Growing food in the suburbs: OZCF, 18 months on

My dear Lauren – I promised that if you write, I’ll write. I’ve decided not to be too deep about this, otherwise I’ll never get anything written. So while you’re gallavanting about in the coffee plantations of Burundi, here are my thoughts about the things that people in Cape Town are growing.

Ryan and I finally had the chance to go visit Oranjezicht City Farm again today. We were there on Heritage Day in 2012 when they launched the farm. There was nothing growing there, they just had a nice fresh goods market, and happy European student volunteers selling t-shirts and showing you the layout plans for the garden. Did I mention that I had gotten all the details about the market day from their website, which was already set up.

The guys are doing something great there. I have always been intimdated at the sheer organisational feat that that garden has been from the beginning – it had a logo and a plan and “history of the farm” and the aforementioned happy European student volunteers before they had even planted something. Their message was clear, their marketing was thorough, their market day launch was a huge success. It’s clear that a lot of the people involved in the garden are involved in business and there was some good business leadership that went into this thing from the start.

At Ariston things are a bit more chilled than that. What that means is that among other things we don’t have running water, and very few people know about us. Also our markets have never worked very well because we simply didn’t have the manpower and capital to set up a big thing – so there were no toilets, no large shaded areas, and not a lot of stalls or customers. And did I mention, no running water. In a way, we at Ariston don’t get to spread the joy around as much as the OZCF guys do. On the other hand, I find it very special having my own little plot in a largely unknown city farm. I get to listen to the school kids walking along Imam Haron road from Livingstone High School to the train station, shouting and laughing, mostly oblivious to me pottering about in the ramshackle garden not 20 meters from them. I get to sit on the mound next to the water hole and look at the gorgeous mountain and just drink in the solitude. God meets me there. OZCF is making excellent use of their farmland, and spaces are far more neatly delineated. At Ariston, both the plants and I get to ramble about.

There’s a third little farm that I have to compare here. That’s Namaste Organic farm, or what I generally just refer to as Eric’s farm. Eric Swarts, my “farmer friend” in Stellenbosch, grows organic vegetables and for about 6 months, I participated with Lauren and some others in something we called iGrow, which was basically Eric making allotments available on his plot. That was another meeting place between suburban folk and organic food, albeit slightly out of town. It was an immensely special time. I am always surprised when I realise how short lived it was because it had a tremendous impact on me. We could go to our allotments whenever we liked, and on Saturday mornings, Eric would be there for an hour or two. We could ask him for advice, and he was happy to share. One day, Ryan and I helped him sow seeds in seed trays, using his own worm compost. Methodically scraping the compost, watering just enough, placing one seed in each hole, tapping the tray so that the moist soil settles, then another layer of compost and water. I still grow mine exactly the way I learned from Eric that day. I will never forget early evenings, alone on my plot, sitting on the soil, dead tired and eating a carrot (which does absolutely nothing to still a ravenous post-gardening hunger by the way). The farm is behind Spier, so there are mountains all around you. Little birds would fly past, chattering and catching insects in the dusk. Other times I would take a friend and we’d share the rush of the workout and the expectation of the things that would grow. And we’d go down to the organic market down the road for breakfast and coffee. At Eric’s farm there was a real sense of community. And the lightness of the fields. There was also an awareness of history – Eric as a black farmer, raised in the Boland, taking on labourers from Khayelitsa, how different a picture from his forefathers and my forefathers, and how will things be for the children of his labourers?

The OZCF reminded me that I’m not big into neat rows of anything. It looks so pretty, their symmetrical diamond shaped layout, and I think just like the whole vibe with the market and the banners, the neat way the garden is laid out is pleasing to people who live in Oranjezicht, who like things to be ordered and professional and well done. Surely the veggies grow happily. But in the words of Pink, pretty just ain’t me. I was reminded of how Jane Griffiths describes her (lack of) planting strategy: Jane’s jungle style. Sure, there’s a place for planning, and it’s nice to put the companion plants together, and the whole permaculture thing with the frequently used crops closer to the back door etc. But hey, if a pumpkin seed from your compost accidentally sprouts among the beans, let it. It’s chosen its place in the jungle, let’s see what happens. (I’m paraphrasing, Jane, hope you don’t mind!)

It’s been a tough summer at Ariston, trying to keep things alive without running water. I performed an emergency evacuation of the strawberry plants; they’re now recuperating each in a separate pot here at my little home where I can water them more easily. Most of them seem likely to live; one is a bit touch and go. Esther, my fellow farmer at Ariston, and I decided to be strategic and just focus our watering efforts on three of the six veggie beds. The green and red peppers are actually making it. I have some faith for the potatoes too. The spinach, well, they suffer on like spinach is willing to do, for better or for worse. The tomatoes have been unreasonable, I must say, and I’m ready to uproot them. There was a lone spring onion left over from happier days; I tasted it and in its wrung out bitter oniony taste its story of hardship was almost audible. I killed that one then, euthanised rather. All the plants are under heaps of straw mulch. We recently had some imifino accidentally sprout and, following Jane’s jungle style, we’re letting them share the soil and the water with the guys we actually planted. But that’s a story for another day.

There’s work to be done! or, My experience of meeting Nelson Mandela

As a Mandela Rhodes scholar of the 2010 cohort I was one of the lucky people who got to meet Nelson Mandela.

