tarred roads and a full range of municipal services, including street lighting, sewer and storm water infrastructure. Strange enough, I don’t have any recollection of family members or community members aspiring to live like Whites, or in White houses. Perhaps, at that time such was inconceivable.
The childhood years
Home for my parents and three siblings was a dwelling comprising of two rooms and a kitchen. Cooking was done on a paraffin stove, but the heating of water was done outside, adjacent to the kitchen, by firewood. I recall the childhood years as being fun, a time when children spent very little time indoors. As children, we ventured the length and breadth of our small community. There were no sporting fields, schools, shops or even the equivalent of today’s spaza shops or any home business of any kind within the community.
Majority of our people worked in factories and others did other manual jobs. Except for one teacher, there was no one else in professional employment. My dad was a truck driver and mum stayed at home, as was the case with most mothers. Like most other families, we did not have a TV or refrigerator – the two items that would have been a reflection a good financial position. However, schooling was a priority in the community and all children went to school, despite the high poverty levels.
Given the location of the community, daily one had to go through the White areas to either go to work, go to school or go to the shop. I had to walk to Umhlanga Rocks Drive, at the top of the hill, to catch a bus to school, which was about 10km away in Briardene. The Indian and White bus stops were close together. However, it was common to see about 20 Indian passengers standing in line to catch a privately owned bus that was already full, yet right next door was a common occurrence to see empty Whites only benches and a municipal bus in bay with just a handful of passengers. Neither the benches nor the municipal buses were for use by the Indian community. Nobody ever spoke about this anomaly- the privilege of Whites was generally accepted as the norm.
The White owned shop was also located in the same precinct as the bus stops and by size, it can best be described as a superette, with parking bays for about 20 cars. The shop serviced both the Indian and White communities. Being a large store, it had rows and rows of all types of sweets, chocolates, chips and the like, but as children our errand there would have been only to buy bread, milk or paraffin. We were not blind to see White children picking at free will such items that I knew were not for us – most of which we could not afford. I don’t know the psychology behind this, but as the years went by, there was overwhelming acceptance of the situation to such an extent that even walking down the aisles past the goodies to the rear end of the store did not induce any craving.
The shop area is where Indians and Whites paths mostly crossed. However, there was no real interaction. It was like walking past each other without noticing or acknowledgement of the other. All I knew was that Whites were superior, and it was best to give them a wide berth, even if it meant getting out of their way. The superiority of Whites was generally accepted to be so by the Indian community and reinforced thorough the years. Even in normal conversation between Indians, high value was accorded to for example “the White man said …” stifling alternatives and any room for contestation.
The trip to the shop and back was a different trip to the school trip because decisions on what and how much to buy became clearer as the day progressed. We would change out of school attire and to conserve our school shoes, the shop trip was made barefoot. The hot tarmac was excruciating and at times we would take a chance of relief by walking on the grassed verges along the White houses. However, we would have had to be careful not to arouse the dog barking, and we would rather bear the heat than anger the White owners. Through the years we learnt that Whites would be angry for at least two reasons. One reason is that causing their dogs to bark causes undue stress on their dogs and the other reason being that barking disturbs their peace and serenity.
I cannot recall when I first heard the word “apartheid”, but I can say with certainty, not during my childhood. There was no one from the community that was politically active and equally I don’t recall any community member that could be referred to as a leader or role model. I suppose for most the realisation of one’s full potential was never on the agenda, let alone that of the community.
In the early 1980’s, the entire Indian community was uprooted and relocated to parts of what is called Phoenix. The move involved the dismantling of all dwellings in the area. Over the years the area has remained unused and has been overgrown with natural vegetation.
Reflections
This narrative is through the lens of my childhood and should not take away from the lived experiences of my parents and other adults from the community. I am sure they have their own accounts that dovetail to similar outcomes. Snippets of my childhood experience bear testimony as to how such experiences made one internalise a sense of inferiority, conditioning one to accept White dominance which in turn induced subservience as being normal. More importantly it killed the aspirations of individuals, prevented the realisation of one’s true potential. Bearing testimony to this, I was fortunate to be the only one from the original community to pursue higher education studies, by receiving a bursary to study. I therefore easily relate to my students who have entered university and impress on them the huge responsibilities they bear to make a positive impact on their own families, communities and the country at large.
