From apartheid to zefside

fold

fold

1991-2005: Aprox. 250.000 white South Africans emigrate

For de fleste vil APARTHEID klinge lige så velkendt og ubehageligt, som ZEFSIDE klinger fremmed og uhåndgribeligt. Zef er en sydafrikansk subkultur med udspring i den hvide underklasse. Det er symptomatisk for Sydafrika, at selv ting der ikke handler om apartheid og race, stadig handler om race. Ligesom sydafrikanere af blandet oprindelse forsøgte at lyve sig hvide under apartheid, beskyldes hvide Zef-rappere nu for at stjæle sort kultur i deres søgen efter identitet.

1991-2006: Aprox. 1,500 white South African farmers are killed Nelson Mandela is elected president

1995:

South Africa hosts and wins the Rugby World Cup

1996:

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission begins its work

2002:

Chester Williams releases autobiography

2003:

The Black Economic Empowerment programme is implemented

2005:

Allegations of corruption are levied against Deputy President Jacob Zuma of the ANC

2009:

Jacob Zuma is elected president

2010:

Die Antwoord releases Zefside

2010:

South Africa hosts the 2010 FIFA World Cup

2010:

The Equality Court convicts Julius Malema of hate speech against whites.

He is expelled from the ANC

2013:

Nelson Mandela dies

2014:

The Economic Freedom Fighters led by Julius Malema enters parliament as the third-largest party

Antologien From Apartheid to Zefside samler et bredt udsnit af tekster i forskellige genrer og stilarter. Fordelt over to kapitler beskæftiger teksterne sig med henholdsvis tiden under og efter apartheid i Sydafrika med et særligt fokus på menneskelige skæbner og identitet.

Forfatterne tæller blandt andre Rayda Jacobs, Nadine Gordimer, Richard Rive, Alan Paton, John Matshikiza og Die Antwoord.

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

1994:

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fold

BEFORE

NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN

AFTER

11 mm

Alle teksterne er gloseret, og de er præsenteret med elevaktiverende arbejdsopgaver, der lægger op til tekstnærhed og refleksion. Teksterne er desuden sat sammen på en måde, der skaber rig mulighed for perspektivering mellem teksterne.

Bogen vil desuden kunne bruges i tværfaglige forløb med historie omkring Sydafrika eller i forløb med samfundsfag omkring identitetsdannelse.

Pre-Historic: Bushmen migrate to South Africa Aprox. 500: Bantu tribes migrate to South Africa

NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE LINDHARDT OG RINGHOF

ISBN 978877066022

www.logr.dk

valgt_OMSLAG_apartheid/zefside.indd 1

1652:

The first Dutch settlers arrive at the Cape

1835 1902:

The Great Trek begins South Africa becomes a British colony after the Boer Wars

1912:

The ANC is founded

1913:

The Natives’ Land Act is passed

1948:

Daniel François Malan becomes prime minister

1950:

The Group Areas Act is passed

1952:

The Defiance of Unjust Laws Campaign

1953:

The Reservation of Separate Amenities Act is passed

1956:

Blacks lose the right to vote

1960:

The ANC is banned

1960:

The Sharpeville Massacre

1962:

The United Nations condemn apartheid and South Africa is banned from participating in international sports events

1962:

Political activist Nelson Mandela is imprisoned

1966:

Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd is murdered

1976:

The Soweto Uprising

1989:

W. F. de Klerk is elected president

1990:

The ban on the ANC and other anti-apartheid organizations is lifted, the death sentence is suspended, and several prisoners, including Nelson Mandela, are released

28/01/15 15.54 fold

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NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

LINDHARDT OG RINGHOF

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 1

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CONTENT FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE AF NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN ©2014 Lindhardt og Ringhof Uddannelse, København – et forlag under Lindhardt og Ringhof Forlag A/S, et selskab i Egmont.

Forlagsredaktion: Ulla Benzon Malmmose Billedredaktion: Ulla Barfod Grafisk tilrettelægning og omslag: Ulla Korgaard, Designeriet Mekanisk, fotografisk, elektronisk eller anden gengivelse af denne bog eller dele heraf er kun tilladt efter Copydans regler.

Forlaget har forsøgt at finde og kontakte alle rettighedshavere.

Tryk: Livonia Print 1 udgave 1. oplag 2015 ISBN 978877066022

FORORD

5

INTRODUCTION

7

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE IN SOUTH AFRICA DURING APARTHEID

10

(narrative nonfiction) RESURRECTION

14

(short story) THE MIDDLE CHILDREN

22

(short story) LIFE FOR A LIFE

27

(short story) THE DUBE TRAIN

39

(short story) THOUGHTS IN A TRAIN

45

(short story) ONCE UPON A TIME

49

(short story) WITNESSES TELL WHAT THEY SAW WHEN RIOTS CAME TO SOWETO

54

(article) MR DRUM GOES TO JAIL

61

(narrative nonfiction) LEARNING TO FLY

69

(short story)

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 3

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 2-3

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CONTENT FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE AF NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN ©2014 Lindhardt og Ringhof Uddannelse, København – et forlag under Lindhardt og Ringhof Forlag A/S, et selskab i Egmont.

Forlagsredaktion: Ulla Benzon Malmmose Billedredaktion: Ulla Barfod Grafisk tilrettelægning og omslag: Ulla Korgaard, Designeriet Mekanisk, fotografisk, elektronisk eller anden gengivelse af denne bog eller dele heraf er kun tilladt efter Copydans regler.

Forlaget har forsøgt at finde og kontakte alle rettighedshavere.

Tryk: Livonia Print 1 udgave 1. oplag 2015 ISBN 978877066022

FORORD

5

INTRODUCTION

7

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE IN SOUTH AFRICA DURING APARTHEID

10

(narrative nonfiction) RESURRECTION

14

(short story) THE MIDDLE CHILDREN

22

(short story) LIFE FOR A LIFE

27

(short story) THE DUBE TRAIN

39

(short story) THOUGHTS IN A TRAIN

45

(short story) ONCE UPON A TIME

49

(short story) WITNESSES TELL WHAT THEY SAW WHEN RIOTS CAME TO SOWETO

54

(article) MR DRUM GOES TO JAIL

61

(narrative nonfiction) LEARNING TO FLY

69

(short story)

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 3

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 2-3

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

FORORD

RECONCILIATION AND IDENTITY CRISIS AFTER APARTHEID SOWETO: FRAGMENT FROM A HOMECOMING

79

(narrative nonfiction) WHO? ME? A RACIST? (narrative nonfiction)

83

AN ACT OF VENGEANCE (short story)

86

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF SOUTH AFRICA

93

(song) WILLIAMS LIFTS LID ON RACISM

95

(article) IN CELEBRATION OF WALLS

99

(essay) BEETHOVEN WAS ONE-SIXTEENTH BLACK

104

(short story) THE DUMMIES GUIDE TO ZEF

115

(article) DIS IZ WHY I’M HOT

118

(song) FATTY BOOM BOOM

120

(song) DIE ANTWOORD’S REVIVAL OF BLACKFACE DOES SOUTH AFRICA NO FAVORS 126 (article) MANDELA’S PASSING AND THE LOOMING THREAT OF RACE WAR AGAINST SOUTH AFRICA’S WHITES

130

(article) ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 4 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 4-5

139

Som musikvideoen til Dis Iz Why I’m Hot (2012) starter, kan man høre de første linjer af den sydafrikanske nationalsang sunget med lillepigestemme, mens et skilt kækt erklærer, at Sydafrikas historie kan opsummeres som Nelson Mandela, District 9 og Die Antwoord.

Die Antwoord – som også er afsendere på videoen – er klart bevidste om, at de fra og med deres single Zefside (2010) har haft et stort internationalt – primært vestligt – publikum, og som mange af de ting gruppen producerer, er udsagnet da også en tongue-in-cheek karikatur af vestlige opfattelser af Sydafrika.

Når vi i vesten beskæftiger os med Sydafrika, beskæftiger vi os hurtigt med apartheid, og når vi beskæftiger os med apartheid, beskæftiger vi os hurtigt med Nelson Mandela.

Mere end nogen anden er han billedet på kampen mod apartheid og på arbejdet med at forene en splittet nation efter apartheids fald.

Men er det så udsagnet? Sydafrikas historie er én tredjedel apartheid – personificeret ved dets fremmeste modstander – og to tredjedele popkultur? Eller er det tre tredjedele apartheid?

Sydafrika er meget og mere end bare apartheid, men den over 40 år lange systematiserede raceadskillelse har mere end noget andet været med til definere landets nyere historie samt præge samfundet og indbyggernes selvforståelse.

Science-fiction filmen District 9 (2009) er en klar analogi på raceadskillelsen under apartheid, og Die Antwoord forholdes hele tiden – af sig selv og andre – til apartheid. Som hvide kunstnere der approprierer sort kultur i Sydafrika, er de svære at diskutere uden at diskutere apartheid.

Sydafrika er meget og mere end bare apartheid, men den over 40 år lange systematiserede raceadskillelse har mere end noget andet været med til definere landets nyere historie samt præge samfundet og indbyggernes selvforståelse.

Denne bog søger at forstå tiden under og efter apartheid med en klar humanistisk tilgang til emnet. Fokus er på menneskelige skæbner, på race, på identitet og på selvforståelse samt på fremstillingen af disse. Politikere som Verwoerd, de Klerk og Mandela der var med til at definere apartheid

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 5

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

FORORD

RECONCILIATION AND IDENTITY CRISIS AFTER APARTHEID SOWETO: FRAGMENT FROM A HOMECOMING

79

(narrative nonfiction) WHO? ME? A RACIST? (narrative nonfiction)

83

AN ACT OF VENGEANCE (short story)

86

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF SOUTH AFRICA

93

(song) WILLIAMS LIFTS LID ON RACISM

95

(article) IN CELEBRATION OF WALLS

99

(essay) BEETHOVEN WAS ONE-SIXTEENTH BLACK

104

(short story) THE DUMMIES GUIDE TO ZEF

115

(article) DIS IZ WHY I’M HOT

118

(song) FATTY BOOM BOOM

120

(song) DIE ANTWOORD’S REVIVAL OF BLACKFACE DOES SOUTH AFRICA NO FAVORS 126 (article) MANDELA’S PASSING AND THE LOOMING THREAT OF RACE WAR AGAINST SOUTH AFRICA’S WHITES

130

(article) ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 4 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 4-5

139

Som musikvideoen til Dis Iz Why I’m Hot (2012) starter, kan man høre de første linjer af den sydafrikanske nationalsang sunget med lillepigestemme, mens et skilt kækt erklærer, at Sydafrikas historie kan opsummeres som Nelson Mandela, District 9 og Die Antwoord.

Die Antwoord – som også er afsendere på videoen – er klart bevidste om, at de fra og med deres single Zefside (2010) har haft et stort internationalt – primært vestligt – publikum, og som mange af de ting gruppen producerer, er udsagnet da også en tongue-in-cheek karikatur af vestlige opfattelser af Sydafrika.

Når vi i vesten beskæftiger os med Sydafrika, beskæftiger vi os hurtigt med apartheid, og når vi beskæftiger os med apartheid, beskæftiger vi os hurtigt med Nelson Mandela.

Mere end nogen anden er han billedet på kampen mod apartheid og på arbejdet med at forene en splittet nation efter apartheids fald.

Men er det så udsagnet? Sydafrikas historie er én tredjedel apartheid – personificeret ved dets fremmeste modstander – og to tredjedele popkultur? Eller er det tre tredjedele apartheid?

Sydafrika er meget og mere end bare apartheid, men den over 40 år lange systematiserede raceadskillelse har mere end noget andet været med til definere landets nyere historie samt præge samfundet og indbyggernes selvforståelse.

Science-fiction filmen District 9 (2009) er en klar analogi på raceadskillelsen under apartheid, og Die Antwoord forholdes hele tiden – af sig selv og andre – til apartheid. Som hvide kunstnere der approprierer sort kultur i Sydafrika, er de svære at diskutere uden at diskutere apartheid.

Sydafrika er meget og mere end bare apartheid, men den over 40 år lange systematiserede raceadskillelse har mere end noget andet været med til definere landets nyere historie samt præge samfundet og indbyggernes selvforståelse.

Denne bog søger at forstå tiden under og efter apartheid med en klar humanistisk tilgang til emnet. Fokus er på menneskelige skæbner, på race, på identitet og på selvforståelse samt på fremstillingen af disse. Politikere som Verwoerd, de Klerk og Mandela der var med til at definere apartheid

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 5

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

og kampen mod samme, er skubbet lidt i baggrunden til fordel for de mennesker, som er blevet påvirket af apartheid – både under og efter.

INTRODUCTION Brainstorm and Knowledge-Sharing:

Som navnet antyder fokuserer kapitlet Life and Struggle During Apartheid på tiden under apartheid og på hvordan styreformen påvirkede almindelige sydafrikaneres liv. Afsnittet indeholder en blanding af noveller og artikler, og der gives et grundigt billede af undertrykkelsens voldelige konsekvenser for de sorte og farvede sydafrikanere og manges ønske om at tilhøre en anden race samt af den frygt og isolation apartheid også skabte hos den hvide del af befolkningen.

Anden del – Reconciliation and Identity Crisis After Apartheid – handler i høj grad om, hvordan hvide og sorte skal finde både sig selv og hinanden efter apartheid. Sorte begår forbrydelser mod hvide som hævn for mange års undertrykkelse, og hvide approprierer sort kultur som svar på deres egen fremmedgørelse. En ny nationalsang opstår som et kompromis, og opførelsen af mure hyldes i et Sydafrika i identitetskrise og – måske – på randen af folkemord.

For en lærer som aldrig har kørt et forløb om Sydafrika, er bogen et rigtigt godt sted at starte, og for lærere som kender emnet er den et spændende supplement og forhåbentligt et frisk pust. Der er et godt og repræsentativt udsnit af tekster i forskellige genrer og stilarter, som kommer vidt omkring race- og identitetsproblematikkerne i Sydafrika både under og efter apartheid.

En særlig tak skal gå til Alikka Winkel for hendes hjælp i processen.

Niels-Martin Trier Josefsen, Esbjerg 2015.

6 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 6-7

Do a brainstorm, writing down everything you know about South Africa.

Start by working individually and then progress to working in pairs, comparing your brainstorms.

Research and Vocabulary:

Use the Internet to find definitions for the following words and concepts to gain a greater understanding of South Africa: Afrikaans (noun) Afrikaner (noun) ANC (proper noun) Apartheid (noun) Boer (noun, adjective) Boer Wars (proper noun) Born frees (noun, plural) Colony (noun) Defiance of Unjust Laws Campaign (proper noun) Dompass (noun) Frederik Willem de Klerk (proper noun) Great Trek (proper noun) Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd (proper noun) Homelands (noun, plural) Hottentot (noun) Jo’Burg (proper noun) Jozi (proper noun) Kaffir (noun) Nasionale Party (proper noun) Nelson Mandela (proper noun) Passbook (noun) Rainbow Nation (proper noun) Rand (noun) Sharpeville (proper noun) Soweto (proper noun) Springboks (proper noun, plural) Township (noun) Tsotsi (noun) Zef (noun, adjective) FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 7

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

og kampen mod samme, er skubbet lidt i baggrunden til fordel for de mennesker, som er blevet påvirket af apartheid – både under og efter.

INTRODUCTION Brainstorm and Knowledge-Sharing:

Som navnet antyder fokuserer kapitlet Life and Struggle During Apartheid på tiden under apartheid og på hvordan styreformen påvirkede almindelige sydafrikaneres liv. Afsnittet indeholder en blanding af noveller og artikler, og der gives et grundigt billede af undertrykkelsens voldelige konsekvenser for de sorte og farvede sydafrikanere og manges ønske om at tilhøre en anden race samt af den frygt og isolation apartheid også skabte hos den hvide del af befolkningen.