I still feel tremendously honoured to have been selected for the scholarship. Just applying for it and going through the exercise of drawing connections between my life and the values that Nelson Mandela has stood for made me see my leadership in a new light. Especially the “Aspire to Be” document, which was developed as Mandela, Prof Gerwel, Shaun Johnson, the Rhodes Trust and others dreamed up this scholarship, really spoke to me. Something between a poem and a credo.

Having been awarded the scholarship and meeting the other scholars was actually honour enough for me. When we were told we may get to meet our patron, I would say I was even mildly unwilling. Certainly the fact that we were expressly and repeatedly told that he may cancel at any minute – for health or any other reason – did not worry me. I knew that I would only get a few seconds with the man and didn’t imagine any valuable exchange could take place. I was concerned to be wasting his time. He had retired from public life and I wanted to grant him some peace. Instead, I imagined, he was being asked to do yet another bunch of visitors a favour. I felt like a tourist.

Also, in the back of my mind, over the years, I had developed a sense that I was not really needed as a leader. White Afrikaans leaders were something of the previous generation; my background did not place me in a position to understand and address the challenges of my time. I began to suspect that I was embracing leadership, partly for others, but to be honest also just out of curiosity and maybe a bit of egoism. Being on the SRC in particular was not a very comfortable experience; I was quite self-conscious; perhaps more than I was conscious of vision and need.

On the day, we were told that Mandela was actually excited to meet us; that he had insisted on meeting us. As we were driven to the house in Houghton I began to realise that the Mandela Rhodes scholarships was something that he had dreamed of. That I was one of the young African leaders that he and the others had felt compelled to identify and empower because of the daunting challenges that they saw lying ahead for the continent.

The Madiba magic is real. I was introduced to him and I shook his huge hand. Even sitting in a chair, he was tall. He was also struggling to hear me, and Prof Gerwel and Shaun had to amplify my words to him. He cracked a joke about the Western Cape (“I know it very well… I spent 27 years looking at it!”) which I am told he tells often. That was lovely. But what I will take away is the eagerness with which he met me.

I have realised because of meeting Nelson Mandela, that self-indulgently gazing at my white navel is a waste of precious resources. This is true for everyone (regardless the colour of your navel) so feel free to apply to it yourself, but it is also true for me. Mandela was worried about the Africa he would leave behind, and he dreamed and hoped that there were young people ready to lead. I knew from how open he was when he met me that I am part of what gives him hope for the future of our continent.

Looking at the photos afterwards I saw how Professor Jakes Gerwel had enjoyed the moment. I am going to treasure the picture of the late, great Prof hiding his smile behind his hand, just as much as the image of Madiba shaking my hand.

I am so humbled to think that, as a Mandela Rhodes scholar, I symbolise hope to people like Mandela and Gerwel. I am such a selfish and immature person and I know that in my own strength I am unlikely to achieve anything of significant benefit to others. At the same time meeting the incredible Nelson Mandela has made me realise that I – and everyone else who hopes to contribute to Africa’s future – must stop this apologetic nonsense and find a way to do something useful. There’s plenty of work to be done.

http://www.mandelarhodes.org/MRF_Characteristics.htm

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Simplicity

There is a small rural village in Rwanda. It spans several hills, as most towns do. I ended up staying there for the first part of my visit to Rwanda, the “culture plunge”.  I plunged thoroughly into the culture! In this town, I drank rosemary tea with creamy milk, I worked the fields with women, I carried a baby on my back, I chewed on freshly-cut sugar cane and enjoyed fried green bananas and my first much-anticipated cassava, I attended a three hour long Catholic mass in the local language Kinyarwanda, I spoke probably more French than ever before, and I took my first trip on a motorcycle taxi.

The Rwandan countryside is incredibly beautiful to me. Far more so than I expected. Often I was left just staring at the hills around us. The earth is so abundant there. Almost everybody owns not only a home, but also a piece of land behind the home – sometimes quite a large piece like a hockey field in total, broken into blocks over the hill.

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The knowledge of how to cultivate one’s own lands for subsistence has not been forgotten in Rwanda. Households, even when some members earn salaries, are encouraged to grow plenty of their own food and the surplus they load in a basket and carry down to the market. Maybe there are parts of South Africa where this still happens, but I fear most of us forgot how to live like this because of urbanisation and land dispossession. I explained to Rwandans that many South Africans live in shacks very close to each other, with no land to grow anything. When such South Africans have no money, they have no food. Standing in a field of sweet potatoes and mielies, banana trees and avo trees overhead, my sketch of South African poverty sounds almost too terrible to be real. No-one seems to believe me.

While there are many things I learned in that town, what God has most strongly revealed to me, so far, about the experience is simplicity. Life in there is simpler than any life I have ever lived. If you ask people what we are going to do tomorrow, they have two, maybe three things on the list. One evening I asked what we would do the next day and the only reply was: we will be washing clothes.

The value of a simple lifestyle is that, with all the clutter of my ordinary life out of the way, I began to hear myself think.

This was not as terrifying as I expected. Maybe you are like me, almost afraid of being too idle because you’re not sure you would like having a conversation with yourself. It wasn’t as scary as that. It was gradual and gentle. I thought more things through, I prayed about more things, and I felt more at peace with myself.