Professor Fulufhelo Netswera is the Executive Dean in the Faculty of Management Sciences.
Context
I was born and grew up in the Chieftain of Tswera Village. I tell everyone that when you meet any person from the Native of Venda-South Africa whose family name starts with Ne, the remainder is the name of their village. My father was the first to hold a higher education qualification in the village, to own a car and build a modern house. He worked as an agricultural extension officer for many years until his retirement. He was also a practicing agriculturalist. I considered him the most enlightened and wealthiest person until I transferred to a boarding school-Diman high. He presided over important affairs of the village.
Our encounter with Whites during my childhood was with the South African Defense Force (SADF) who came via the village on their patrol missions to the Limpopo boarders fending infiltration from the ANC (uMkhonto weZiwe) and PAC (Azanian People’s Liberation Army) militants (aka terrorists). Often when they drove back to Pretoria (as we assume), they threw us leftovers of their food parcels and we thrilled in those delicacies. They would also occasionally stop at the school, make speeches, greet the kids and show off their gears, weapons and do short parades, hence many kids get early inspiration to join the military.
Early racialised experiences
One day as we drove to the neighboring village to the Lutheran Church, which was our every Sunday ritual, we stumbled across a White male motorist who had a tire puncture. My father took out his car jack, went under the car, dirtying his suit, trying to replace the punctured tire until another White man driving past stopped. What a coincidence because during those days, we could see just one car in an hour or two. My father was immediately dismissed without any thank you, and the other Whiteman took over. The two continued laughing and the incident got stuck in my mind forever.
The question I asked myself was- why no courtesy? What if the other Whiteman had not pitched? What is the difference between the services of my father and that of another White man? Couldn’t my father be politely allowed to finish what he was doing in another five minutes, and we move on? Would the White man have dirtied his suit to change my father’s punctured car tire?
My second experience came around June 1985 when there were a few weeks of school breaks due to schooling protests. My brothers (Fhatuwani and Musiiwa Mulondo) and I decided that we shall go look for temporary jobs and make a few Rands during the school break.
At a flower farm some 5kms from our village we found a group of Zulu men hired to erect a paleaceous house on top of a hill for the owner-manager of the flower farm. We were quick to speak to the White man in our rudimentary English from a village school. Somehow, I think the White man was impressed by young boys looking to work than begging and he took us to his foremen and told him to give us work.
Our experience was eye opening regarding race relations and the fear that White man directly or indirectly inflicts on black men. While the White man was away, the builders sat, drank and spoke about everything from soccer to women. But when the White man was around, no one took a break for hours. I wondered if the White man realised his effect. And because me and my brothers spoke to the White man and made him give us jobs, we were scolded, reminded that we were not clever and made to work much harder than everyone else except when the White man was around.
My next experience is that of prejudice -black-on-black and inter-tribalistic. Visiting big cities like Johannesburg during school holidays is how many from Venda ended up living in Soweto, Alexandra and Thembisa, among other Gauteng Townships.
My turn to visit my big brother Edwin Netswera (my elder uncle’s son) who was a policeman (Peri-urban police) in Alexandra was 1985. I had to request the school principal to write a testimonial, bearing a school stamp with dates, which stated that I am in Alexandra for the duration of the December school holidays and I am expected back in Venda when school reopens in January. I had to always carry this letter with me and if found without it, as many were, I could end in the police cells and only my next of kin would have to come “bail me out”.
My brother had sent an old man (Vho-Thonga) to pick me and my uncle’s son (Ndivhuho Netswera) from Venda to Alexandra in his Ford Cortina. What was striking for me is that when we got to Pietersburg (currently Polokwane), vho-Thonga emphatically told us that from now onwards, the only languages we must speak are Setswana and isiZulu. “You can’t speak Tshivenda in the township. They will ridicule you and knife your life away”. I was terrified it forced us to learn both Setswana and isiZulu and become fluent very quickly. Every Venda person in Gauteng spoke isiZulu or Setswana. Venda people are to date known to blend and hide in other languages. My mother had told me a few years ago that the son of Mr Badugela from Matangari village who was our neighbour was stabbed to death by a group of Zulu guys because he spoke to one of their girlfriends. There was a general fear of Zulu males.