Anden del – Reconciliation and Identity Crisis After Apartheid – handler i høj grad om, hvordan hvide og sorte skal finde både sig selv og hinanden efter apartheid. Sorte begår forbrydelser mod hvide som hævn for mange års undertrykkelse, og hvide approprierer sort kultur som svar på deres egen fremmedgørelse. En ny nationalsang opstår som et kompromis, og opførelsen af mure hyldes i et Sydafrika i identitetskrise og – måske – på randen af folkemord.

For en lærer som aldrig har kørt et forløb om Sydafrika, er bogen et rigtigt godt sted at starte, og for lærere som kender emnet er den et spændende supplement og forhåbentligt et frisk pust. Der er et godt og repræsentativt udsnit af tekster i forskellige genrer og stilarter, som kommer vidt omkring race- og identitetsproblematikkerne i Sydafrika både under og efter apartheid.

En særlig tak skal gå til Alikka Winkel for hendes hjælp i processen.

Niels-Martin Trier Josefsen, Esbjerg 2015.

6 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 6-7

Do a brainstorm, writing down everything you know about South Africa.

Start by working individually and then progress to working in pairs, comparing your brainstorms.

Research and Vocabulary:

Use the Internet to find definitions for the following words and concepts to gain a greater understanding of South Africa: Afrikaans (noun) Afrikaner (noun) ANC (proper noun) Apartheid (noun) Boer (noun, adjective) Boer Wars (proper noun) Born frees (noun, plural) Colony (noun) Defiance of Unjust Laws Campaign (proper noun) Dompass (noun) Frederik Willem de Klerk (proper noun) Great Trek (proper noun) Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd (proper noun) Homelands (noun, plural) Hottentot (noun) Jo’Burg (proper noun) Jozi (proper noun) Kaffir (noun) Nasionale Party (proper noun) Nelson Mandela (proper noun) Passbook (noun) Rainbow Nation (proper noun) Rand (noun) Sharpeville (proper noun) Soweto (proper noun) Springboks (proper noun, plural) Township (noun) Tsotsi (noun) Zef (noun, adjective) FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 7

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8 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 8-9

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 9

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8 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 8-9

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 9

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE IN SOUTH AFRICA DURING APARTHEID Michelle Faul, Associated Press

rural landligt indomitable ukuelige bawled skrålede decrepit faldefærdige mauve lyslilla stock herkomst

Signs like these were a common sight throughout South Africa during apartheid.

Dec. 9, 2013 OHANNESBURG (AP) – My mother was furious. The operators of the gas station in rural, racist South Africa had taken her money to fill the car, but would not give her the key to the toilets. They were for whites only.

It was the early 1960s, and apartheid was the law of the land.

So my indomitable mum did the only thing she could do: She ordered me and my two sisters to urinate right there, very publicly, in front of the fuel pumps.

We did not disobey, but I started crying – and my sisters bawled, too.

We lowered our shorts, but I was so traumatized that I simply could not go.

My widowed mother, Ethel Pillay, had driven us from our home in Zimbabwe, which was then called Rhodesia, to visit family in her native South Africa.

There was racism in Rhodesia, too, but it was nothing like the institutionalized code in South Africa that made blacks subhuman – the system that Nelson Mandela later fought to bring down.

We had been on the road for more than 15 hours that day. We were taking the car because the train ride was difficult for a woman with three children and lots of baggage.

The train also was an uncomfortable ride for blacks: Halfway through the trip, in the middle of the night, they would have to get out of the Rhodesian Railways compartments and transfer to decrepit blacks-only South African carriages.

The car trip presented its own challenges. Hotels catered only to whites, so the drive needed to be nonstop. We also had to carry piles of food and drinks because my mother refused to go to the back door of shops; only whites were allowed inside the stores.

In those days, of course, we didn’t say “blacks” and “whites.” Black people were called “Africans,” we were “colored” to designate our mixed race, and whites were called “Europeans.”

Sometimes those lines got blurred. South Africa had a crazy system of deciding your race, including whether the moons of your fingernails were a bit more mauve than white, indicating a hint of black blood. There also was the test of whether a pencil would stay in your hair, indicating it must be of kinky black stock. If the pencil slid through, you could be considered white.

J

10 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 10-11

During apartheid blacks in urban areas were relegated to living in underdeveloped townships.

Under such rules of apartheid, Chinese were classified colored despite their straight hair; Japanese were white.

Blacks who wanted to be reclassified as colored also could undergo the pencil test: if it fell out when you shook your head, you could become colored.

Tens of thousands of people changed their race in this manner.

Sometimes it was not voluntary and led to families being forcibly separated – even children from their parents – if one member was deemed not to belong to the same race. It was not unusual, in the colored community, to find siblings ranging in shades from deepest black to fair with blond hair.

I remember the sorrow brought on our family because one of my mother’s sisters “played white.” When she was in her 90s, my grandmother FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 11

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

WHAT LIFE WAS LIKE IN SOUTH AFRICA DURING APARTHEID Michelle Faul, Associated Press

rural landligt indomitable ukuelige bawled skrålede decrepit faldefærdige mauve lyslilla stock herkomst

Signs like these were a common sight throughout South Africa during apartheid.

Dec. 9, 2013 OHANNESBURG (AP) – My mother was furious. The operators of the gas station in rural, racist South Africa had taken her money to fill the car, but would not give her the key to the toilets. They were for whites only.

It was the early 1960s, and apartheid was the law of the land.

So my indomitable mum did the only thing she could do: She ordered me and my two sisters to urinate right there, very publicly, in front of the fuel pumps.

We did not disobey, but I started crying – and my sisters bawled, too.

We lowered our shorts, but I was so traumatized that I simply could not go.

My widowed mother, Ethel Pillay, had driven us from our home in Zimbabwe, which was then called Rhodesia, to visit family in her native South Africa.

There was racism in Rhodesia, too, but it was nothing like the institutionalized code in South Africa that made blacks subhuman – the system that Nelson Mandela later fought to bring down.

We had been on the road for more than 15 hours that day. We were taking the car because the train ride was difficult for a woman with three children and lots of baggage.

The train also was an uncomfortable ride for blacks: Halfway through the trip, in the middle of the night, they would have to get out of the Rhodesian Railways compartments and transfer to decrepit blacks-only South African carriages.

The car trip presented its own challenges. Hotels catered only to whites, so the drive needed to be nonstop. We also had to carry piles of food and drinks because my mother refused to go to the back door of shops; only whites were allowed inside the stores.

In those days, of course, we didn’t say “blacks” and “whites.” Black people were called “Africans,” we were “colored” to designate our mixed race, and whites were called “Europeans.”

Sometimes those lines got blurred. South Africa had a crazy system of deciding your race, including whether the moons of your fingernails were a bit more mauve than white, indicating a hint of black blood. There also was the test of whether a pencil would stay in your hair, indicating it must be of kinky black stock. If the pencil slid through, you could be considered white.

J

10 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 10-11

During apartheid blacks in urban areas were relegated to living in underdeveloped townships.

Under such rules of apartheid, Chinese were classified colored despite their straight hair; Japanese were white.

Blacks who wanted to be reclassified as colored also could undergo the pencil test: if it fell out when you shook your head, you could become colored.

Tens of thousands of people changed their race in this manner.

Sometimes it was not voluntary and led to families being forcibly separated – even children from their parents – if one member was deemed not to belong to the same race. It was not unusual, in the colored community, to find siblings ranging in shades from deepest black to fair with blond hair.

I remember the sorrow brought on our family because one of my mother’s sisters “played white.” When she was in her 90s, my grandmother FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 11

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

corralled gennet som kvæg professionals fagfolk strenuously på det kraftigste peculiar særegne imbibed tilegnet

recounted how her own daughter walked past her in the street, pretending not to know her. But with the pain still stark in her eyes, she told me, “That’s what she had to do to make a better life for herself and her children.”

Being white meant you got decent health care, your kids could go to school, and you could live where you wanted.

Blacks were corralled into townships, if they could get jobs in the city.

If not, their urban shacks often were bulldozed and they were forcibly moved to unproductive “homelands.” This was at the heart of the policy of apartheid, or “separateness.”

My experience was more the absurd pettiness of apartheid, rather than the brutal, state-sponsored violence used to maintain it.

If you were white, you had access to jobs denied to blacks. The only black professionals were teachers, like my mother; nurses and doctors who could only treat blacks; and lawyers, the profession chosen by Mandela, who once believed he could end apartheid by reasoning and legal argument.

We moved to England from Rhodesia when I was a child because my mother fell in love with a white man, Michael Faul, who had come to Rhodesia when he was 2. His mother strenuously objected to the marriage, and for years, she was estranged from her only son until my mother forced him to reconcile.

I remember our ship docking in Southampton. On the train ride to London, seeing whites doing menial work, I exclaimed to my mother: “But those are Europeans – picking up dustbins!” It was so alien.

On subsequent visits to South Africa as a teenager, I had a British passport. That put me in the peculiar position of being an “honorary white” – meaning I could stay in white hotels and, upon showing my passport, go to restaurants, movie theaters and other places reserved for whites. The exception was South Africa’s racially segregated beaches.

To my surprise, I realized that Johannesburg was not made up of dusty, treeless suburbs with poor homes crowded onto small plots overlooked by dumps. White people lived in green neighborhoods with paved roads and sidewalks, in lush homes with gardens, swimming pools and tennis courts.

Black people who worked in those suburbs had to have permission to live in the “boy’s quarters” at the bottom of the garden – such approval was stamped into much-hated “passbooks.” Or they had to be out of the white suburbs before nightfall.

My mother, now writing her memoirs, recalls racism as something that “children were not taught. ... It seemed to be imbibed unconsciously, and automatically became a part of you.”

12 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 12-13

In Cradock, a South African town in the eastern Cape where she was living when apartheid was legalized in 1948, my English-speaking mother struggled with her studies after new laws sought to entrench white superiority through the Afrikaans language. Once, she was “locked into my classroom to do my topic in history, in a foreign language I could neither read nor write.”

Opposition to Afrikaans as “the language of the oppressor” led to the 1976 uprising in Soweto, when police opened fire on 15,000 students marching in a peaceful protest. Images of the state violence published around the world proved a momentous turning point, changing how many perceived apartheid.

When that evil system finally was crushed, we all were in awe of Mandela’s insistence on reconciliation and not retribution. It is a tribute to him that today, as he ordained, I and others forgive but do not forget.

(2013)

entrench forankre reconciliation forsoning retribution gengældelse ordained ordineret

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Contrast and compare how Michelle Faul experiences…

a. … going to South Africa as a child.

b. … going to England as a child.

c. … going to South Africa as a teenager.

d. Reflect upon how and why the experiences are different from each other.

2) What does it mean that racism in South Africa was an “institutionalized code”? Give examples.

3) Comment on the racial classification of apartheid.

a. With what methods was race classified in South Africa during apartheid?

b. What were the consequences of racial classification for individuals and for families?

c. How would it serve the regime to have three categories of race rather than only two?

4) Comment on the notion that racism in South Africa was something that is “imbibed unconsciously”.

5) Comment on the Soweto uprising.

a. What triggered it?

b. What were the consequences of the uprising?

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 13

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

corralled gennet som kvæg professionals fagfolk strenuously på det kraftigste peculiar særegne imbibed tilegnet

recounted how her own daughter walked past her in the street, pretending not to know her. But with the pain still stark in her eyes, she told me, “That’s what she had to do to make a better life for herself and her children.”

Being white meant you got decent health care, your kids could go to school, and you could live where you wanted.

Blacks were corralled into townships, if they could get jobs in the city.

If not, their urban shacks often were bulldozed and they were forcibly moved to unproductive “homelands.” This was at the heart of the policy of apartheid, or “separateness.”

My experience was more the absurd pettiness of apartheid, rather than the brutal, state-sponsored violence used to maintain it.

If you were white, you had access to jobs denied to blacks. The only black professionals were teachers, like my mother; nurses and doctors who could only treat blacks; and lawyers, the profession chosen by Mandela, who once believed he could end apartheid by reasoning and legal argument.

We moved to England from Rhodesia when I was a child because my mother fell in love with a white man, Michael Faul, who had come to Rhodesia when he was 2. His mother strenuously objected to the marriage, and for years, she was estranged from her only son until my mother forced him to reconcile.

I remember our ship docking in Southampton. On the train ride to London, seeing whites doing menial work, I exclaimed to my mother: “But those are Europeans – picking up dustbins!” It was so alien.

On subsequent visits to South Africa as a teenager, I had a British passport. That put me in the peculiar position of being an “honorary white” – meaning I could stay in white hotels and, upon showing my passport, go to restaurants, movie theaters and other places reserved for whites. The exception was South Africa’s racially segregated beaches.

To my surprise, I realized that Johannesburg was not made up of dusty, treeless suburbs with poor homes crowded onto small plots overlooked by dumps. White people lived in green neighborhoods with paved roads and sidewalks, in lush homes with gardens, swimming pools and tennis courts.

Black people who worked in those suburbs had to have permission to live in the “boy’s quarters” at the bottom of the garden – such approval was stamped into much-hated “passbooks.” Or they had to be out of the white suburbs before nightfall.

My mother, now writing her memoirs, recalls racism as something that “children were not taught. ... It seemed to be imbibed unconsciously, and automatically became a part of you.”

12 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 12-13

In Cradock, a South African town in the eastern Cape where she was living when apartheid was legalized in 1948, my English-speaking mother struggled with her studies after new laws sought to entrench white superiority through the Afrikaans language. Once, she was “locked into my classroom to do my topic in history, in a foreign language I could neither read nor write.”

Opposition to Afrikaans as “the language of the oppressor” led to the 1976 uprising in Soweto, when police opened fire on 15,000 students marching in a peaceful protest. Images of the state violence published around the world proved a momentous turning point, changing how many perceived apartheid.

When that evil system finally was crushed, we all were in awe of Mandela’s insistence on reconciliation and not retribution. It is a tribute to him that today, as he ordained, I and others forgive but do not forget.

(2013)

entrench forankre reconciliation forsoning retribution gengældelse ordained ordineret

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Contrast and compare how Michelle Faul experiences…

a. … going to South Africa as a child.

b. … going to England as a child.

c. … going to South Africa as a teenager.

d. Reflect upon how and why the experiences are different from each other.

2) What does it mean that racism in South Africa was an “institutionalized code”? Give examples.

3) Comment on the racial classification of apartheid.

a. With what methods was race classified in South Africa during apartheid?

b. What were the consequences of racial classification for individuals and for families?

c. How would it serve the regime to have three categories of race rather than only two?

4) Comment on the notion that racism in South Africa was something that is “imbibed unconsciously”.

5) Comment on the Soweto uprising.

a. What triggered it?

b. What were the consequences of the uprising?

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 13

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

RESURRECTION Richard Rive

tremulously skælvende cloying gøre noget smagløst pulsated pulserede creepers slyngplanter convulsively krampagtigt Ancient and Modern traditionel, britisk salme contemptuous foragteligt petulantly gnavent

A

nd still they sang. One by one the voices joined in and the volume rose.

Tremulously at first, thin and cloying and then swelling till it filled the tiny dining-room, pulsated into the two bedrooms stacked high with hats and overcoats, and spent itself in the kitchen where housewives were fussing over wreaths.

Jesu, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly. A blubbery woman in the corner nearest the cheap, pine chest of drawers, dabbed her eyes with pink tissues. Above her head hung a cheap reproduction of an English cottage smothered with creepers and flowers and, embossed beneath, What is a Home without a Mother? The woman heaved convulsively as she refused to be placated. Her tears proved infectious and other lips quivered and tissues and handkerchiefs were hurriedly sought.

A small boy in a navy-blue suit shared a stiff Ancient and Modern with his mother. His voice was wispy and completely dominated by the quivering soprano next to him. All sang except Mavis. She sat silent, glassy-eyed, staring down at her rough though delicately carved brown hand. Her eyes were red but tearless with a slightly contemptuous sneer around the closed, cruel mouth. Mavis sat silently staring at her hand, half-noticing that the left thumbnail was scarred and broken at the edge. She did not raise her eyes to look at the coffin or at the hymnbook closed and neglected in her lap. Her mouth was tight-shut, determined not to open, not to say a word. She sat tensely staring at the broken nail. The room did not exist nor the boy in the navy-blue suit nor the fat lady nor any of the people. Although they sang Mavis seemed not to hear.

Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. The fat woman had recovered sufficiently to attempt a tremulous con­tralto. The boy tried to follow the line without using his finger. Mavis vaguely recognised Rosie, as her sister fussily hurried in with a tray of fresh flowers, passed a brief word with an overdressed woman nearest the door and busily hurried out again. Mavis sensed things happening but saw without seeing and felt without feeling. Nothing seemed to register but she could feel the Old-Woman’s presence, could feel the room becoming her dead mother, becoming full of Ma, crowded with Ma, swirling with Ma. Ma of the swollen hands and frightened eyes who had asked almost petulantly, “Mavis, why do they treat me so? Please, Mavis, why do they treat me so?”

14 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 14-15

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 15

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

RESURRECTION Richard Rive

tremulously skælvende cloying gøre noget smagløst pulsated pulserede creepers slyngplanter convulsively krampagtigt Ancient and Modern traditionel, britisk salme contemptuous foragteligt petulantly gnavent

A

nd still they sang. One by one the voices joined in and the volume rose.

Tremulously at first, thin and cloying and then swelling till it filled the tiny dining-room, pulsated into the two bedrooms stacked high with hats and overcoats, and spent itself in the kitchen where housewives were fussing over wreaths.

Jesu, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly. A blubbery woman in the corner nearest the cheap, pine chest of drawers, dabbed her eyes with pink tissues. Above her head hung a cheap reproduction of an English cottage smothered with creepers and flowers and, embossed beneath, What is a Home without a Mother? The woman heaved convulsively as she refused to be placated. Her tears proved infectious and other lips quivered and tissues and handkerchiefs were hurriedly sought.

A small boy in a navy-blue suit shared a stiff Ancient and Modern with his mother. His voice was wispy and completely dominated by the quivering soprano next to him. All sang except Mavis. She sat silent, glassy-eyed, staring down at her rough though delicately carved brown hand. Her eyes were red but tearless with a slightly contemptuous sneer around the closed, cruel mouth. Mavis sat silently staring at her hand, half-noticing that the left thumbnail was scarred and broken at the edge. She did not raise her eyes to look at the coffin or at the hymnbook closed and neglected in her lap. Her mouth was tight-shut, determined not to open, not to say a word. She sat tensely staring at the broken nail. The room did not exist nor the boy in the navy-blue suit nor the fat lady nor any of the people. Although they sang Mavis seemed not to hear.

Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. The fat woman had recovered sufficiently to attempt a tremulous con­tralto. The boy tried to follow the line without using his finger. Mavis vaguely recognised Rosie, as her sister fussily hurried in with a tray of fresh flowers, passed a brief word with an overdressed woman nearest the door and busily hurried out again. Mavis sensed things happening but saw without seeing and felt without feeling. Nothing seemed to register but she could feel the Old-Woman’s presence, could feel the room becoming her dead mother, becoming full of Ma, crowded with Ma, swirling with Ma. Ma of the swollen hands and frightened eyes who had asked almost petulantly, “Mavis, why do they treat me so? Please, Mavis, why do they treat me so?”

14 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 14-15

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 15

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

plaque mindeplade bewildered forvirrede

Mavis knew the answer and felt the anger welling up inside her till her mouth felt hot and rave. And she spoke in a tense monotone, “Because you’re black. You’re black, Ma, but you gave birth to white children. It’s all your fault. You gave birth to white children.”

Mavis felt dimly aware that the room was overcrowded, overbear­ingly overcrowded, hot, stuffy, crammed to overflowing. With Ma squeezed in and occupying a tiny place in centre. Pride of place in a coffin of pine-wood bearing the economical legend, Maria Wil­helmina Loupser, R.I.P Rest in Peace. With people crowding around and sharing seats and cramming the doorway. To see Ma who had been Maria Loupser. Maria Wilhelmina Loupser. Mavis looked up quickly to see if the plaque was still on the coffin, then automatically shifted her gaze to the broken nail. No-one noticed her and the singing continued uninterruptedly.

Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. Flowers. The hot, oppressive smell of flowers. Flowers, death and the people singing. The smell of death in the flowers. A florid, red-faced man in the doorway singing so that the veins stood out purple against the temples. People bustling in and out, struggling through the doorway. Coming to have a look at Ma, a last look. To put a flower in the coffin, then open hymnbooks and sing for poor, deceived Ma of the twisted hands and tragic eyes. Ma who had given birth to white children and Mavis. Now they raised their voices and sang. All except Mavis.

It had been only a month before when Mavis had looked into those bewildered eyes.

“Mavis, why do they treat me so?”

And Mavis had suddenly become angry so that her saliva burned in her mouth.

“Please, Mavis, tell me why do they treat me so?”

And then she had driven the words into the Old-Woman. “Because you are old and ugly and black, and your children want you out of the way.”

What she really wanted to say was, “They want me out of the way too.

They treat me like that also, because you made me, you made me black like you. I am also your child. I also belong to you. They want me also to stay in the kitchen and use the back door like you. We must not be seen, Ma. Their friends must not see us. Dadda’s people must not see us because we embarrass them. They hate us, ma. They hate us both because they see themselves in us.” But she had not said so and had only stared cruelly into the eyes of the Old-Woman.

16 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 16-17

“You see, you’re no longer useful to scrub and wash and cook. You’re a nuisance, a bloody nuisance. You might come out of your kitchen and shock the white scum they bring here. You’re a bloody black nuisance, Ma.” The Old-Woman could not understand and looked helplessly at Mavis, shutting her eyes with her swollen hands.

“But I don’t want to go into the dining room. It’s true, Mavis, I don’t want to go into the dining-room.” And as she spoke the tears squeezed through her fingers and ran over her thick knuckles. She whimpered like a child.

“It’s my dining-room, Mavis, it’s true. I also worked for it. It’s my dining room.”

And Mavis felt a dark and hideous pleasure overwhelming her so that she shouted at the Old-Woman. “Don’t you understand that you are black and your bloody children are white! Jim and Rosie and Sonny are white! And you made me like you. You made me black!”

Then Mavis broke down exhausted at her self-revelation and cried with the Old-Woman.

“Ma, why did you make me black?”

And then only had a vague understanding strayed into those milky eyes, and Ma had taken her youngest into her arms and rocked and soothed her, crooning to her in a cracked, broken voice the songs she had sung years before she had come to Cape Town. Slaap, my kindjie, slaap sag, Onder engele vannag. And the voice of the Old-Woman had become stronger and more perceptive and her dull eyes saw her childhood and the stream running through Wolfgat and the solidly built church, and the moon rising rich and yellow in the direction of Solitaire.

And Ma had vaguely understood and rocked Mavis in her arms as in years before. And now she was back in the dining-room as shadows crept across the wall. Fast falls the eventide. Creeping across the wall ever greyer. The darkness deepens. Filtering across the drawn blind. Rosie, tightlipped and officious. Sonny. Jim who had left his fair-skinned wife at home.

Pointedly ignoring Mavis. Speaking in hushed tones to a florid man in the doorway. Mavis, a small inconspicuous brown figure in the corner. The only other brown face in the crowded room besides Ma. And even the Old-­Woman was paler in death.

Ma’s friends in the kitchen. A huddled, frightened group sitting out of the way of the wreath-makers. Warming themselves at the stove.

“Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?”

And Mavis had shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“Please, Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?”

nuisance gene self-revelation pludselig selvindsigt Slaap, my kindjie, slaap sag, Onder engele vannag sov, mit barn, sov sødt, under engle i aften (afrikaans vuggevise af Johannes Brahms og Jan F. E. Celliers) fair lys / hvid florid rødmosset inconspicuous ikkebemærkelsesværdig

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 17

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

plaque mindeplade bewildered forvirrede

Mavis knew the answer and felt the anger welling up inside her till her mouth felt hot and rave. And she spoke in a tense monotone, “Because you’re black. You’re black, Ma, but you gave birth to white children. It’s all your fault. You gave birth to white children.”

Mavis felt dimly aware that the room was overcrowded, overbear­ingly overcrowded, hot, stuffy, crammed to overflowing. With Ma squeezed in and occupying a tiny place in centre. Pride of place in a coffin of pine-wood bearing the economical legend, Maria Wil­helmina Loupser, R.I.P Rest in Peace. With people crowding around and sharing seats and cramming the doorway. To see Ma who had been Maria Loupser. Maria Wilhelmina Loupser. Mavis looked up quickly to see if the plaque was still on the coffin, then automatically shifted her gaze to the broken nail. No-one noticed her and the singing continued uninterruptedly.

Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee. Flowers. The hot, oppressive smell of flowers. Flowers, death and the people singing. The smell of death in the flowers. A florid, red-faced man in the doorway singing so that the veins stood out purple against the temples. People bustling in and out, struggling through the doorway. Coming to have a look at Ma, a last look. To put a flower in the coffin, then open hymnbooks and sing for poor, deceived Ma of the twisted hands and tragic eyes. Ma who had given birth to white children and Mavis. Now they raised their voices and sang. All except Mavis.

It had been only a month before when Mavis had looked into those bewildered eyes.

“Mavis, why do they treat me so?”

And Mavis had suddenly become angry so that her saliva burned in her mouth.

“Please, Mavis, tell me why do they treat me so?”

And then she had driven the words into the Old-Woman. “Because you are old and ugly and black, and your children want you out of the way.”

What she really wanted to say was, “They want me out of the way too.

They treat me like that also, because you made me, you made me black like you. I am also your child. I also belong to you. They want me also to stay in the kitchen and use the back door like you. We must not be seen, Ma. Their friends must not see us. Dadda’s people must not see us because we embarrass them. They hate us, ma. They hate us both because they see themselves in us.” But she had not said so and had only stared cruelly into the eyes of the Old-Woman.

16 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 16-17

“You see, you’re no longer useful to scrub and wash and cook. You’re a nuisance, a bloody nuisance. You might come out of your kitchen and shock the white scum they bring here. You’re a bloody black nuisance, Ma.” The Old-Woman could not understand and looked helplessly at Mavis, shutting her eyes with her swollen hands.

“But I don’t want to go into the dining room. It’s true, Mavis, I don’t want to go into the dining-room.” And as she spoke the tears squeezed through her fingers and ran over her thick knuckles. She whimpered like a child.

“It’s my dining-room, Mavis, it’s true. I also worked for it. It’s my dining room.”

And Mavis felt a dark and hideous pleasure overwhelming her so that she shouted at the Old-Woman. “Don’t you understand that you are black and your bloody children are white! Jim and Rosie and Sonny are white! And you made me like you. You made me black!”

Then Mavis broke down exhausted at her self-revelation and cried with the Old-Woman.

“Ma, why did you make me black?”

And then only had a vague understanding strayed into those milky eyes, and Ma had taken her youngest into her arms and rocked and soothed her, crooning to her in a cracked, broken voice the songs she had sung years before she had come to Cape Town. Slaap, my kindjie, slaap sag, Onder engele vannag. And the voice of the Old-Woman had become stronger and more perceptive and her dull eyes saw her childhood and the stream running through Wolfgat and the solidly built church, and the moon rising rich and yellow in the direction of Solitaire.

And Ma had vaguely understood and rocked Mavis in her arms as in years before. And now she was back in the dining-room as shadows crept across the wall. Fast falls the eventide. Creeping across the wall ever greyer. The darkness deepens. Filtering across the drawn blind. Rosie, tightlipped and officious. Sonny. Jim who had left his fair-skinned wife at home.

Pointedly ignoring Mavis. Speaking in hushed tones to a florid man in the doorway. Mavis, a small inconspicuous brown figure in the corner. The only other brown face in the crowded room besides Ma. And even the Old-­Woman was paler in death.

Ma’s friends in the kitchen. A huddled, frightened group sitting out of the way of the wreath-makers. Warming themselves at the stove.

“Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?”

And Mavis had shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“Please, Mavis, why do they tell my friends not to visit me?”

nuisance gene self-revelation pludselig selvindsigt Slaap, my kindjie, slaap sag, Onder engele vannag sov, mit barn, sov sødt, under engle i aften (afrikaans vuggevise af Johannes Brahms og Jan F. E. Celliers) fair lys / hvid florid rødmosset inconspicuous ikkebemærkelsesværdig

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 17

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

doddering rystende guttural hæs strubelyd tant tante (afrikaans) kopdoek tørklæde (afrikaans) velskoene holdbare sydafrikanske sko fremstillet af garvet læder eller råskind (afrikaans)

And Mavis had turned on her, appalled at her naïveté.

“Do you want Soufie to sit in the dining-room? Or Ou-Kaar? Or Eva or Leuntjie? Do you want Sonny’s wife to have tea with them? Or the white dirt Rosie brings home? Do you want to shame your children? Humiliate them?

Show their friends who their mother really is?”

And the Old-Woman had blubbered, “I only want my friends to visit me. They can sit with me in the kitchen.”

And Mavis had sighed helplessly at the simplicity of the dod­dering Old-Woman and had felt like saying, “And what of my friends? Must they also sit in the kitchen?” And tears had shot into the milky eyes and the OldWoman had looked even older. “Mavis, I want my friends to visit me, even if they sit in the kitchen. Please, Mavis, they’re all I got left.”

And now they sat in the kitchen, a cowed, timid group speak­ing the raw, guttural Afrikaans of the Caledon district. They spoke of Ma and their childhood together. Ou-Kaar and Leuntjie and Eva and Ma. Of the Caledon district cut off from surging Cape Town. Where the Moravian church stood solidly and sweet water ran past Wolfgat and past Karwyderskraal and lost itself near Gnootkop. And the moon rose rich and yellow from the hills behind Solitaire. And now they sat frightened and huddled around the stove speaking of Ma. Tant Soufie in a new kopdoek and Ou-Kaar conspicuous in yellow velskoene sizes too big, and Leuntjie and Eva. And in the dining-room sat Dadda’s relations and friends sing­ing.

Dadda’s relations and friends who had ignored Ma while she had lived.

Dadda’s fair friends and relations. And a Mavis who scratched meaninglessly at her broken thumbnail she did not see.

And now the singing rose in volume as still more people filed in. When other helpers fail and comfort flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Mavis could have helped Ma, could have given her the understanding she needed, could have protected her and stopped the petty tyranny. But she had never tried to reason with them, explained to them that the Old-Woman was dying. Her own hurt ate into her, gnawed at her. So she preferred to play a shadow, seen but never heard. A vague entity, part of the furniture. If only they knew of the feelings bottled up inside her. She was afraid that if they did they might say, “Why don’t you both clear out and leave us in peace, you bloody black bastards?” She could then have cleared out, should then have cleared out, sought a room in Woodstock or Salt River and forgotten her frustrations. But there was Ma. There was always the Old-Woman. Mavis never spoke to them, only to Ma. “You sent them to a white school. You were proud of your brats and hated me, didn’t you, Ma?”

18 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 18-19

And the mother had stared at her with ox-like dumbness.

“You encouraged them to bring their friends to the house, to your house, and stayed in the kitchen yourself and told me to stay there too. You hated me, Ma, hated me, because I was yourself. There’s no-one to blame but you. You caused all this. You encouraged all this.”

And she had tormented the Old-Woman, who could not retaliate, who could not understand. Now she sat tortured with memories as they sang hymns for Ma. I need Thy presence every passing hour, sang Dadda’s eldest brother, who sat with eyes tightly shut near the head of the coffin. He had bitterly resented Dadda’s mar­riage to a Bushman from God-knows-where in the country. A bloody disgrace. A Loupser married to a coloured. He had refused to greet Ma socially while she lived, and attended the funeral only because his late brother’s wife had died. It was the decent thing to do.

This was the second time he had been in the dining-room. The first was at Dadda’s funeral. And now this. A coloured girl, his niece he believed, sitting completely out of place and saying nothing. Most annoying and embarrassing.