Live closer to the things growing around you, and you will notice your own growth.

It is the third month of the short rainy season. Go down on your haunches in a field. Look down and see the deep red earth, pushed aside with a hoe three months ago to make a shallow planting hole. See the darker bits of composted grass and cow dung, stuck into the hole before the bean was planted there, so that when it germinated it would be surrounded by nutrients. Look how the bean has grown, finding next to it the tall dry branch that the careful farmer has stuck in next to it, and beginning to climb. See the first tender flowers.

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See how green the plant is, seeming like it lacks nothing. It has abundant food, warm sunshine, and plenty of water. Like you. And now let the skin on your feet feel the red footpath, trailing the side of the hill, homeward.

The first few days back in South Africa, I was very pleased when the desire to reflect and to write down brief insights in my journal did not fade. I sensed in myself a hint more grace for people, too; inner peace spilling over in outer peace. I thought that Rwanda has changed me.

But two days later, I was back to rushing from one thing to another and the journal entries dried up. I realised that the peace was a result, at least in part, of the simplicity I had lived. And that I would have to consciously seek out such a life if I wanted to enjoy that peace.

I went to my allotment garden at Ariston. I planted the “dodo” plant seeds that Consellée had given me. And I felt something of the peace return. I will keep seeking.

Visions of Rwanda and Taizé

To learn more about Taizé, visit taize.fr/en

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Traditional dances.

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Fried green bananas are delicious! (They say it’s not platain but I’m not so sure.)

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I insisted on “helping” to work the fields … only lasted 2 hours. The women who work these fields do 7 hours every day. I have so much respect for them.

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The meeting in Kigali, 14-18 November.

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BEST form of transport!

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Coffee.

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The genocide memorial museum, where people could contribute photos of people who were killed.

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Fresh banana juice! Yum.

Rwanda was, well, it was so many things.

I recently attended the Taizé Pilgrimage of Trust on Eart in Kigali, Rwanda. Before the main gathering I also had the privilege of going on the optional “culture plunge”: living with a family outside of Kigali and just experiencing life with them.

Rwanda was, well, it was so many things.

In the two weeks that I was there…

I filled up that blank notebook, and then another.

I felt my soul breathe at the sight of the beautiful landscapes of the country affectionately known as the Land of a Thousand Hills.

I learned about peace, and discovered that I’m not alone in dreaming of it.

I observed lives lived in a country that is developing in leaps and bounds while grappling with a gruesome, traumatic national memory.

I learned about crop cultivation in Eastern/Central Africa and I helped hoe the fields one morning, too!

I came much closer to the brutality that humankind is capable of. I stood in a church where thousands of people had hidden in desperation, only to be slaughtered.

I was blessed to win the confidence of two or three young Rwandans, who shared bits of their  drastically varying life stories with me. These conversations I will value forever.

I tasted a bit of Taizé and cried my eyes out at sheer relief that God has provided people who know Him and peace so much better than I do. I want more!

I experienced the joyful, abandoned and expressive worship of Rwandans and other Africans who joined us for the Taizé gathering. (I think it took the Europeans a lot longer to get used to than us South Africans!)

I heard stories of reconciliation… but not enough. Give me more!

I found myself living slower and with more time for reflection. This was awesome and it is something I want to cultivate in my normal life.

Even before departing for Rwanda, I discovered a new generosity in my heart, which I think is a result of trusting God for provision for the trip. It deeply affected the way I look at money and community.

I saw the value of officially acknowledging people’s suffering through justice, truth telling, memorialisation, reparations and restitution, and the inverse, the pain of not getting any acknowledgement for one’s suffering.

I got an idea of how much it sucks not having complete freedom of expression.

I learned about the idea of “Shalom”, which is not just the absence of war but complete well-being in every facet of one’s life which flows over into life-giving relationships with others.

On a lighter note, I ate “fufu” / ubugali which was made the right way, unlike our pathetic efforts at the fundraising dinners that I hosted before my departure J

I gave an impromptu South African history lesson to a bunch of rural Rwandan primary school teachers.

I forgot my shampoo and discovered that cold water and Dove soap works almost as well!

I carried a baby on my back, which I thought was, you know, cool but I wasn’t prepared for the total amazement of the locals!

I spoke massive amounts of broken French to people who not only often spoke equally broken French back, but also switch their ‘R’ and ‘L’ sounds around at will so that “J’aime les fleures” sounds like “J’aime réfrères.”

I took several trips on motorcycle taxis! You haven’t lived until you’ve felt the breeze as you cruised up and down the hills of Kigali.

I drank rosemary tea and “sosoma” – a soya, sorghum and maize drink. I ate cassava roots, cassava leaves, fried green bananas, cooked green bananas, dried fishies, and way, way, way too many beans!

The other South Africans and I showed sang South Africa’s national anthem and explained the significance of the flag to about 2000 young people. Feedback was that almost everyone would have preferred if we showed them a Zulu dance. Turns out Zulus are really famous…

God worked. People were blessed by Taizé. Rwandans felt honoured and affirmed by the presence of so many eager youngsters in their towns and cities.

My prayer for you is that you would feel God’s redemptive power in the world around you. Jesus died so that we can draw near to God.

Amahoro.