Township life was highly polarised, tribalised and xenophobic. You could easily get killed for speaking a “wrong language” or “looking non-South African”. Only much later I learned to my astonishment that even the popular television star Sedumo (Joe Mafela) was Venda and almost everybody thought he was Zulu or Tswana. There are many other Venda natives who during those days refused to be associated with the language and ethnic group. Many even changed to either Setswana or Zulu surnames.
Encounters with the Whites of Joburg
It was the responsibility of every black person, especially the black man from the township, to avoid being stopped and searched or asked for “papers” by the White policeman. Seeing a policeman upfront would send your heart profusely pounding.
A high school friend of mine (John Munaka) and I spent most of our Johannesburg school holidays at the Johannesburg Country Club (JCC) in Woodmead as caddies. We learned so much English on the fairway and encountered “mannered” and “civil” White men who were the total opposite of the policeman. They were patient with us, enquired about our schooling and provided schooling and career guidance and in return, we learned the golf sport and some of us even got very good at it.
Because Alexandra was too far from Woodmead, and at the same time John’s sister worked at Pizza Hut on Rivonia Road, we agreed with her that we shall sleep in the shopping mall toilets. We went in there after she closed the Pizza sales around 2100pm and it was always a delight sleeping in the toilets. They were spacious, very neat and smelled good. Early in the morning around 4am, we would leave our blankets at the guard house and pick them at 2100pm. We had to be number one at the golf course in the early hours or we could come back without carrying.
One sad early morning hour around 4am as John and I crisscrossed Rivonia and Woodmead among White homes, a patrolling police van appeared beaming its blue lights. The instinct kicked in and we ran as fast as our legs could carry. How would we explain this? Two teenage black boys walking at 4am in the middle of a White neighbourhood! We obviously should be coming from a housebreaking – no questions asked. But of course, the police fired their first round in the air to our sudden dead stop.
John and I were trembling, shivering and stuttering. We received countless backhand clubbing to our cheeks and our bottoms from the White policemen even before questions could be asked. When they got tired of the beatings then questions followed. Our Afrikaans was terrible and that by itself was a crime and invoked further beatings. Our English vocabulary also escaped, and we could not explain why we were in the middle of a White neighborhood like young witches at dawn. Next stop was the police station where we got locked up with elderly black men in an overcrowded cell where everyone pee and do their number two in front of everyone else. We were released midday with a warning and when we got back to Rivonia Road (Pizza Hut), we were told we were very lucky we didn’t get raped by the elderly men – needless to say, we could not even understand the possibilities of men raping other male children.
Another encounter with the White policemen a few years latter was at Florida Lake where together with three other friends we were immediately stopped, arrested and taken to the police cells. Our crime – crossing the railway tracks. A distance in front of us were a few White boys who had just crossed on their bicycles. We pointed to the first offenders and the policemen told us that they didn’t see the White boys crossing (ons het hulle nie gesien). In overcrowded police cells, Lufuno – a friend of mine told the policemen that had a bank card with money after they had asked for what they called a R100 spot fine for immediate release. He gave them his pin and off they went. We only learnt the following day that they withdrew countless amounts until the card machine blocked further withdrawals. But this and many additional stories are for another day.
Reflections
While I summarised a few encounters with the Whites as dominant figures, both as military personnel and as policemen brutalising and instilling fear on blacks, there are many omissions about counter influences that my father socialised me – politics. My father was politically alert and often spent evening in his car with me listening to Radio Freedom (exiled ANC) on the Shortwave. He would explain the Chimurenga struggle of Zimbabwe, about Julias Nyerere and Samora Machel. Juxtaposing what my father taught me and my experiences of Whiteness; I grew up hating White people but admiring them for being better organised and wealthy-a love hate perspective. In later years (around 1990/91) I became political active that I had to hide from police search parties. Later when I started studying and working with White people, I realised that we are all humans and that what distinguishes us is our backgrounds and our privileges – unfortunately brought about by associated skin colour. I do take it that my experiences are personal and unique, influenced by circumstances around me and vary considerably from those of my family members and friends. A few years ago, when I worked at the Northwest University, a White colleague confided in me – “Fulu, I can truly say you are a friend. The only black friend I have ever known in my life. I can talk to you the same way I talk to other White People and feel at ease. You know what mate; apartheid really destroyed us”.