The boy in the navy blue suit continued to sing weakly. His mother had not quite recovered from the shock that that nice Mr Loupser who always used to visit them in Observatory, was mar­ried to a coloured woman. All sang except Mavis.

“I am going to die, Mavis,” the milky eyes had told her a week before.

“I think I am going to die.”

“Ask your white brats to bury you. You slaved enough for them.”

“They are my children but they do not treat me right.”

“Do you know why? Because they are ashamed of you. Afraid of you.

Afraid the world might find out about you.”

“But I did my best for them.”

“You did more than your best, you encouraged them. But you were ashamed of me, weren’t you? So now we share a room at the back where we can’t be seen. And you are going to die and your children will thank God that you’re out of the way.”

“I am your mother, my girl, I raised you.”

“Yes, you raised me and taught me my place. You took me to the Mission with you because you felt we were too black to go to St John’s. Let them see Pastor Josephs for a change. Let them enter our Mission and see our God.” And Ma had not understood and said whiningly, “Please, Mavis, let Pastor Josephs bury me.”

retaliate tage til genmæle Bushman buskmand Mission missionærkirke

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 19

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

doddering rystende guttural hæs strubelyd tant tante (afrikaans) kopdoek tørklæde (afrikaans) velskoene holdbare sydafrikanske sko fremstillet af garvet læder eller råskind (afrikaans)

And Mavis had turned on her, appalled at her naïveté.

“Do you want Soufie to sit in the dining-room? Or Ou-Kaar? Or Eva or Leuntjie? Do you want Sonny’s wife to have tea with them? Or the white dirt Rosie brings home? Do you want to shame your children? Humiliate them?

Show their friends who their mother really is?”

And the Old-Woman had blubbered, “I only want my friends to visit me. They can sit with me in the kitchen.”

And Mavis had sighed helplessly at the simplicity of the dod­dering Old-Woman and had felt like saying, “And what of my friends? Must they also sit in the kitchen?” And tears had shot into the milky eyes and the OldWoman had looked even older. “Mavis, I want my friends to visit me, even if they sit in the kitchen. Please, Mavis, they’re all I got left.”

And now they sat in the kitchen, a cowed, timid group speak­ing the raw, guttural Afrikaans of the Caledon district. They spoke of Ma and their childhood together. Ou-Kaar and Leuntjie and Eva and Ma. Of the Caledon district cut off from surging Cape Town. Where the Moravian church stood solidly and sweet water ran past Wolfgat and past Karwyderskraal and lost itself near Gnootkop. And the moon rose rich and yellow from the hills behind Solitaire. And now they sat frightened and huddled around the stove speaking of Ma. Tant Soufie in a new kopdoek and Ou-Kaar conspicuous in yellow velskoene sizes too big, and Leuntjie and Eva. And in the dining-room sat Dadda’s relations and friends sing­ing.

Dadda’s relations and friends who had ignored Ma while she had lived.

Dadda’s fair friends and relations. And a Mavis who scratched meaninglessly at her broken thumbnail she did not see.

And now the singing rose in volume as still more people filed in. When other helpers fail and comfort flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

Mavis could have helped Ma, could have given her the understanding she needed, could have protected her and stopped the petty tyranny. But she had never tried to reason with them, explained to them that the Old-Woman was dying. Her own hurt ate into her, gnawed at her. So she preferred to play a shadow, seen but never heard. A vague entity, part of the furniture. If only they knew of the feelings bottled up inside her. She was afraid that if they did they might say, “Why don’t you both clear out and leave us in peace, you bloody black bastards?” She could then have cleared out, should then have cleared out, sought a room in Woodstock or Salt River and forgotten her frustrations. But there was Ma. There was always the Old-Woman. Mavis never spoke to them, only to Ma. “You sent them to a white school. You were proud of your brats and hated me, didn’t you, Ma?”

18 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 18-19

And the mother had stared at her with ox-like dumbness.

“You encouraged them to bring their friends to the house, to your house, and stayed in the kitchen yourself and told me to stay there too. You hated me, Ma, hated me, because I was yourself. There’s no-one to blame but you. You caused all this. You encouraged all this.”

And she had tormented the Old-Woman, who could not retaliate, who could not understand. Now she sat tortured with memories as they sang hymns for Ma. I need Thy presence every passing hour, sang Dadda’s eldest brother, who sat with eyes tightly shut near the head of the coffin. He had bitterly resented Dadda’s mar­riage to a Bushman from God-knows-where in the country. A bloody disgrace. A Loupser married to a coloured. He had refused to greet Ma socially while she lived, and attended the funeral only because his late brother’s wife had died. It was the decent thing to do.

This was the second time he had been in the dining-room. The first was at Dadda’s funeral. And now this. A coloured girl, his niece he believed, sitting completely out of place and saying nothing. Most annoying and embarrassing.

The boy in the navy blue suit continued to sing weakly. His mother had not quite recovered from the shock that that nice Mr Loupser who always used to visit them in Observatory, was mar­ried to a coloured woman. All sang except Mavis.

“I am going to die, Mavis,” the milky eyes had told her a week before.

“I think I am going to die.”

“Ask your white brats to bury you. You slaved enough for them.”

“They are my children but they do not treat me right.”

“Do you know why? Because they are ashamed of you. Afraid of you.

Afraid the world might find out about you.”

“But I did my best for them.”

“You did more than your best, you encouraged them. But you were ashamed of me, weren’t you? So now we share a room at the back where we can’t be seen. And you are going to die and your children will thank God that you’re out of the way.”

“I am your mother, my girl, I raised you.”

“Yes, you raised me and taught me my place. You took me to the Mission with you because you felt we were too black to go to St John’s. Let them see Pastor Josephs for a change. Let them enter our Mission and see our God.” And Ma had not understood and said whiningly, “Please, Mavis, let Pastor Josephs bury me.”

retaliate tage til genmæle Bushman buskmand Mission missionærkirke

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 19

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

cassock præstekjole solace trøst heeded Thy commandment fulgte Dit bud invectives skældsord

So now the priest from Dadda’s church stood at the head of her coffin, sharp and thin, clutching his cassock with the left hand while his right held an open prayerbook.

I said I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle while the ungodly is in my sight.

Mavis felt the full irony of the words.

I held my tongue and spake nothing. I kept silent, yea given from good words, but it was pain and grief to me.

The fat lady stroked her son’s head and sniffed loudly.

My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled, and at the last I spake with my tongue.

Mavis now stared entranced at her broken fingernail. The words seared and burnt through her.

It was true. Rosie had consulted her about going to the Mission and asking Pastor Josephs but Mavis had turned on her heel with­out a word and walked out into the street and walked and walked. Through the cobbled streets of older Cape Town, up beyond the Mosque in the Malay Quarter on the slopes of Signal Hill. Think­ing of the dead woman. A mother dying in a backroom. Walking the streets, the Old-Woman with her, followed by the Old-Woman’s eyes. Let them go to the Mission and see our God. Meet Pastor Josephs. But they had gone to Dadda’s priest, who now prayed at the coffin of a woman he had never seen before.

I heard a voice from heaven, Saying unto me, Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: Even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.

Lord, take Thy servant, Maria Wilhelmina Loupser into Thy eternal care. Grant her Thy eternal peace and understanding. Thou art our refuge and our rock. Look kindly upon her children gathered here who even in their hour of trial and suffering look up to Thee for solace. Send Thy eternal blessing upon them, for they have heeded Thy commandment which is to honour thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long.

Mavis felt hot, strangely, unbearably hot. The room was filled with her mother’s presence, her mother’s eyes, body. Flowing into her, filling every pore, becoming one with her. She knew she had to control herself or she would scream out blasphemies, invectives, the truth. Slowly she stood up and, without looking at the coffin or anyone around her, left the room.

(1983)

20 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 20-21

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Comment on the way the story is structured and the effects of this.

2) Comment on the use of space in the story. a. Who gets to be in the kitchen and who gets to be in the living room before the funeral? b. Who gets to be in the kitchen and who gets to be in the living room during the funeral? c. How does Mavis feel about the separation of kitchen and living room? d. How did Ma feel about the separation of kitchen and living room?

3) What is the significance of Ma being “paler in death”?

4) Give examples from the text illustrating how Mavis views…

a. … her mother.

b. … her white siblings.

c. … herself.

5) Contrast and compare how Ma’s friends and Dadda’s family and friends is described. What does this tell us?

6) Comment on the relationship between Ma and her white family members. a. How do they treat her? b. Have they always treated her like this? If not, what has changed and why? c. Mavis says that her white siblings are both ashamed and afraid of their black mother. What does she mean? d. Comment on the role of Dadda’s brother.

7) Comment on the Mission and St John’s.

a. Why did Ma and Dadda have different churches?

b. Why is it the priest from St John’s who facilitates the funeral?

8) Comment on the final two paragraphs.

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 21

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

cassock præstekjole solace trøst heeded Thy commandment fulgte Dit bud invectives skældsord

So now the priest from Dadda’s church stood at the head of her coffin, sharp and thin, clutching his cassock with the left hand while his right held an open prayerbook.

I said I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle while the ungodly is in my sight.

Mavis felt the full irony of the words.

I held my tongue and spake nothing. I kept silent, yea given from good words, but it was pain and grief to me.

The fat lady stroked her son’s head and sniffed loudly.

My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled, and at the last I spake with my tongue.

Mavis now stared entranced at her broken fingernail. The words seared and burnt through her.

It was true. Rosie had consulted her about going to the Mission and asking Pastor Josephs but Mavis had turned on her heel with­out a word and walked out into the street and walked and walked. Through the cobbled streets of older Cape Town, up beyond the Mosque in the Malay Quarter on the slopes of Signal Hill. Think­ing of the dead woman. A mother dying in a backroom. Walking the streets, the Old-Woman with her, followed by the Old-Woman’s eyes. Let them go to the Mission and see our God. Meet Pastor Josephs. But they had gone to Dadda’s priest, who now prayed at the coffin of a woman he had never seen before.

I heard a voice from heaven, Saying unto me, Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: Even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.

Lord, take Thy servant, Maria Wilhelmina Loupser into Thy eternal care. Grant her Thy eternal peace and understanding. Thou art our refuge and our rock. Look kindly upon her children gathered here who even in their hour of trial and suffering look up to Thee for solace. Send Thy eternal blessing upon them, for they have heeded Thy commandment which is to honour thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long.

Mavis felt hot, strangely, unbearably hot. The room was filled with her mother’s presence, her mother’s eyes, body. Flowing into her, filling every pore, becoming one with her. She knew she had to control herself or she would scream out blasphemies, invectives, the truth. Slowly she stood up and, without looking at the coffin or anyone around her, left the room.

(1983)

20 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 20-21

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Comment on the way the story is structured and the effects of this.

2) Comment on the use of space in the story. a. Who gets to be in the kitchen and who gets to be in the living room before the funeral? b. Who gets to be in the kitchen and who gets to be in the living room during the funeral? c. How does Mavis feel about the separation of kitchen and living room? d. How did Ma feel about the separation of kitchen and living room?

3) What is the significance of Ma being “paler in death”?

4) Give examples from the text illustrating how Mavis views…

a. … her mother.

b. … her white siblings.

c. … herself.

5) Contrast and compare how Ma’s friends and Dadda’s family and friends is described. What does this tell us?

6) Comment on the relationship between Ma and her white family members. a. How do they treat her? b. Have they always treated her like this? If not, what has changed and why? c. Mavis says that her white siblings are both ashamed and afraid of their black mother. What does she mean? d. Comment on the role of Dadda’s brother.

7) Comment on the Mission and St John’s.

a. Why did Ma and Dadda have different churches?

b. Why is it the priest from St John’s who facilitates the funeral?

8) Comment on the final two paragraphs.

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 21

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

THE MIDDLE CHILDREN Rayda Jacobs commuters pendlere charade skuespil op-art earrings store, sort/hvide 60’erøreringe denture-wearer person med protese prance kropsholdning howzit? hvordan har du det? / hej (traditionel sydafrikansk hilsen)

S

martly dressed in knee-high boots, mini skirt, Beatles jacket, and black beret, Sabah got off the bus at Mowbray station, and walked down the steps into the subway to the other side. Passing the thick knot of com­muters who had bottled out of the bus to the far side of the platform where the firstclass passengers would board, she was nervous, as always, expecting to hear her name called. The bus had loaded most of its fares in Athlone, and one day someone would shout her name, and the charade would end.

The two-minute wait for the train was the worst.

Turning to the crossword in the Times, she looked at the other travellers: the Carnaby girl with the op-art ear­-rings chewing gum, the heavy-set Afrikaner with the folded Burger, the bell-bottomed hairdresser from Scissors ‘n Things – South Africans were impressed by foreigners and she’d seen his picture advertised – and the other girl standing by herself at the far end of the platform.

The other girl was like herself. Not white, not black, but the offspring of many races: the neurotic middle child of a dysfunctional womb. She knew about the other girl as she knew the other girl knew about her. As a denture­-wearer knows another plastic smile, an afflicted middle child can tell. From the stance, the wariness in the eyes. A middle child’s constant fear was to be tapped on the shoulder and asked to go to the section reserved for non­ whites.

The train arrived and she got on. Rocking gently in the green leather seat to the familiar rhythms of the car­riage, blending in with the pressed suits, feeling sale, she returned to her anagrams. Then something made her look up. Stephanie van Niekerk from South Peninsula High! She hadn’t seen Steffie since she took up with that German designer and moved into his flat in Green Point. Fair, with lots of freckles, sheets of raven black hair, Stephanie had a ballerina’s prance, flicking her hair when she walked, middle as the day was long.

They got up from their seats and met near the door where there was standing room.

“Sabah!”

“Howzit?”

They were not surprised to find each other in this front section of the train.

“I heard you’d gone to Germany.”

“I did. We came back.”

22 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 22-23

“For good?”

“Yes. We live in Newlands now.” Good old Newlands. Serene and green, and no hawkers allowed. “I’m still with Wolfie, you know.”

“Really? That’s a long time.”

“And Laine’s still with Joachim. They’ve got two kids now.”

“And your other sisters? How many were there again?”

“Five. All married except for Janey who got divorced. And you? I don’t see a ring.”

“Ah, well.”

“You’re moving with the wrong crowd.”

Sabah laughed.

“Get yourself a German or a Swede, Sabah. I’m telling you, you’ll never go non-white again. They don’t have that coloured mentality and they like dark. They come here because they’re attracted to the exotic look.” And she flicked her hair, smiling naughtily.

“Maybe if I was Christian I could.”

“Could what?”

“You know, try white.”

Stephanie laughed. “You still have those religious hang-ups?”

“Full of them, you don’t know.”

“Shame.”

“Don’t shame me, it’s not that bad. I got engaged last year, but called it off.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We were going to leave for Canada. I called it off, I can’t leave. He’s in Vancouver now.”

“Shame.”

“Stop it.”

“Well, Wolfgang and I are also moving on. We want to start a family.”

Sabah smiled. Stephanie’s life had worked out. With a German husband, she’d have fair children, they’d attend a white school, and start out on the right foot. But could Stephanie escape who she was? Could you take a born­again pill with your Ovaltine and wake up someone else?

“You must come to the house. Wolfie has some terrific friends. Maybe you’ll like Kurt. His English is a little stiff, but he’s blond with blue eyes and a programmer with IBM. How about tomorrow night? We can meet under the clock and take the train home together after work. There’re always people coming over, you never know who you can meet.”

At Cape Town station she watched Stephanie in her strapless heels walk towards the foreshore, strangely curious at the prospect of Friday

hawkers gadesælgere Ovaltine mærke af kakaopulver til opblanding i mælk

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 23

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

THE MIDDLE CHILDREN Rayda Jacobs commuters pendlere charade skuespil op-art earrings store, sort/hvide 60’erøreringe denture-wearer person med protese prance kropsholdning howzit? hvordan har du det? / hej (traditionel sydafrikansk hilsen)

S

martly dressed in knee-high boots, mini skirt, Beatles jacket, and black beret, Sabah got off the bus at Mowbray station, and walked down the steps into the subway to the other side. Passing the thick knot of com­muters who had bottled out of the bus to the far side of the platform where the firstclass passengers would board, she was nervous, as always, expecting to hear her name called. The bus had loaded most of its fares in Athlone, and one day someone would shout her name, and the charade would end.