Cara

Maslow en Ubuntu

Na kerk het ons na sy huis toe gery. Ek het ingekom; sy ma ontmoet. Haar Engels is so goed. Sy het nie werk nie. Die huis is vol mense – ‘n ruim huis vir Kayamandi, in die ouer en beter deel van die dorp. Daar’s etlike jong vroue met kinders wat kuier en rondsit. ‘n Seun sit en eet pap met suurmelk. Op die mure en op rakke is daar skoolfotos.

In die agterplaas is ‘n groterige buitekamer uit sinkplate gebou. Nelson woon hier buite, klaarblyklik in ‘n kamer van sy eie. Maar oor die weke noem hy dikwels dat hy net wens hy het ‘n plek gehad waar hy alleen kon wees met sy gedagtes. Maslow se gat, dink ek. Nelson se fisiese behoeftes is gedurig in gedrang, maar hy noem gereeld sy behoefte om te dink; om stil te kan wees; om te filosofeer oor die dieper dinge van die lewe.

Ons stap op ‘n dag na Stellemploy. Ek ken hierdie werkburo goed; ek werk in dieselfde gebou. Nelson maak ‘n afspraak vir die volgende week. Ons kyk na die fotos teen hulle mure van mense wat tuinwerk leer doen; messelaars- en bouerswerk; elektrisiëns en die groep waarmee Stellemploy graag spog – hulle chefs waarvan die een al ‘n internasionale beurs gekry het.

Stellemploy adverteer glad nie, want mense is bewus van hulle. Elke dag kom dosyne mense daar in. Hulle probeer soveel as moontlik mense help om opleiding en dan plasing by ‘n werk te kry. Terwyl ons daar is, praat Gaynor op die telefoon met iemand wat ‘n groep tuinwerkers benodig vir ‘n kort projek. Maar ek wonder hoekom Nelson nie regtig bewus was van Stellemploy nie. Ons is al te lank vriende dat hy nou vir my sal jok oor so iets en boonop kan ek mos sien hy’s nuut by die kantoor. Ek kyk na die demografie van die mense wat by Stellemploy wag vir hul onderhoude. Daar is wel mense van Nelson se portuurgroep.

 

Nelson, ek sien jou altyd alleen en jy praat nooit van vriende nie, sê ek. Hy het nie eintlik meer vriende nie, sê hy. Hy het geleer jy kan nie mense vertrou nie. Maar jy moet mense kan vertrou, sê ek. Op jou eie kan ‘n mens nêrens kom nie. Maar ek wil nie preek nie en ek kan uit sy stories aflei dat hy al dikwels teleurgestel is. Die spaza shop is besteel deur iemand wat hy as ‘n vriend beskou het. Mense belowe werk en deliver nie. (Ek wil nie een van hulle wees nie; ek belowe niks.)  En dan is daar die ma van sy kinders. Sy is stupid, sê hy. Hy gee nie om wat met haar gebeur nie. Hy wil net sy kinders naby hom hê. Hy wil hulle leer sokker speel.

Die ma van sy kinders weier om hom toe te laat om sy kinders te sien en die maatskaplike werkers is aan die ma se kant, want hy kan nie onderhoud betaal nie. Ek raak stilletjies verstom met die besef dat hy nie eens iets noem van dat dit ‘n fout was om onbeskermde seks te hê as ‘n mens glad nie vir kinders sal kan sorg wat jy dalk verwerk nie. Maar die behoefte om by sy kinders te wees is duidelik. Ek wonder by wie ‘n seun in die townships sy lewenslesse leer. Ek wonder hoe finansieel secure ‘n mens dan nou gaan probeer wees voordat jy kinders verwek – veral as jy nie ‘n realistiese verwagting het om bo desperate finansiële omstandighede uit te styg binne vyf jaar of ‘n dekade nie. As jy nie skool klaargemaak het nie. As daar ‘n skoolmeisie is wat by jou wil slaap.

Ons gesprekke is gepeper met sy versoeke vir stuff. Ek raak ongemaklik. Een keer, op pad huis toe van die kerk af, sê hy dat alles tog sou uitwerk as hy net ‘n kar gehad het. En verloor ek my humeur. Jy dink die lewe is vir my maklik! Jy dink hierdie mense wat hier rondry in motors het geen sorge nie! Hoe weet jy dit? Hulle is weer bekommerd oor ander goed! Jy dink jou lewe sou perfek wees as jy geld gehad het! Jy verstaan nie! Hy is stil. Dit lyk asof hy wag vir my uitbarsting om op te hou. Asof hy nie eens hoor wat ek sê nie.

Hier, vat hierdie sakkie aartappels, sê ek. Ek stop dit vir hom in die hand, laai hom by die huis af, en ry. Spyt oor my uitbarsting en verward met sy klaarblyklike onbegrip daarvoor.

‘n Gesprek voor kerk

Op ‘n manier het ek en my vriend Nelson besluit om mekaar se kerke te besoek. Eers sou hy myne besoek en daarna ek syne.

Dit was die Sondagoggend van die rugbywereldbeker finaal. Hy het gese hy wil eers voor die tyd met my praat, dus was hy al 07:30 daar. Ons het eintlik gese 08:00, dus moes hy maar ‘n bietjie buite die koshuis wag voordat ek gereed was. Toe het ons saam ontbyt geëet in my gang se kombuis. Roosterbrood en konfyt.

Hy het meestal probeer om my te oortuig om vir hom by iemand ‘n werk te kry.  Dit was duidelik hy is desperaat. Maar ons het ook oor onsself gesels. Hy het my vertel hoedat hy meestal in Khayelitsha op laerskool was en toe in Kayamandi op hoërskool. Maar hy moes na sy jonger boeties en sussies omsien en niemand in sy familie het werk gehad nie. Gevolglik het hy later probeer odd jobs doen. Hy was nie gereëld by die skool nie. Op hierdie punt in die storie het hy beklemtoon dat hy slim genoeg was vir skool. Ek kon enige onderwyseres vra, het hy gesê. Dit was net dat hy nie daar was nie, want hy het probeer geld maak. Op die ou end het hy dagga begin verkoop. Dit het beter betaal as ander goed. Hy het nie skool klaargemaak nie, want hy was te besig.

In ‘n stadium het daar ‘n groot sokkerspan in Kayamandi gekom besoek aflê – iemand soos die Kaizer Chiefs. Hulle het met die plaaslike sokkerspan ‘n paar balle rondgeskop. Later het hulle gekyk hoe die plaaslike spelers ‘n wedstryd speel. Halftyd het Nelson op die sokkerspelery afgekom en ‘n plek in een van die spanne gekry. In die tweede helfte het hy vir sy span, wat voor halftyd besig was om te verloor, drie doele aangeteken en hulle het die wedstryd gewen.

Die ouens van die vername sokkerspan het rondgevra oor hom. Wie is daardie ou wat die drie doele aangeteken het? Wou hulle weet. Dit is Nelson, was die antwoord. Nelson daag nie altyd op vir oefeninge nie, maar hy speel so nou en dan saam. Een van die vername sokkerspelers het na Nelson toe gegaan. Jy moet gereëld oefen, het hy vir Nelson gesê. ‘n Mens moet dissipline hê as jy iewers wil kom.

Dit was ‘n draaipunt vir Nelson. Hy het gewonder waar hy sou kon uitkom as hy meer doelgerig geoefen het. Hy het gereëld begin opstaan om vroegoggend “roadwork” te doen.

Maar tussendeur het die lewe gebeur. Hy het ‘n spaza shop saam met sy ma in Khayelitsha bedryf. Daar was ‘n girlfriend en toe was daar ‘n baba. En toe ‘n tweede baba. Twee seuns. Toe word die spaza shop besteel en Nelson het geen werk nie, geen inkomste nie, geen manier om onderhoud vir sy kinders te betaal nie.

Op pad kerk toe vra ek hom: Waar is sy pa nou? Hy kyk skerp na my, asof hy ontbloot voel. Hy woon in Khayelitsha, sê hy. Hy is nie deel van sy lewe nie.

En toe gaan ons kerk toe.

Die avonture van twee 25-jarige Kapenaars

Liewe leser – hierdie blog post is nou vir jou as jy nog nie genoeg gehad het van my karaktersketse nie. Ek sal probeer om dit onsoetsappig te maak, maar as jy nie daarvan hou nie, gaan lees maar elders!

 

Kom ons noem hom Nelson. Hy sou daarvan hou.

Ons het ontmoet op ‘n Sondagmiddag. Ek was in my koshuiskamer aan die werk toe ek iemand buite hoor roep. Nuuskierig het ek my kop uitgesteek en hy het gevra of ek iemand nodighet om my kar te was. Ja, ek het, het ek gesê. Dit is hoe dit begin het.

Nelson het my kar nogal deeglik gewas (ek inspekteer altyd ‘n karwasser se werk, nes my pa my geleer het, en wys vir hom waar om nog ‘n bietjie beter skoon te maak). Ek dink ek het hom R40 betaal. Hy het vir my sy ma se nommer gegee sodat ek weer kan bel as ek my motor wil laat was of enige ander los werkies het vir hom. Hy woon in Kayamandi by sy ma, het hy my meegedeel, en hy is werkloos. Ons het uitgewerk ons is omtrent ewe oud, maar dit is sover soos die ooreenkomste gaan.

‘n Paar weke later het ek hom gebel en hy het stiptelik opgedaag om weer my motor te was. Hy het ‘n vriend by hom gehad en hulle het hulle eie kar was seep saamgebring. Ek was baie haastig en kon nie lekker aandag gee nie, maar hulle het my ‘n stuk gelaat lees wat Nelson met die hand in ‘n Croxley-boek geskryf het. Dit was onduidelik waarvoor die stuk geskryf is, maar dit het allerhande politieke stellings gemaak, soos dat menseregte belangrik is, dat sosialisme ‘n goeie idee is, en – wat my bygebly het – dat iemand wat ‘n misdaad pleeg, eers as straf na sy tuisdorp gestuur moet word; en eers vir sy tweede misdaad tronk toe gestuur behoort te word. Dit besing ook die lof van “Dr Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela”. Die naam word telkens met titel en volle name geskryf. My vriend Nelson het gesê hy wil graag met my praat, later, as ek tyd het. Ja, later, het ek gesê.