The two-minute wait for the train was the worst.

Turning to the crossword in the Times, she looked at the other travellers: the Carnaby girl with the op-art ear­-rings chewing gum, the heavy-set Afrikaner with the folded Burger, the bell-bottomed hairdresser from Scissors ‘n Things – South Africans were impressed by foreigners and she’d seen his picture advertised – and the other girl standing by herself at the far end of the platform.

The other girl was like herself. Not white, not black, but the offspring of many races: the neurotic middle child of a dysfunctional womb. She knew about the other girl as she knew the other girl knew about her. As a denture­-wearer knows another plastic smile, an afflicted middle child can tell. From the stance, the wariness in the eyes. A middle child’s constant fear was to be tapped on the shoulder and asked to go to the section reserved for non­ whites.

The train arrived and she got on. Rocking gently in the green leather seat to the familiar rhythms of the car­riage, blending in with the pressed suits, feeling sale, she returned to her anagrams. Then something made her look up. Stephanie van Niekerk from South Peninsula High! She hadn’t seen Steffie since she took up with that German designer and moved into his flat in Green Point. Fair, with lots of freckles, sheets of raven black hair, Stephanie had a ballerina’s prance, flicking her hair when she walked, middle as the day was long.

They got up from their seats and met near the door where there was standing room.

“Sabah!”

“Howzit?”

They were not surprised to find each other in this front section of the train.

“I heard you’d gone to Germany.”

“I did. We came back.”

22 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 22-23

“For good?”

“Yes. We live in Newlands now.” Good old Newlands. Serene and green, and no hawkers allowed. “I’m still with Wolfie, you know.”

“Really? That’s a long time.”

“And Laine’s still with Joachim. They’ve got two kids now.”

“And your other sisters? How many were there again?”

“Five. All married except for Janey who got divorced. And you? I don’t see a ring.”

“Ah, well.”

“You’re moving with the wrong crowd.”

Sabah laughed.

“Get yourself a German or a Swede, Sabah. I’m telling you, you’ll never go non-white again. They don’t have that coloured mentality and they like dark. They come here because they’re attracted to the exotic look.” And she flicked her hair, smiling naughtily.

“Maybe if I was Christian I could.”

“Could what?”

“You know, try white.”

Stephanie laughed. “You still have those religious hang-ups?”

“Full of them, you don’t know.”

“Shame.”

“Don’t shame me, it’s not that bad. I got engaged last year, but called it off.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We were going to leave for Canada. I called it off, I can’t leave. He’s in Vancouver now.”

“Shame.”

“Stop it.”

“Well, Wolfgang and I are also moving on. We want to start a family.”

Sabah smiled. Stephanie’s life had worked out. With a German husband, she’d have fair children, they’d attend a white school, and start out on the right foot. But could Stephanie escape who she was? Could you take a born­again pill with your Ovaltine and wake up someone else?

“You must come to the house. Wolfie has some terrific friends. Maybe you’ll like Kurt. His English is a little stiff, but he’s blond with blue eyes and a programmer with IBM. How about tomorrow night? We can meet under the clock and take the train home together after work. There’re always people coming over, you never know who you can meet.”

At Cape Town station she watched Stephanie in her strapless heels walk towards the foreshore, strangely curious at the prospect of Friday

hawkers gadesælgere Ovaltine mærke af kakaopulver til opblanding i mælk

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 23

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

fasting fasten trilled hamrede pointed questions skarpe spørgsmål take some things into account tage nogle ting i betragtning bioscopes biografer

night. Would she be enticed? Envy Steffie’s world? It was sure to be more exciting than hers. Things were easier as a Christian. You could fall in love, marry anyone. No rules, no duties, no fasting, no praying five times a day.

She’d had a wild crush on a boy in Standard Six, Brian Dreyer, but even as a twelve-year-old knew it couldn’t be, held back. And she wasn’t anything like her friend. The first to smoke, experiment with sex, cross the colour line, Stephanie would laugh if she knew Sabah was still a virgin at twenty-­one.

“A Sergeant van Schalkwyk’s been calling for you,” the receptionist said when she reached work. “He’s with the C.I.D.” “The C.I.D.?” What would Criminal Investigations want with her?

She went to her desk, and called the number.

“Miss Solomon,” a heavily-accented voice said, “we’d like you to come down to Caledon Street police station this morning if you can.”

“Is something wrong?” Her heart trilled like bongos in her chest.

“We have information that you’re using a white card.”

“What do you mean?”

There was irritation in his voice. “You were reported, we know you have a white card.”

“Reported?”

“Can you come down this morning, please, or would you like us to come to where you work?”

Her father came with his lawyer, Jeffrey Fine, and met her outside the police station. He had a disappointed look, but didn’t say anything.

Her father refused to carry any card labelling him, and she had gone and obtained a white one.

But who would’ve reported her?

“Leave the talking to me,” the lawyer said.

There were two of them, one with friendly eyes acting graciously, the other asking the pointed questions. The tea girl came in with a tray, and van Schalkwyk offered them a cup.

De Wet came straight to the point.

“It’s a serious offence to obtain a white identification card if you’re not white, Miss Solomon. You’ve also done so illegally.”

The lawyer stepped in. “My client doesn’t deny that she has a card. But we’d like you to take some things into account, why she did it. Sabah’s a respectable girl from an educated family, white in appearance, and obtained the card because –” “We’re not talking about sitting in white restaurants or bioscopes, Mr. Fine. We can all see she can pass. She broke the law and we can’t get away from that.”

24 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 24-25

“There were no business schools five years ago for non-whites and Sabah obtained the card when she was sixteen to get into T.B.I. It was only a means to enhance her skills. And she’s made something of herself. She’s a legal assistant now. She knows what she’s done’s against the law, and has anxiety attacks worrying about being found out. She didn’t get the card to be white, but for some of the small privileges we take for granted. It’s not a crime, sergeant, to want to leap some of the hurdles in life.”

“You’re right, Mr. Fine, we’re parents ourselves, we all want the best for our kids. But there’re laws in this coun­try, and we can’t have people just helter skelter breaking the rules. Now, we understand that she’s applied to Canada for a visa and has received one.”

Her father interjected. “That was last year. She’s not interested in emigrating anymore.”

“So we’re prepared to negotiate,” van Schalkwyk con­tinued as if no one had spoken. “The names of the people who supplied the card and she’s free to leave the country. No charges will be brought. She has to be gone within a month.”

“What?”

“That’s the deal,” de Wet said. “But that’s outrageous!”

“Life’s outrageous, Mr. Fine. We’re being generous. The names of the people or organization who supplied the card and gone by the end of next month. It’s not that we don’t want her in South Africa, South Africa belongs to all of us, but if she’s not here when we make the arrests, we can’t put her in jail, can we?”

Fine talked back and forth for two hours, but it was like pissing into the Augrabies Falls.

Van Schalkwyk closed the file and got up. “We’ll leave you for a few minutes to sort yourselves out.”

Fine convinced his clients that the Security Police were not to be confused with, to use an American expres­sion, the palookas investigating a b and e, and would hold on to their prey, like hyenas till the end. She would be made an example of, her picture would appear in the papers, and there was the possibility of jail. Was Canada not worth a try? He himself had friends there, who reported a better life. It was a chance.

De Wet and van Schalkwyk returned, and Fine made a last desperate plea. The sergeants sat unmoving as the Drakensberg. With the cold speed of a bank transaction, the name of the contact – deceased two years previously – was given, and Sabah was released.

anxiety attacks angstanfald helter skelter kaotisk / uden orden palookas tumperne b and e indbrud (breaking and entering) prey byttedyr

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 25

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

fasting fasten trilled hamrede pointed questions skarpe spørgsmål take some things into account tage nogle ting i betragtning bioscopes biografer

night. Would she be enticed? Envy Steffie’s world? It was sure to be more exciting than hers. Things were easier as a Christian. You could fall in love, marry anyone. No rules, no duties, no fasting, no praying five times a day.

She’d had a wild crush on a boy in Standard Six, Brian Dreyer, but even as a twelve-year-old knew it couldn’t be, held back. And she wasn’t anything like her friend. The first to smoke, experiment with sex, cross the colour line, Stephanie would laugh if she knew Sabah was still a virgin at twenty-­one.

“A Sergeant van Schalkwyk’s been calling for you,” the receptionist said when she reached work. “He’s with the C.I.D.” “The C.I.D.?” What would Criminal Investigations want with her?

She went to her desk, and called the number.

“Miss Solomon,” a heavily-accented voice said, “we’d like you to come down to Caledon Street police station this morning if you can.”

“Is something wrong?” Her heart trilled like bongos in her chest.

“We have information that you’re using a white card.”

“What do you mean?”

There was irritation in his voice. “You were reported, we know you have a white card.”

“Reported?”

“Can you come down this morning, please, or would you like us to come to where you work?”

Her father came with his lawyer, Jeffrey Fine, and met her outside the police station. He had a disappointed look, but didn’t say anything.

Her father refused to carry any card labelling him, and she had gone and obtained a white one.

But who would’ve reported her?

“Leave the talking to me,” the lawyer said.

There were two of them, one with friendly eyes acting graciously, the other asking the pointed questions. The tea girl came in with a tray, and van Schalkwyk offered them a cup.

De Wet came straight to the point.

“It’s a serious offence to obtain a white identification card if you’re not white, Miss Solomon. You’ve also done so illegally.”

The lawyer stepped in. “My client doesn’t deny that she has a card. But we’d like you to take some things into account, why she did it. Sabah’s a respectable girl from an educated family, white in appearance, and obtained the card because –” “We’re not talking about sitting in white restaurants or bioscopes, Mr. Fine. We can all see she can pass. She broke the law and we can’t get away from that.”

24 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 24-25

“There were no business schools five years ago for non-whites and Sabah obtained the card when she was sixteen to get into T.B.I. It was only a means to enhance her skills. And she’s made something of herself. She’s a legal assistant now. She knows what she’s done’s against the law, and has anxiety attacks worrying about being found out. She didn’t get the card to be white, but for some of the small privileges we take for granted. It’s not a crime, sergeant, to want to leap some of the hurdles in life.”

“You’re right, Mr. Fine, we’re parents ourselves, we all want the best for our kids. But there’re laws in this coun­try, and we can’t have people just helter skelter breaking the rules. Now, we understand that she’s applied to Canada for a visa and has received one.”

Her father interjected. “That was last year. She’s not interested in emigrating anymore.”

“So we’re prepared to negotiate,” van Schalkwyk con­tinued as if no one had spoken. “The names of the people who supplied the card and she’s free to leave the country. No charges will be brought. She has to be gone within a month.”

“What?”

“That’s the deal,” de Wet said. “But that’s outrageous!”

“Life’s outrageous, Mr. Fine. We’re being generous. The names of the people or organization who supplied the card and gone by the end of next month. It’s not that we don’t want her in South Africa, South Africa belongs to all of us, but if she’s not here when we make the arrests, we can’t put her in jail, can we?”

Fine talked back and forth for two hours, but it was like pissing into the Augrabies Falls.

Van Schalkwyk closed the file and got up. “We’ll leave you for a few minutes to sort yourselves out.”

Fine convinced his clients that the Security Police were not to be confused with, to use an American expres­sion, the palookas investigating a b and e, and would hold on to their prey, like hyenas till the end. She would be made an example of, her picture would appear in the papers, and there was the possibility of jail. Was Canada not worth a try? He himself had friends there, who reported a better life. It was a chance.

De Wet and van Schalkwyk returned, and Fine made a last desperate plea. The sergeants sat unmoving as the Drakensberg. With the cold speed of a bank transaction, the name of the contact – deceased two years previously – was given, and Sabah was released.

anxiety attacks angstanfald helter skelter kaotisk / uden orden palookas tumperne b and e indbrud (breaking and entering) prey byttedyr

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crimplene syntetisk, rynkefrit stof

On a dismal day in May, her mother’s crimplene dress a white dot on the dock, Table Mountain bid her a silent, majestic goodbye. The wind whipped at her hair and she sank down between the passengers and cried into her hands. (1994)

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Make a characterization of Sabah.

2) Comment on the constant fear Sabah is living in.

3) Comment on this: “Stephanie’s life had worked out”.

4) How does religion influence Sabah’s life?

5) Why has Sabah chosen to acquire a white identification card?

6) How are Sergeant van Schalkwyk and Sergeant de Wet presented in the text?

7) Comment on the ending.

8) What do you think the author is trying to tell us with this text?

DISCUSSION (1): Discuss racial identity with the person sitting next you. Consider the methods of racial classification described in the text What Life Was Like in South Africa During Apartheid and the following quote from The Middle Children: "We’re not talking about sitting in white restaurants or bioscopes, Mr. Fine. We can all see she can pass”.

DISCUSSION (2): Discuss with the person sitting next to you whether it is okay to break the law when the law is clearly unfair.

26 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 26-27

LIFE FOR A LIFE Alan Paton

T

he doctor had closed up the ugly hole in Flip’s skull so that his widow, and her brothers and sisters, and their wives and husbands and children, and Flip’s own brothers and sisters and their wives and husbands and children, could come and stand for a minute and look down on the hard stony face of the master of Kroon, one of the richest farmers of the whole Karroo. The cars kept coming and going, the police, the doctor, the newspapermen, the neighbours from near and far.

All the white women were in the house, and all the white men outside.

An event like this, the violent death of one of themselves, drew them together in an instant, so that all the world might see that they were one, and that they would not rest till justice had been done. It was this standing there, this drawing together, that kept the brown people in their small stone houses, talking in low voices; and their fear communicated itself to their children, so that there was no need to silence them. Now and then one of them would leave the houses to relieve his needs in the bushes, but otherwise there was no movement on this side of the valley. Each family sat in its house, at a little distance from each front door, watching with anxious fascination the goings and the comings of the white people standing in front of the big house.

Then the white predikant came from Poort, you could tell him by the black hat and the black clothes. He shook hands with Big Baas Flip’s sons, and said words of comfort to them. Then all the men followed him into the house, and after a while the sound of the slow determined singing was carried across the valley, to the small stone houses on the other side, to Enoch Maarman, head shepherd of Kroon, and his wife Sara, sitting just inside the door of their own house. Maarman’s anxiety showed itself in the movements of his face and hands, and his wife knew of his condition but kept her face averted from it. Guilt lay heavily upon them both, because they had hated Big Baas Flip, not with clenched fists and bared teeth, but, as befitted people in their station, with salutes and deference.

Sara suddenly sat erect.

‘They are coming,’ she said.

They watched the four men leave the big stone house, and take the path that led to the small stone houses, and both could feel the fear rising in them.

Their guilt weighed down on them all the more heavily because they felt no grief. They felt all the more afraid because the show of grief might have softened the harshness of the approaching ordeal. Someone must pay for so terrible a crime, and if not the one who did it, then who better than the one

to relieve his needs at forrette sin nødtørft / at tisse predikant præst (afrikaans) baas boss (afrikaans) averted undgik

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 27

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

crimplene syntetisk, rynkefrit stof

On a dismal day in May, her mother’s crimplene dress a white dot on the dock, Table Mountain bid her a silent, majestic goodbye. The wind whipped at her hair and she sank down between the passengers and cried into her hands. (1994)

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Make a characterization of Sabah.

2) Comment on the constant fear Sabah is living in.

3) Comment on this: “Stephanie’s life had worked out”.

4) How does religion influence Sabah’s life?

5) Why has Sabah chosen to acquire a white identification card?

6) How are Sergeant van Schalkwyk and Sergeant de Wet presented in the text?

7) Comment on the ending.