Die lewe gebeur nie soos ‘n fliek of roman nie. Dit gebeur ook nie soos ‘n akademiese artikel nie. Die lewe gebeur maar net. Jy kom later agter watter besonderhede belangrik was – daarom is dit so moeilik om te midde van ‘n ervaring vir ander daaroor te vertel. Maar ek dink ek sal probeer met Nelson.

Vir my het die lewe in Bellville, Durbanville en Stellenbosch gebeur soos dit het, sover.

Vir Nelson het die lewe tussen Khayelitsha en Kayamandi gebeur, terselfdetyd. Ek het uitgevind hy was in Dr Nelson Mandela High School in Khayelitsha – dus die konstante verwysing na hierdie held. Ek het hom nog nie die foto van my en sy held gewys nie. Ek wonder hoe hy sal reageer.

‘n Paar weke later het ons saam na my kerk toe gegaan. Daaroor sal ek jou volgende keer vertel. Dalk laat ek hom ook nog op ‘n keer self hier skryf.

Climbing off the fence

To Luhann and everybody else who would like me to have a bit more guts and give my opinion.

I have thought for a week about your question – about where I stand; what I propose Afrikaners should do if it isn’t the VVK. Also, while I am engaging with these ideas, I’m engaging with some black people who are quite “over” reconciliation too and I’m a bit exhausted. But here is the answer I promised, as best as I can write it for now.

When I was growing up, I didn’t really believe that white people had anything at all to be angry about. It was clear to me that black people have a history of  inhumane oppression at the hands of white people, and I was not surprised at their bitterness.

I had no empathy at all for white racists. I also tended to see any white complaints and anger and bitterness  as mixed with vicious disdain and hatred towards blacks. I was often right, but not always.

I wrote a whole long story now, which I will spare you and maybe share with my close friends, documenting my walk with God from realising the corporate guilt in which I share; the years of shame and despair; the decision to accept forgiveness from God and then letting Him lead me wherever He wants. It has been very difficult. One of the things it included was going to the VVK meeting.

Going to the VVK meeting, and having a couple of painful discussions with a beloved white friend who didn’t grow up in the idyllic Western Cape, are pulling at the curtains I’ve drawn over white people’s suffering. I haven’t really suffered in the new South Africa at all, so the special kinds of suffering of white people was initially easy to ignore. And now… it really complicates the picture when you believe that both black and white have done wrong, and not just one group. It is also shocking to me how little white knows what black thinks of them and of life; and vice versa.

I guess I’m coming to accept that white people, all of them, also deserve human dignity. I am very humbled to realise what a bitch I’ve been to some white people in the past while preaching universal love and understanding. I’m sorry. And I know I will have to keep listening to them even if doing so currently troubles me.

But if you forced me today, to either join the ranks of the campaign for Afrikaner freedom, or remain a part of the “terminally ill rainbow nation”,  I would choose the latter. This country is very very sick, but to me the whole country is my country and every unemployed person or person living with HIV and person living in a shack and raped woman in this country are my people. And every former Apartheid policeman, and every airheaded English liberal city girl are my people too.

I don’t side with the VVK, because they want to withdraw from this pain into an imagined safe place. But I don’t believe that they will have any rest until they’ve had healing, no matter how high they build the barricades to ensure their physical safety in their Nuwe Boererepubliek. They won’t be able to think straight with all those negative emotions running through their minds; through their souls even I believe.

I also don’t believe black people who go through the world despising me and other white people will have any true rest. Not only do I need their forgiveness, but I think they need to forgive me too. Else they won’t be able to think straight either, even if they try to ignore white people in their country. It is difficult to emphasise this point because it sounds demanding, so I won’t.

That is where I stand. I am grateful to know that a lot of my sentiments here are shared by other South Africans of all races, many of them also Christians in whose lives I believe God can impart wisdom and direction. (Please understand that I do not imagine my faith to be a simple means to finding solutions.) But I would like to live in this country and work with others to heal the injustices of the past and the present; the suffering of black and white.

There is no formula for national healing. But I will spend my life pursuing it. And there are others like me.

A volkstaat for the VVK

Lauren said, “So are you going to the Afrikaner meeting?”

I said if the Afrikaners were meeting, I didn’t know about it. So she sent me a picture of the lamppost with the poster.

The Volksraadverkiesingskomitee was calling a meeting. In English they suggest that they be called the “Electoral Commission for the Election of a Boer-Afrikaner People’s Assembly”.

If you showed me this two years ago, I would have laughed. A year ago, I would have run away and hidden under something, terrified of what is happening to the Afrikaners, this group of people with whose past I identify so strongly and whose politics today drive me to utter despair.

This year, because I believe that God is inviting me to come to terms with every aspect of my identity, I said: “Let’s go.”

So Lauren and Lweendo thought about it. We all read up about the VVK at http://www.vvk.co.za, and they sort of chickened out, but I said I’m going whether they join me or not. And so we went.

 ***

It is difficult to be objective when I tell you of that evening. How can three young friends, who would all have been housed in different areas under Apartheid, be objective about a meeting of 40 odd Afrikaners who want self-determination? We’ve had a lot of discussions since that night and we’re still reeling a bit. But in light of what happened the next morning, we decided we should try to tell you what we saw. Lauren and Lweendo added their comments at the end. They might be the only people who don’t fit the demographic who have witnessed a meeting like this, and I might be the only “volksgenoot” who was there as a traitor instead of a potential registered and paid-up member.

 ***

There is one more thing I want to say before I start. If you are tempted to ridicule and belittle these people, I want you to realise that you have now met the limits of your own open-mindedness and compassion. If you cannot regard these people as your fellow human beings and worthy of some respect, you do not espouse the spirit of reconciliation upon which this nation was born, any more than they do.

***

 We walked up to the door slowly, wondering what we would find. We had decided not to speak at the meeting, not wanting to get involved in long debates. We wanted to observe. But would we be allowed to? Were these guys actually dangerous or just radical? Lauren, whose parents raised her in English like many other “coloured” parents of their generation, arranged with me that I will translate words for her if necessary. We took a deep breath and strode inside.

The first thing you noticed was the flags. There were no Old South Africa flags, if you were wondering. I don’t think the VVK really liked the Old South Africa, founded as it was after the loss of the Boer republics in the Anglo-Boer War. Instead, the Vierkleur van Transvaal forms part of the VVK’s logo.

We picked a row about midway through the room. There was one young man sitting about six seats into the row, and we took up the three at the end, he suddenly stood up with conviction and asked that we please get up and let him pass so that he can switch to the row behind us.

Two men seemed kind of amused by us and they held their video camera on us for a long time, grinning. We shrugged and grinned back and speculated what they’d use the footage for.

I was kind of enjoying the attention. People, mostly my parents’ age, were glancing at us and then looking away, talking. Twice, people came up to us and asked whether we knew what the meeting was about and whether we were in the right place. A young man behind us leaned over and said, “Julle weet hierdie hele vergadering gaan in Afrikaans wees, nè?” I replied: “Ja, dis nie ‘n probleem nie,” and he said “Wel, miskien nie vir jou nie.” Lweendo turned around and said, practically without accent: “Ja, ek verstaan!” Growing up as the daughter of a Zambian doctor, on the white side Krugersdorp, will do that!

We also noticed the little copper busts on the front desk. Afrikaner heroes, presumably. I thought I saw Paul Kruger. There was also a female bust and we wondered who that could be. Lweendo guessed Emily Hobhouse; I guess Racheltjie de Beer. Then I had to tell Lweendo about Racheltjie de Beer.

The meeting was opened “op die gepaste manier” with scripture reading and prayer. The speaker read the story of Gideon from Judges 7, telling the audience that it is clear from the Bible that God can use even a small group of people to do His will, and that the Afrikaners must not get downhearted because God will help them to fulfil their God-given mission. He prayed, saying: “We know we as a people have sinned and that this is why you have punished us by taking away our freedom”.

Then a man introduced himself as Paul Kruger, a lawyer from Pretoria. He serves as the chairperson of the Volksraad Verkiesingskommissie and addressed the meeting as “Volksgenote”. The word “volk”, used also in Hitler’s National Socialism, cannot be translated and means something like an ethnic nation. He was thus calling the audience “fellow members of the nation”.

I will not repeat Mr Kruger’s introduction, because he basically explained what the VVK is about as it is set out on their website. You can read their statement in English if you scroll down on this page http://www.vvk.co.za/8927.html. If you understand Afrikaans, you can also scan  through their legal argument here http://www.vvk.co.za/33519/60530.html. At this meeting, which is part of a national tour, some of the nominees for the Volksraad would have a chance to address us.

There were only four nominees present, as most of them reside in Gauteng and could not take leave from work. The four addressed the audience in turn, each one’s CV first being read by Mr Kruger. Mr Kruger expressed great pride at the fact that there are close to 20 nominations. He said it encouraged him to have proof such as this that those Afrikaners who said the volk has no more leaders anymore are wrong.

The four nominees present were all male, and I wondered if there were no women running, but I see on the website that there is one woman among them. The meeting was also predominantly attended by men, but some married couples attended. The CVs of the four nominees were so composed as to convince voters of their involvement with ethnic/cultural organisations, their commitment to family and church, and the successes of their careers. Some of the organisations that they belong to or have belonged to included: Die GHA, the Herstigte Nasionale Party, die Voortrekkers, die Rapportryerskorps, die Majuba Boeretrust, the Oranje Sake-instituut, die Geloftefees Herdenkingskomitee, Projek 2010, Suiderland Media, die Oraniabeweging. They all belonged either to the APK (Afrikaanse Protestantse Kerk) or Dutch Reformed (NG) Church.

I can now relay some of the arguments to you, although I must emphasise that I may have misunderstood them in some ways.

A key element in the ideology of this group is that white people and especially Afrikaners are under siege in South Africa. They speak of how white people’s numbers are dwindling and how the insufficient policing of our borders conveniently allows even more black Africans into the country to outnumber whites. Black-on-white violence, according to them, amounts to genocide. I think any one of them would say that they live in constant fear, for themselves and their families. Especially in the case of brutal farm murders, where they emphasise that the motive is not always even theft. The song “Dubun’ ibunu” / Shoot the Boer is often mentioned, with the implication that black South Africans are being officially encouraged to commit these acts of hatred. I say “black” South Africans but it seemed to me that the speakers did not have a very nuanced conception of the Other that they believe themselves to be up against. They also often spoke of “strangers” (vreemdes) instead of giving a description of their enemy. One of them has laid a claim at an international genocide watchdog.