8) What do you think the author is trying to tell us with this text?

DISCUSSION (1): Discuss racial identity with the person sitting next you. Consider the methods of racial classification described in the text What Life Was Like in South Africa During Apartheid and the following quote from The Middle Children: "We’re not talking about sitting in white restaurants or bioscopes, Mr. Fine. We can all see she can pass”.

DISCUSSION (2): Discuss with the person sitting next to you whether it is okay to break the law when the law is clearly unfair.

26 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 26-27

LIFE FOR A LIFE Alan Paton

T

he doctor had closed up the ugly hole in Flip’s skull so that his widow, and her brothers and sisters, and their wives and husbands and children, and Flip’s own brothers and sisters and their wives and husbands and children, could come and stand for a minute and look down on the hard stony face of the master of Kroon, one of the richest farmers of the whole Karroo. The cars kept coming and going, the police, the doctor, the newspapermen, the neighbours from near and far.

All the white women were in the house, and all the white men outside.

An event like this, the violent death of one of themselves, drew them together in an instant, so that all the world might see that they were one, and that they would not rest till justice had been done. It was this standing there, this drawing together, that kept the brown people in their small stone houses, talking in low voices; and their fear communicated itself to their children, so that there was no need to silence them. Now and then one of them would leave the houses to relieve his needs in the bushes, but otherwise there was no movement on this side of the valley. Each family sat in its house, at a little distance from each front door, watching with anxious fascination the goings and the comings of the white people standing in front of the big house.

Then the white predikant came from Poort, you could tell him by the black hat and the black clothes. He shook hands with Big Baas Flip’s sons, and said words of comfort to them. Then all the men followed him into the house, and after a while the sound of the slow determined singing was carried across the valley, to the small stone houses on the other side, to Enoch Maarman, head shepherd of Kroon, and his wife Sara, sitting just inside the door of their own house. Maarman’s anxiety showed itself in the movements of his face and hands, and his wife knew of his condition but kept her face averted from it. Guilt lay heavily upon them both, because they had hated Big Baas Flip, not with clenched fists and bared teeth, but, as befitted people in their station, with salutes and deference.

Sara suddenly sat erect.

‘They are coming,’ she said.

They watched the four men leave the big stone house, and take the path that led to the small stone houses, and both could feel the fear rising in them.

Their guilt weighed down on them all the more heavily because they felt no grief. They felt all the more afraid because the show of grief might have softened the harshness of the approaching ordeal. Someone must pay for so terrible a crime, and if not the one who did it, then who better than the one

to relieve his needs at forrette sin nødtørft / at tisse predikant præst (afrikaans) baas boss (afrikaans) averted undgik

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hat in hand stå ydmyg flannels bukser lavet af uldstof

While most farmers were white, most farmworkers were black.

who could not grieve? That morning Maarman had stood hat in hand before Baas Gysbert, who was Big Baas Flip’s eldest son, and had said to him, ‘My people are sorry to hear of this terrible thing.’ And Baas Gysbert had given him the terrible answer, ‘That could be so.’

Then Sara said to him, ‘Robbertse is one.’

He nodded. He knew that Robbertse was one, the big detective with the temper that got out of hand, so that reddish foam would come out of his mouth, and he would hold a man by the throat till one of his colleagues would shout at him to let the man go. Sara’s father, who was one of the wisest men in all the district of Poort, said that he could never be sure whether Robbertse was mad or only pretending to be, but that it didn’t really matter, because whichever it was, it was dangerous.

Maarman and his wife stood up when two of the detectives came to the door of the small stone house. One was Robbertse, but both were big men and confident.

They wore smart sports jackets and grey flannels, and grey felt hats on their heads. They came in and kept their hats on their heads, looking round the small house with the air of masters. They spoke to each other as though there were nobody standing there waiting to be spoken to.

Then Robbertse said, ‘You are Enoch Maarman?’

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

hat in hand stå ydmyg flannels bukser lavet af uldstof

While most farmers were white, most farmworkers were black.

who could not grieve? That morning Maarman had stood hat in hand before Baas Gysbert, who was Big Baas Flip’s eldest son, and had said to him, ‘My people are sorry to hear of this terrible thing.’ And Baas Gysbert had given him the terrible answer, ‘That could be so.’

Then Sara said to him, ‘Robbertse is one.’

He nodded. He knew that Robbertse was one, the big detective with the temper that got out of hand, so that reddish foam would come out of his mouth, and he would hold a man by the throat till one of his colleagues would shout at him to let the man go. Sara’s father, who was one of the wisest men in all the district of Poort, said that he could never be sure whether Robbertse was mad or only pretending to be, but that it didn’t really matter, because whichever it was, it was dangerous.

Maarman and his wife stood up when two of the detectives came to the door of the small stone house. One was Robbertse, but both were big men and confident.

They wore smart sports jackets and grey flannels, and grey felt hats on their heads. They came in and kept their hats on their heads, looking round the small house with the air of masters. They spoke to each other as though there were nobody standing there waiting to be spoken to.

Then Robbertse said, ‘You are Enoch Maarman?’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 28-29

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magistrate dommer

‘Yes, baas.’

‘The head shepherd?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Who are the other shepherds?’

Enoch gave him the names, and Robbertse sat down on one of the chairs, and wrote the names in his book. Then he tilted his hat back on his head and said, ‘Has any of these men ever been in jail?’

Enoch moistened his lips. He wanted to say that the detective could easily find it out for himself, that he was the head shepherd and would answer any question about the farm or the work. But he said instead, ‘I don’t know, baas.’

‘You don’t know Kleinbooi was in jail at Christmas?’

‘Yes, I know that, baas.’

Suddenly, Robbertse was on his feet, and his head almost touching the ceiling, and his body almost filling the small room, and he was shouting in a tremendous voice, ‘Then why did you lie?’

Sara had shrunk back into the wall, and was looking at Robbertse out of terrified eyes, but Enoch did not move though he was deathly afraid.

He answered, ‘I didn’t mean to lie, baas. Kleinbooi was in jail for drink, not killing.’

Robbertse said, ‘Killing? Why do you mention killing?’

Then when Enoch did not answer, the detective suddenly lifted his hand so that Enoch started back and knocked over the other chair. Down on his knees, and shielding his head with one hand, he set the chair straight again, saying, ‘Baas, we know that you are here because the master was killed.’

But Robbertse’s lifting his hand had been intended only to remove his hat from his head, and now with a grin he put his hat on the table.

‘Why fall down,’ he asked, ‘because I take off my hat? I like to take off my hat in another man’s house.’

He smiled at Sara, and looking at the chair now set upright, said to her, ‘You can sit.’

When she made no attempt to sit on it, the smile left his face, and he said to her coldly and menacingly, ‘You can sit.’

When she had sat down, he said to Maarman, ‘Don’t knock over any more chairs. For if one gets broken, you’ll tell the magistrate I broke it, won’t you? That I lifted it up and threatened you?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse sat down again, and studied his book as though something were written there, not the names of shepherds. Then he said suddenly, out of nothing, ‘You hated him, didn’t you?’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 30-31

And Enoch answered, ‘No, baas.’

‘Where’s your son Johannes?’

‘In Cape Town, baas.’

‘Why didn’t he become a shepherd?’

‘I wouldn’t let him, baas.’

‘You sent him to the white university?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘So that he could play the white baas?’

‘No, baas.’

‘Why does he never come to see you?’

‘The Big Baas would not let him, baas.’

‘Because he wouldn’t become a shepherd?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘So you hated him, didn’t you?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse looked at him with contempt.

‘A man keeps your own son away from your door, because you want a better life for him, and you don’t hate him? God, what are you made of?’

He continued to look at Maarman with contempt, then shrugged his shoulders as though it were a bad business; then he suddenly grew intimate, confidential, even friendly.

‘Maarman, I have news for you, you may think it good, you may think it bad. But you have a right to know it, seeing it is about your son.’

The shepherd was suddenly filled with a new apprehension. Robbertse was preparing some new blow. That was the kind of man he was, he hated to see any coloured man holding his head up, he hated to see any coloured man anywhere but on his knees or his stomach.

‘Your son,’ said Robbertse, genially, ‘you thought he was in Cape Town, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Robbertse, ‘he’s here in Poort, he was seen there yesterday.’

He let it sink in, then he said to Maarman, ‘He hated Big Baas Flip, didn’t he?’

Maarman cried out, ‘No, baas.’

For the second time Robbertse was on his feet, filling the room with his size, and his madness.

‘He didn’t hate him?’ he shouted. ‘God Almighty, Big Baas Flip wouldn’t let him come to his own home, and see his own father and mother, but he

apprehension bekymring

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magistrate dommer

‘Yes, baas.’

‘The head shepherd?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Who are the other shepherds?’

Enoch gave him the names, and Robbertse sat down on one of the chairs, and wrote the names in his book. Then he tilted his hat back on his head and said, ‘Has any of these men ever been in jail?’

Enoch moistened his lips. He wanted to say that the detective could easily find it out for himself, that he was the head shepherd and would answer any question about the farm or the work. But he said instead, ‘I don’t know, baas.’

‘You don’t know Kleinbooi was in jail at Christmas?’

‘Yes, I know that, baas.’

Suddenly, Robbertse was on his feet, and his head almost touching the ceiling, and his body almost filling the small room, and he was shouting in a tremendous voice, ‘Then why did you lie?’

Sara had shrunk back into the wall, and was looking at Robbertse out of terrified eyes, but Enoch did not move though he was deathly afraid.

He answered, ‘I didn’t mean to lie, baas. Kleinbooi was in jail for drink, not killing.’

Robbertse said, ‘Killing? Why do you mention killing?’

Then when Enoch did not answer, the detective suddenly lifted his hand so that Enoch started back and knocked over the other chair. Down on his knees, and shielding his head with one hand, he set the chair straight again, saying, ‘Baas, we know that you are here because the master was killed.’

But Robbertse’s lifting his hand had been intended only to remove his hat from his head, and now with a grin he put his hat on the table.

‘Why fall down,’ he asked, ‘because I take off my hat? I like to take off my hat in another man’s house.’

He smiled at Sara, and looking at the chair now set upright, said to her, ‘You can sit.’

When she made no attempt to sit on it, the smile left his face, and he said to her coldly and menacingly, ‘You can sit.’

When she had sat down, he said to Maarman, ‘Don’t knock over any more chairs. For if one gets broken, you’ll tell the magistrate I broke it, won’t you? That I lifted it up and threatened you?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse sat down again, and studied his book as though something were written there, not the names of shepherds. Then he said suddenly, out of nothing, ‘You hated him, didn’t you?’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 30-31

And Enoch answered, ‘No, baas.’

‘Where’s your son Johannes?’

‘In Cape Town, baas.’

‘Why didn’t he become a shepherd?’

‘I wouldn’t let him, baas.’

‘You sent him to the white university?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘So that he could play the white baas?’

‘No, baas.’

‘Why does he never come to see you?’

‘The Big Baas would not let him, baas.’

‘Because he wouldn’t become a shepherd?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘So you hated him, didn’t you?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse looked at him with contempt.

‘A man keeps your own son away from your door, because you want a better life for him, and you don’t hate him? God, what are you made of?’

He continued to look at Maarman with contempt, then shrugged his shoulders as though it were a bad business; then he suddenly grew intimate, confidential, even friendly.

‘Maarman, I have news for you, you may think it good, you may think it bad. But you have a right to know it, seeing it is about your son.’

The shepherd was suddenly filled with a new apprehension. Robbertse was preparing some new blow. That was the kind of man he was, he hated to see any coloured man holding his head up, he hated to see any coloured man anywhere but on his knees or his stomach.

‘Your son,’ said Robbertse, genially, ‘you thought he was in Cape Town, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Well, he isn’t,’ said Robbertse, ‘he’s here in Poort, he was seen there yesterday.’

He let it sink in, then he said to Maarman, ‘He hated Big Baas Flip, didn’t he?’

Maarman cried out, ‘No, baas.’

For the second time Robbertse was on his feet, filling the room with his size, and his madness.

‘He didn’t hate him?’ he shouted. ‘God Almighty, Big Baas Flip wouldn’t let him come to his own home, and see his own father and mother, but he

apprehension bekymring

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yellow kujon-agtig ingratiatingly indsmigrende piquancy pikanthed

didn’t hate him. And you didn’t hate him either, you creeping yellow bastard, what are you all made of?’

He looked at the shepherd out of his mad red eyes. Then with contempt he said again, ‘You creeping yellow hottentot bastard.’

‘Baas,’ said Maarman.

‘What?’

‘Baas, the baas can ask me what he likes, and I shall try to answer him, but I ask the baas not to insult me in my own house, before my own wife.’

Robbertse appeared delighted, charmed. Some other man might have been outraged that a coloured man should so advise him, but he was able to admire such manly pride.

‘Insult you?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you see me take off my hat when I came into this house?’

He turned to Sara and asked her, ‘Didn’t you see me take off my hat when I came into this house?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Did you think I was insulting your husband?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse smiled at her ingratiatingly. ‘I only called him a creeping yellow hottentot bastard,’ he said.

The cruel words destroyed the sense of piquancy for him, and now he was truly outraged. He took a step towards the shepherd, and his colleague, the other detective, the silent one, suddenly shouted at him, ‘Robbertse!’

Robbertse stopped. He looked vacantly at Maarman. ‘Was someone calling me?’ he asked. ‘Did you hear a voice calling me?’

Maarman was terrified, fascinated, he could see the red foam. He was at a loss, not knowing whether this was madness, or madness affecting to be madness, or what it was.

‘The other baas was calling you, baas.’

Then it was suddenly all over. Robbertse sat down again on the chair to ask more questions.

‘You knew there was money stolen?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Mimi, the girl who works at the house.’

‘You knew the money was in an iron safe, and they took it away?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Where would they take it to?’

‘I don’t know, baas.’

‘Where would you have taken it, if you had stolen it?’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 32-33

But Maarman didn’t answer.

‘You won’t answer, eh?’

All three of them watched Robbertse anxiously, lest the storm should return. But he smiled benevolently at Maarman, as though he knew that even a coloured man must have pride, as though he thought all the better of him for it, and said, ‘All right, I won’t ask that question. But I want you to think of the places where that safe could be. It must have been carried by at least two men, perhaps more. And they couldn’t have got it of the farm in the time. So it’s still on the farm. Now all I want you to do is to think where it could be.

No one knows this farm better than you.’

‘I’ll think, baas.’

The other detective suddenly said, ‘The lieutenant’s come.’ The two of them stood just inside the door, looking over to the house on the other side of the valley. Then suddenly Robbertse rounded on Maarman, and catching him by the back of the neck, forced him to the door, so that he could look too.

‘You see that,’ he said. ‘They want to know who killed Big Baas Flip, and they want to know soon. Do you see them?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘And you see that lieutenant. He rides round in a Chrysler, and by God, he wants to know too. And by God he'll ride me if I don’t find out.’

He pulsed the shepherd back into the room, and put on his hat and went out, followed by the other.

‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me,’ he said to Maarman. ‘You’ve got to show me where your friends hid that safe.’

Then he and his companion joined the other two detectives, and all four of them turned back towards the big house. They talked animatedly, and more than once all of them stood for a moment while one of them made some point or put forward some theory. No one would have known that one of them was mad.

Twelve hours since they had taken her husband away. Twelve hours since the mad detective had come for him, with those red tormented eyes, as though the lieutenant were riding him too hard. He had grinned at her husband. ‘Come and we’ll look for the safe,’ he said. The sun was sinking in the sky, over the hills of Kroon. It was not time to be looking for a safe.

She did not sleep that night. Her neighbours had come to sit with her, till midnight, till two o’clock, till four o’clock, but there was no sign. Why did he not come back? Were they still searching at this hour of the morning?

Then the sun was rising, over the hills of Kroon.

On the other side of the valley the big house was awake, for this was the day that Big Baas Flip would be laid to rest, under the cypress trees of the

lest af frygt for animatedly livligt

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yellow kujon-agtig ingratiatingly indsmigrende piquancy pikanthed

didn’t hate him. And you didn’t hate him either, you creeping yellow bastard, what are you all made of?’