They also clearly believe that the Afrikaner’s mission in Africa is God-given. They see their quest as a continuation of the Battle of Blood River and the religiously inspired narrative of the Afrikaners, identifying strongly with the Old Testament. They did not explicitly state that Afrikaners are superior to other races. They did not mention how Afrikaners benefit Africa.

There is also a pervasive denial of guilt. One speaker went so far as to insist that Afrikaners never took away the hartland of any other volk; that in fact, others were given additional “lewensruimte” by the Afrikaners – referring here to the Apartheid homeland policy. Afrikaners were too nice to the volksvreemdes, and this kindness has turned around to bite them. One nominee also emphasised that Afrikaners have a juridical, moral, and historical right to self-determination.

Finally there was a deep disgust at the current government – not only because they feel inadequately protected, but because of corruption, of which all black leaders are indiscriminately accused. In fact I think it is safe to say that the current government of South Africa enjoys no legitimacy with the speakers at this meeting, except in so far as they consider their mission potentially justified by Article 235 of the Constitution.

But they would not use these negative themes to describe themselves. Instead, maybe they would talk about a hope at a better future for their children. Many of the speakers that evening – all men – spoke of their responsibility towards their families, who cower in fear in their homes at night. These men feel it their duty to be able to tell their wives, daughters and sons that they are working towards securing a country for them where their enemies cannot harm them.

Maybe they would tell you that they are merely struggling for their own freedom – that they are freedom fighters in their own right, committed to the cause of the freedom of their people from the legal, physical and intellectual oppression of those who wish them ill.

Or maybe they would tell you of their deep faith in God. But I find it so difficult to reconcile my Christian faith to theirs that I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about that.

Abel Malan’s speech was the most radical. He wholeheartedly agreed with what the others said, he simply turned up the heat several degrees. He said that white people are a dwindling minority in South Africa. There is only one possibility for survival: to occupy some small area (possibly one obtained through negotiations with the ANC government) and to re-populate it. And then, to begin to re-conquer the old, white South Africa. The Afrikaners are a minority, but must make themselves unmissable, he said.

Malan also lashed out the most aggressively against volksgenote who have forsaken their Godly calling to aspire to self-determination; those who are so naïve to believe that they have any future in the so-called new South Africa. Also those who, like prof Anton van Niekerk, dare to tell other Afrikaners that they should be humble and feel guilty about the Bush War – a war that they won! “Humility!” he repeated with disgust. The Afrikaner has never been humble, he insisted. It is not what the Afrikaner does. He said that Afrikaners do not  mix with others, nor do they “humbly” let others step all over them. He was outraged, he said, that they are up against enemies not only outside their ranks, but also from people like this professor, who should be on their side! But, he told us, he had made an appointment with this professor for the following morning, to discuss the article.

Upon hearing this, my friends and I were not really concerned. I actually thought it would be quite a good idea for Malan to speak to the professor face to face. I thought it quite mature. That’s before I found out that Malan evidently subscribes to the proverb: As hy nie wil hoor nie, moet hy voel.

Mr Kruger often interjected throughout the evening, offering information and opinions, and as far as we could see, he has done his legal homework properly. He said it was crucial that the VVK leaders, once elected, at least attempt to obtain a Volkstaat through the legal channels. One of the nominees – the only one from the Western Cape – beseeched the others not to make any more enemies, but to maintain the moral high ground and to win the sympathy of the international community. Many of them spoke enthusiastically of strategies to get their message out: they have 30 000 registered members, but believed that many more would join their cause if word could reach them. All of them, except Abel Malan, seemed willing to keep the peace by letting Afrikaans white South Africans like me, who have absolutely no desire to live in an Afrikaner volkstaat, enjoy our place in the sun. In a way, I walked out with respect for them. Respect, and concern. We left after about two and a half hours, when they were about to share their financial situation with the group.

– Cara
Lauren continues the story:

As we discussed the bizarre way we spent our evening, several things came to light. Lauren was quite happy to sign off on a decision to give them their own boertjie homeland, after all it seemed that the VVK was legally entitled to it. However, the more interesting part that Lauren was interested in was to see whether they would ever be able to legally plead for state resources given that they had seceded from the Republic. In general, we discussed how an economic model of a Volkstaat might work in a globalised economy. Mostly we also discussed how the VVK could not seem to think that anyone else in South Africa – besides their volk – was also angry at the levels of crime and corruption. In this vein, Lweendo mentioned that her mom’s white friends were very surprised to hear that crime happens to black people too.

Since hearing of the assault of Prof. van Niekerk, it will be interesting to see whether the VVK distances themselves from the actions of Abel Malan. If not, then whatever individual amounts of democratic respect and tolerance we held for them that night in Stellenbosch have quickly dissipated.

-Lauren

Lweendo speaks…

Sitting discussing the meeting as an intellectual exercise was all well and good but reading about the assault of Prof. van Niekerk the next morning made our experience all the more poignant. Often when it comes to these issues we sit outside and judge these ideologies. But we sat in that meeting, we heard those men speak. We saw them for what they are, fellow South Africans looking for an identity.

Please note – below, some of the most notable Afrikaans comments have been translated by Cara, including one by a VVK nominee.