He looked at the shepherd out of his mad red eyes. Then with contempt he said again, ‘You creeping yellow hottentot bastard.’

‘Baas,’ said Maarman.

‘What?’

‘Baas, the baas can ask me what he likes, and I shall try to answer him, but I ask the baas not to insult me in my own house, before my own wife.’

Robbertse appeared delighted, charmed. Some other man might have been outraged that a coloured man should so advise him, but he was able to admire such manly pride.

‘Insult you?’ he said. ‘Didn’t you see me take off my hat when I came into this house?’

He turned to Sara and asked her, ‘Didn’t you see me take off my hat when I came into this house?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Did you think I was insulting your husband?’

‘No, baas.’

Robbertse smiled at her ingratiatingly. ‘I only called him a creeping yellow hottentot bastard,’ he said.

The cruel words destroyed the sense of piquancy for him, and now he was truly outraged. He took a step towards the shepherd, and his colleague, the other detective, the silent one, suddenly shouted at him, ‘Robbertse!’

Robbertse stopped. He looked vacantly at Maarman. ‘Was someone calling me?’ he asked. ‘Did you hear a voice calling me?’

Maarman was terrified, fascinated, he could see the red foam. He was at a loss, not knowing whether this was madness, or madness affecting to be madness, or what it was.

‘The other baas was calling you, baas.’

Then it was suddenly all over. Robbertse sat down again on the chair to ask more questions.

‘You knew there was money stolen?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Mimi, the girl who works at the house.’

‘You knew the money was in an iron safe, and they took it away?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘Where would they take it to?’

‘I don’t know, baas.’

‘Where would you have taken it, if you had stolen it?’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 32-33

But Maarman didn’t answer.

‘You won’t answer, eh?’

All three of them watched Robbertse anxiously, lest the storm should return. But he smiled benevolently at Maarman, as though he knew that even a coloured man must have pride, as though he thought all the better of him for it, and said, ‘All right, I won’t ask that question. But I want you to think of the places where that safe could be. It must have been carried by at least two men, perhaps more. And they couldn’t have got it of the farm in the time. So it’s still on the farm. Now all I want you to do is to think where it could be.

No one knows this farm better than you.’

‘I’ll think, baas.’

The other detective suddenly said, ‘The lieutenant’s come.’ The two of them stood just inside the door, looking over to the house on the other side of the valley. Then suddenly Robbertse rounded on Maarman, and catching him by the back of the neck, forced him to the door, so that he could look too.

‘You see that,’ he said. ‘They want to know who killed Big Baas Flip, and they want to know soon. Do you see them?’

‘Yes, baas.’

‘And you see that lieutenant. He rides round in a Chrysler, and by God, he wants to know too. And by God he'll ride me if I don’t find out.’

He pulsed the shepherd back into the room, and put on his hat and went out, followed by the other.

‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me,’ he said to Maarman. ‘You’ve got to show me where your friends hid that safe.’

Then he and his companion joined the other two detectives, and all four of them turned back towards the big house. They talked animatedly, and more than once all of them stood for a moment while one of them made some point or put forward some theory. No one would have known that one of them was mad.

Twelve hours since they had taken her husband away. Twelve hours since the mad detective had come for him, with those red tormented eyes, as though the lieutenant were riding him too hard. He had grinned at her husband. ‘Come and we’ll look for the safe,’ he said. The sun was sinking in the sky, over the hills of Kroon. It was not time to be looking for a safe.

She did not sleep that night. Her neighbours had come to sit with her, till midnight, till two o’clock, till four o’clock, but there was no sign. Why did he not come back? Were they still searching at this hour of the morning?

Then the sun was rising, over the hills of Kroon.

On the other side of the valley the big house was awake, for this was the day that Big Baas Flip would be laid to rest, under the cypress trees of the

lest af frygt for animatedly livligt

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station plads i livet feigned falsk certitude vished brand mærke

graveyard in the stones. Leaderless, the shepherds had gone to Baas Gysbert to be given the day’s work; and Hendrik Baadjies, second shepherd, told Baas Gysbert that the police had taken Enoch Maarman at sunset, and now at dawn he had not yet returned, and that his wife was anxious. Would Baas Gysbert not please strike the telephone, not much only a little, not for long only a short time, to ask what had become of his father’s head shepherd?

And Baas Gysbert replied in a voice trembling with passion, ‘Do you not know it was my father who was killed?’

So Hendrik Baadjies touched his hat, and said, ‘Pardon me, baas, that I asked.’

Then he went to stand with the other shepherds, a man shamed standing with other shamed men, who must teach their children to know for ever their station.

Fifteen hours. But she would not eat. Her neighbours brought food, but she would not. She could see the red foam at the corners of the mouth, and see the tremendous form and hear the tremendous voice that filled her house, with anger, and with feigned politeness, and with contempt, and with cruel smiling. Because one was a shepherd, because one had no certitude of home or work or life or favour, because one’s back had to be bent though one’s soul would be upright, because one had to speak the smiling craven words under any injustice, because one had to bear as a brand this dark sun­-warmed colour of the skin, as good surely as any other, because of these things, this mad policeman could strike down, and hold by the neck, and call a creeping yellow hottentot bastard, a man who had never hurt another in his long gentle life, a man who like the great Christ was a lover of sheep and of little children, and had been a good husband and father except for those occasional outbursts that any sensible woman will pass over, outbursts of the imprisoned manhood that has got tired of the chains that keep it down on its knees. Yes this mad policeman could take off his hat mockingly in one’s house, and ask a dozen questions that he, for all that he was as big as a mountain, would never have dared to ask a white person.

But the anger went from her suddenly, leaving her spent, leaving her again full of anxiety for the safety of her husband, and for the safety of her son who had chosen to come to Poort at this dangerous hour. Just as a person sits in the cold, and by keeping motionless enjoys some illusion of warmth, so she sat inwardly motionless, lest by some interior movement she would disturb the numbness of her mind, and feel the pain of her condition.

However she was not allowed to remain so, for at eleven o’clock a message came from Hendrik Baadjies to say that it was certain that neither detective nor head shepherd was on the farm of Kroon. Then at noon a boy brought

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her a message that her brother Solomon Koopman had come with a taxi to the gate of the farm, and that she should come at once to him there, because he did not wish to come to her house. She tied a doek round her head, and as soon as she saw her brother, she cried to him, ‘Are they safe?’ When he looked mystified, she said, ‘My man and my child,’ and her brother told her it must have been Robbertse’s joke, that her son was safe in Cape Town and had not been in Poort at all. He was glad to be able to tell her this piece of news; for his other news was terrible, that Enoch her husband was dead. He had always been a little afraid of his sister, who had brought up the family when their mother had died, so he did not know how to comfort her. But she wept only a little, like one who is used to such events, and must not grieve but must prepare for the next.

Then she said, ‘How did he die?’ So he told her the story that the police had told him of Enoch’s death, how that the night was dark, and how they had gone searching down by the river, and how Enoch had slipped on one of the big stones there and had fallen on his head, and how they had not hesitated but had rushed him to Poort, but he had died in the car.

What can one say to a story like that? So they said nothing. He was ashamed to tell it, but he had to tell it so, because he had a butcher’s licence in Poort, and he could not afford to doubt the police.

‘This happened in the dark,’ Sara said. ‘Why do they let me know now?’

Alas, they could not give her her husband’s body, it was buried already!

Alas, she would know what it was like in the summer, how death began to smell because of the heat, that was why they had buried it! Alas, they wouldn’t have done it had they only known who he was, and that his home was so near, at the well-known farm of Kroon!

Couldn’t the body be lifted again, and be taken to Kroon, to be buried. there in the hills where Enoch Maarman had worked so faithfully for nearly fifty years, tending the sheep of Big Baas Flip? Alas, no it couldn’t be, for it is one thing to bury a man, and quite another thing to take him up again! To bury a man one only needs a doctor, and even that not always, but to take him up again you would have to go to Cape Town and get the permission of the Minister himself. And they do not permit that lightly, to disturb a man’s bones when once he has been laid to rest in the earth. ­ Solomon Koopman would have gone away, with a smile on his lips, and cold hate in his heart. But she would not. For this surely was one thing that was her own, the body of the man she had lived with for so many years.

She wanted the young white policeman behind the desk to show her the certificate of her husband’s death, and she wanted to know by whose orders he had been buried, and who had hurried his body into the earth, so that

doek tørklæde (afrikaans) hesitated tøvet tending passe

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station plads i livet feigned falsk certitude vished brand mærke

graveyard in the stones. Leaderless, the shepherds had gone to Baas Gysbert to be given the day’s work; and Hendrik Baadjies, second shepherd, told Baas Gysbert that the police had taken Enoch Maarman at sunset, and now at dawn he had not yet returned, and that his wife was anxious. Would Baas Gysbert not please strike the telephone, not much only a little, not for long only a short time, to ask what had become of his father’s head shepherd?

And Baas Gysbert replied in a voice trembling with passion, ‘Do you not know it was my father who was killed?’

So Hendrik Baadjies touched his hat, and said, ‘Pardon me, baas, that I asked.’

Then he went to stand with the other shepherds, a man shamed standing with other shamed men, who must teach their children to know for ever their station.

Fifteen hours. But she would not eat. Her neighbours brought food, but she would not. She could see the red foam at the corners of the mouth, and see the tremendous form and hear the tremendous voice that filled her house, with anger, and with feigned politeness, and with contempt, and with cruel smiling. Because one was a shepherd, because one had no certitude of home or work or life or favour, because one’s back had to be bent though one’s soul would be upright, because one had to speak the smiling craven words under any injustice, because one had to bear as a brand this dark sun­-warmed colour of the skin, as good surely as any other, because of these things, this mad policeman could strike down, and hold by the neck, and call a creeping yellow hottentot bastard, a man who had never hurt another in his long gentle life, a man who like the great Christ was a lover of sheep and of little children, and had been a good husband and father except for those occasional outbursts that any sensible woman will pass over, outbursts of the imprisoned manhood that has got tired of the chains that keep it down on its knees. Yes this mad policeman could take off his hat mockingly in one’s house, and ask a dozen questions that he, for all that he was as big as a mountain, would never have dared to ask a white person.

But the anger went from her suddenly, leaving her spent, leaving her again full of anxiety for the safety of her husband, and for the safety of her son who had chosen to come to Poort at this dangerous hour. Just as a person sits in the cold, and by keeping motionless enjoys some illusion of warmth, so she sat inwardly motionless, lest by some interior movement she would disturb the numbness of her mind, and feel the pain of her condition.

However she was not allowed to remain so, for at eleven o’clock a message came from Hendrik Baadjies to say that it was certain that neither detective nor head shepherd was on the farm of Kroon. Then at noon a boy brought

34 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 34-35

her a message that her brother Solomon Koopman had come with a taxi to the gate of the farm, and that she should come at once to him there, because he did not wish to come to her house. She tied a doek round her head, and as soon as she saw her brother, she cried to him, ‘Are they safe?’ When he looked mystified, she said, ‘My man and my child,’ and her brother told her it must have been Robbertse’s joke, that her son was safe in Cape Town and had not been in Poort at all. He was glad to be able to tell her this piece of news; for his other news was terrible, that Enoch her husband was dead. He had always been a little afraid of his sister, who had brought up the family when their mother had died, so he did not know how to comfort her. But she wept only a little, like one who is used to such events, and must not grieve but must prepare for the next.

Then she said, ‘How did he die?’ So he told her the story that the police had told him of Enoch’s death, how that the night was dark, and how they had gone searching down by the river, and how Enoch had slipped on one of the big stones there and had fallen on his head, and how they had not hesitated but had rushed him to Poort, but he had died in the car.

What can one say to a story like that? So they said nothing. He was ashamed to tell it, but he had to tell it so, because he had a butcher’s licence in Poort, and he could not afford to doubt the police.

‘This happened in the dark,’ Sara said. ‘Why do they let me know now?’

Alas, they could not give her her husband’s body, it was buried already!

Alas, she would know what it was like in the summer, how death began to smell because of the heat, that was why they had buried it! Alas, they wouldn’t have done it had they only known who he was, and that his home was so near, at the well-known farm of Kroon!

Couldn’t the body be lifted again, and be taken to Kroon, to be buried. there in the hills where Enoch Maarman had worked so faithfully for nearly fifty years, tending the sheep of Big Baas Flip? Alas, no it couldn’t be, for it is one thing to bury a man, and quite another thing to take him up again! To bury a man one only needs a doctor, and even that not always, but to take him up again you would have to go to Cape Town and get the permission of the Minister himself. And they do not permit that lightly, to disturb a man’s bones when once he has been laid to rest in the earth. ­ Solomon Koopman would have gone away, with a smile on his lips, and cold hate in his heart. But she would not. For this surely was one thing that was her own, the body of the man she had lived with for so many years.

She wanted the young white policeman behind the desk to show her the certificate of her husband’s death, and she wanted to know by whose orders he had been buried, and who had hurried his body into the earth, so that

doek tørklæde (afrikaans) hesitated tøvet tending passe

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importunity påtrængenhed sub-cranial bleeding blødning under kraniet

she could tell for herself whether it was possible that such a person had not known that this was the body of Enoch Maarman, head shepherd of the farm of Kroon, who had that very night been in the company of Detective Robbertse.

She put these questions, through her brother Solomon Koopman, who had a butcher’s licence, and framed the questions apologetically, because he knew that they implied that something was very wrong somewhere, that something was being hidden. But although he put the questions as nicely as possible, he could see that the policeman behind the desk was becoming impatient with this importunity, and was beginning to think that grief was no excuse for this cross-­examination of authority. Other policemen came in too, and listened to the questions of this woman who would not go away, and one of them said to the young constable behind the desk, ‘Show her the death certificate.’

There it was, ‘Death due to sub-cranial bleeding.’

‘He fell on his head,’ explained the older policeman, ‘and the blood inside finished him.’

'I ask to see Detective Robbertse,’ she said.

The policemen smiled and looked at each other, not in any flagrant way, just knowingly.

‘You can’t see him,’ said the older policeman. ‘He went away on holiday this very morning.’

‘Why does he go on holiday,’ she asked, ‘when he is working on this case?’

The policemen began to look at her impatiently. She was going too far, even though her husband was dead. Her own brother was growing restless, and he said to her, ‘Sister, let us go.’

Her tears were coming now, made to flow by sorrow and anger. The policemen were uneasy, and drifted away, leaving only the young constable at the desk.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘How did my husband die? Why is Detective Robbertse not here to answer my questions?’

The young policeman said to her angrily, ‘We don’t answer such questions here. If you want to ask such questions, get a lawyer.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I shall get a lawyer.’

She and her brother turned to leave, but the older policeman was there at the door, polite and reasonable.

‘Why isn’t your sister sensible?’ he asked Solomon Koopman. ‘A lawyer will only stir up trouble between the police and the people.’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 36-37

Koopman looked from the policeman to his sister, for he feared them both.

‘Ask him,’ Sara said to her brother, ‘if it is not sensible to want to know about one’s husband’s death.’

‘Tell her,’ said the policeman to Koopman, ‘that it was an accident.’

‘He knows who I am,’ Sara said. ‘Why did he allow my husband to be buried here when he knew that he lived at Kroon?’

Her voice was rising, and to compensate for it, the policeman’s voice grew lower and lower.

‘I did not have him buried,’ he said desperately. ‘It was an order from a high person.’

Outside in the street, Koopman said to his sister miserably, ‘Sister, I beg you, do not get a lawyer. For if you do, I shall lose the licence, and who will help you to keep your son at the university?’

Sara Maarman got back to her house as the sun was sinking over the hills of Kroon, twenty-four hours from the time that her husband had left with Detective Robbertse to look for the safe. She lit the lamp and sat down, too weary to think of food. While she sat there, Hendrik Baadjies knocked at the door and came in and brought her the sympathy of all the brown people on the farm of Kroon. Then he stood before her, twisting his hat in his hand almost as though she were a white woman. He brought a message from Baas Gysbert, who now needed a new shepherd and needed Enoch Maarman’s house for him to live in. She would be given three days to pack all her possessions, and the loan of the cart and donkeys to take them and herself to Poort.

‘Is three days enough?’ asked Baadjies. ‘For if it is not, I could ask for more.’

‘Three days is enough,’ she said.

When Baadjies had gone, she thought to herself, three days is three days too many, to go on living in this land of stone, three days before she could leave it all for the Cape, where her son lived, where people lived, so he told her, softer and sweeter lives.

(1961)

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importunity påtrængenhed sub-cranial bleeding blødning under kraniet

she could tell for herself whether it was possible that such a person had not known that this was the body of Enoch Maarman, head shepherd of the farm of Kroon, who had that very night been in the company of Detective Robbertse.

She put these questions, through her brother Solomon Koopman, who had a butcher’s licence, and framed the questions apologetically, because he knew that they implied that something was very wrong somewhere, that something was being hidden. But although he put the questions as nicely as possible, he could see that the policeman behind the desk was becoming impatient with this importunity, and was beginning to think that grief was no excuse for this cross-­examination of authority. Other policemen came in too, and listened to the questions of this woman who would not go away, and one of them said to the young constable behind the desk, ‘Show her the death certificate.’

There it was, ‘Death due to sub-cranial bleeding.’

‘He fell on his head,’ explained the older policeman, ‘and the blood inside finished him.’

'I ask to see Detective Robbertse,’ she said.

The policemen smiled and looked at each other, not in any flagrant way, just knowingly.

‘You can’t see him,’ said the older policeman. ‘He went away on holiday this very morning.’

‘Why does he go on holiday,’ she asked, ‘when he is working on this case?’

The policemen began to look at her impatiently. She was going too far, even though her husband was dead. Her own brother was growing restless, and he said to her, ‘Sister, let us go.’

Her tears were coming now, made to flow by sorrow and anger. The policemen were uneasy, and drifted away, leaving only the young constable at the desk.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘How did my husband die? Why is Detective Robbertse not here to answer my questions?’

The young policeman said to her angrily, ‘We don’t answer such questions here. If you want to ask such questions, get a lawyer.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I shall get a lawyer.’

She and her brother turned to leave, but the older policeman was there at the door, polite and reasonable.

‘Why isn’t your sister sensible?’ he asked Solomon Koopman. ‘A lawyer will only stir up trouble between the police and the people.’

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APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 36-37

Koopman looked from the policeman to his sister, for he feared them both.

‘Ask him,’ Sara said to her brother, ‘if it is not sensible to want to know about one’s husband’s death.’

‘Tell her,’ said the policeman to Koopman, ‘that it was an accident.’

‘He knows who I am,’ Sara said. ‘Why did he allow my husband to be buried here when he knew that he lived at Kroon?’

Her voice was rising, and to compensate for it, the policeman’s voice grew lower and lower.

‘I did not have him buried,’ he said desperately. ‘It was an order from a high person.’

Outside in the street, Koopman said to his sister miserably, ‘Sister, I beg you, do not get a lawyer. For if you do, I shall lose the licence, and who will help you to keep your son at the university?’

Sara Maarman got back to her house as the sun was sinking over the hills of Kroon, twenty-four hours from the time that her husband had left with Detective Robbertse to look for the safe. She lit the lamp and sat down, too weary to think of food. While she sat there, Hendrik Baadjies knocked at the door and came in and brought her the sympathy of all the brown people on the farm of Kroon. Then he stood before her, twisting his hat in his hand almost as though she were a white woman. He brought a message from Baas Gysbert, who now needed a new shepherd and needed Enoch Maarman’s house for him to live in. She would be given three days to pack all her possessions, and the loan of the cart and donkeys to take them and herself to Poort.

‘Is three days enough?’ asked Baadjies. ‘For if it is not, I could ask for more.’

‘Three days is enough,’ she said.

When Baadjies had gone, she thought to herself, three days is three days too many, to go on living in this land of stone, three days before she could leave it all for the Cape, where her son lived, where people lived, so he told her, softer and sweeter lives.

(1961)

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ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Comment on the first two paragraphs of the text.

a. What do we learn of the white community?

b. What do we learn of the black community?

c. What do we learn of the relationship between the two communities?

2) Comment on this:

"Someone must pay for so terrible a crime, and if not the one who did it, then who better than the one who could not grieve?”

3) Divide Robertse’s interrogation of Enoch into at least four sequences.

Describe how Robertse and the interrogation change in each of the sequences.

4) “[B]ecause of these things, this mad policeman could strike down […]

a man who had never hurt another in his long gentle life”.

What things are Sara talking about here?

5) What is the official explanation for Enoch’s death?

6) Comment on Sara and Solomon.

a. Describe the relationship between Sara and Solomon. Give examples.

b. How does Sara approach the police officers? Why?

c. How does Solomon approach the police officers? Why?

7) Comment on the title of the short story.

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THE DUBE TRAIN Can Themba

T

he morning was too cold for a summer morning, at least, to me, a child of the sun. But then on all Monday mornings I feel rotten and shivering, with a clogged feeling in the chest and a nauseous churning in the stomach.

It debilitates my interest in the whole world around me.

The Dube Station, with the prospect of congested trains filled with sour-smelling humanity, did not improve my impression of a hostile life directing its malevolence plumb at me. Despairing thoughts of every kind darted through my mind: the lateness of the trains, the shoving savagery of the crowds, the grey aspect around me. Even the announcer over the loudspeaker gave confusing directions. I suppose it had something to do with the peculiar chemistry of the body on Monday morning. But for me all was wrong with the world.

Yet, by one of those flukes that occur in all routines, the train I caught was not full when it came. I usually try to avoid seats next to the door, but sometimes it cannot be helped. So it was on that Monday morning when I hopped into the Third Class carriage. As the train moved off, I leaned out

clogged tilstoppet nauseous churning omrørende kvalme debilitates svækker congested overfyldte malevolence plumb ond skæbne flukes lykketræf

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 39

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LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

ANALYSIS: ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS: 1) Comment on the first two paragraphs of the text.

a. What do we learn of the white community?

b. What do we learn of the black community?

c. What do we learn of the relationship between the two communities?

2) Comment on this:

"Someone must pay for so terrible a crime, and if not the one who did it, then who better than the one who could not grieve?”

3) Divide Robertse’s interrogation of Enoch into at least four sequences.

Describe how Robertse and the interrogation change in each of the sequences.

4) “[B]ecause of these things, this mad policeman could strike down […]

a man who had never hurt another in his long gentle life”.

What things are Sara talking about here?

5) What is the official explanation for Enoch’s death?

6) Comment on Sara and Solomon.

a. Describe the relationship between Sara and Solomon. Give examples.

b. How does Sara approach the police officers? Why?

c. How does Solomon approach the police officers? Why?

7) Comment on the title of the short story.

38 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 38-39

THE DUBE TRAIN Can Themba

T

he morning was too cold for a summer morning, at least, to me, a child of the sun. But then on all Monday mornings I feel rotten and shivering, with a clogged feeling in the chest and a nauseous churning in the stomach.

It debilitates my interest in the whole world around me.

The Dube Station, with the prospect of congested trains filled with sour-smelling humanity, did not improve my impression of a hostile life directing its malevolence plumb at me. Despairing thoughts of every kind darted through my mind: the lateness of the trains, the shoving savagery of the crowds, the grey aspect around me. Even the announcer over the loudspeaker gave confusing directions. I suppose it had something to do with the peculiar chemistry of the body on Monday morning. But for me all was wrong with the world.

Yet, by one of those flukes that occur in all routines, the train I caught was not full when it came. I usually try to avoid seats next to the door, but sometimes it cannot be helped. So it was on that Monday morning when I hopped into the Third Class carriage. As the train moved off, I leaned out

clogged tilstoppet nauseous churning omrørende kvalme debilitates svækker congested overfyldte malevolence plumb ond skæbne flukes lykketræf

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 39

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lacklustre beskedne masonite masonitplader / tynde plader fremstillet af sammenpressede træfibre hulk stor og kluntet obtrusive generende nefarious ondsindede ditty vise titillating pirrende bawdiness uanstændighed lechery liderlighed precocious gammelklog pert fræk swaggered overlegen gang

of the paneless window and looked onto the leaden, lacklustre platform churning away beneath me like a fast conveyor belt.

Two or three yards away, a door had been broken and repaired with masonite so that it could no longer be opened. Moreover, near the door a seat was missing which transformed the area into a kind of hall.

I was sitting opposite a hulk of a man; his hugeness was obtrusive to the sight when you saw him, and to the mind when you looked away.

His head tilted to one side in a half-drowsy position, with flaring nostrils and trembling lips. He looked like a kind of genie, pretending to sleep but watching your every nefarious intention. His chin was stubbled with crisp, little black barbs. The neck was thick and corded, and the enormous chest was a live barrel that heaved back and forth. The overall he wore was open almost down to the navel, and he seemed to have nothing else underneath. I stared, fascinated, at his large breasts with their winking, dark nipples.

With the rocking of the train as it rolled towards Phefeni Station, he swayed slightly this way and that, and now and then he lazily chanted a township ditty. The titillating bawdiness of the words incited no honour of lechery or significance. The words were words, the tune was just a tune.

Above and around him, the other passengers, looking Monday-bleared, had no enthusiasm about them. They were just like the lights of the carriage – dull, dreary, undramatic. Almost as if they, too, felt that they should not be alight during the day.

Phefeni Station rushed at us, with human faces blurring past. When the train stopped, in stepped a girl. She must have been a mere child. Not just petite, but juvenile in structure. Yet her manner was all adult as if she knew all about ‘this sorry scheme of things entire’ and with a scornful toss relegated it. She had the precocious features of the township girls, pert, arrogant, live. There was that air about her that petrified any Brown-ups who might think of asking for her seat. She sat next to me.

The train slid into Phomolong. Against the red-brick waiting-room I saw a tsotsi lounging, for all the world not a damn interested in taking the train, but I knew the type, so I watched him in grim anticipation. When the train started sailing out of the platform, he turned round nonchalantly and tripled along backwards towards an open door. It amazes me no end how these boys know exactly where the end of the platform comes when they run like that, backwards. Just at the drop he caught the ledge of the train and heaved himself in gracefully.

He swaggered towards us and stood between our seats with his back to the outside, his arms gripping the frame of the paneless window. He noticed the girl and started teasing her. All township lovemaking is rough.

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‘Hi, rubberneck!’ – he clutched at her pear-like breast jutting from her sweater – ‘how long did you think you’d duck me?’

She looked round in panic; at me, at the old lady opposite her, at the hulk of a man opposite me. Then she whimpered, ‘Ah, Au-boetie, I don’t even know you.’

The tsotsi snarled, ‘You don’t know me, eh? You don’t know me when you’re sitting with your student friends. You don’t know last night, too, nê?

You don’t know how you ducked me?’

Some woman, reasonably out of reach, murmured, ‘The children of today …’ in a drifting sort of way.

Mzimhlope, the dirty-white station.

The tsotsi turned round and looked out of the window on to the platform. He recognised some of his friends there and hailed them.

‘O, Zigzagza, it’s how there?’

‘It’s jewish!’

‘Hela, Tholo, my ma hears me, I want that ten-’n-six!’

‘Go get it in hell!’

Weh, my sister, don’t listen to that guy. Tell him Shakespeare nev’r said so!’

The gibberish exchange was all in exuberant superlatives.

The train left the platform in the echoes of its stridency. A washer­ woman had just got shoved into it by ungallant males, bundle and all. People in the train made sympathetic noises, but too many passengers had seen too many tragedies to be rattled by this incident. They just remained bleared.

As the train approached New Canada, the confluence of the Orlando and the Dube train lines, I looked over the head of the girl next to me. It must have been a crazy engineer who had designed this crossing. The Orlando train comes from the right. It crosses the Dube train overhead just before we reach New Canada. But when it reaches the station it is on the right again, for the Johannesburg train enters extreme left. It is a curious kind of game.

Moreover, it has necessitated cutting hill and building a bridge. But just this quirk of an engineer’s imagination has left a spectacularly beautiful scene. After the drab, chocolate-box houses of the township, monotonously identical row upon row, this gash of man’s imposition upon nature never fails to intrigue me.

Our caveman lover was still at the girl while people were changing from our train to the Westgate train in New Canada. The girl wanted to get off, but the tsotsi would not let her. When the train left the station, he gave her a vicious slap across the face so that her beret went flying. She flung a leg over

rubberneck nysgerrig person (som drejer hovedet for at se, hvad der foregår) Au-boetie min bror / min ven (afrikaans) gibberish volapyk exuberant superlatives sprudlende 3. gradsbøjninger af tillægsord stridency skingren confluence sammenløb

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 41

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

lacklustre beskedne masonite masonitplader / tynde plader fremstillet af sammenpressede træfibre hulk stor og kluntet obtrusive generende nefarious ondsindede ditty vise titillating pirrende bawdiness uanstændighed lechery liderlighed precocious gammelklog pert fræk swaggered overlegen gang

of the paneless window and looked onto the leaden, lacklustre platform churning away beneath me like a fast conveyor belt.

Two or three yards away, a door had been broken and repaired with masonite so that it could no longer be opened. Moreover, near the door a seat was missing which transformed the area into a kind of hall.

I was sitting opposite a hulk of a man; his hugeness was obtrusive to the sight when you saw him, and to the mind when you looked away.

His head tilted to one side in a half-drowsy position, with flaring nostrils and trembling lips. He looked like a kind of genie, pretending to sleep but watching your every nefarious intention. His chin was stubbled with crisp, little black barbs. The neck was thick and corded, and the enormous chest was a live barrel that heaved back and forth. The overall he wore was open almost down to the navel, and he seemed to have nothing else underneath. I stared, fascinated, at his large breasts with their winking, dark nipples.

With the rocking of the train as it rolled towards Phefeni Station, he swayed slightly this way and that, and now and then he lazily chanted a township ditty. The titillating bawdiness of the words incited no honour of lechery or significance. The words were words, the tune was just a tune.

Above and around him, the other passengers, looking Monday-bleared, had no enthusiasm about them. They were just like the lights of the carriage – dull, dreary, undramatic. Almost as if they, too, felt that they should not be alight during the day.

Phefeni Station rushed at us, with human faces blurring past. When the train stopped, in stepped a girl. She must have been a mere child. Not just petite, but juvenile in structure. Yet her manner was all adult as if she knew all about ‘this sorry scheme of things entire’ and with a scornful toss relegated it. She had the precocious features of the township girls, pert, arrogant, live. There was that air about her that petrified any Brown-ups who might think of asking for her seat. She sat next to me.

The train slid into Phomolong. Against the red-brick waiting-room I saw a tsotsi lounging, for all the world not a damn interested in taking the train, but I knew the type, so I watched him in grim anticipation. When the train started sailing out of the platform, he turned round nonchalantly and tripled along backwards towards an open door. It amazes me no end how these boys know exactly where the end of the platform comes when they run like that, backwards. Just at the drop he caught the ledge of the train and heaved himself in gracefully.

He swaggered towards us and stood between our seats with his back to the outside, his arms gripping the frame of the paneless window. He noticed the girl and started teasing her. All township lovemaking is rough.

40 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 40-41

‘Hi, rubberneck!’ – he clutched at her pear-like breast jutting from her sweater – ‘how long did you think you’d duck me?’

She looked round in panic; at me, at the old lady opposite her, at the hulk of a man opposite me. Then she whimpered, ‘Ah, Au-boetie, I don’t even know you.’

The tsotsi snarled, ‘You don’t know me, eh? You don’t know me when you’re sitting with your student friends. You don’t know last night, too, nê?

You don’t know how you ducked me?’

Some woman, reasonably out of reach, murmured, ‘The children of today …’ in a drifting sort of way.

Mzimhlope, the dirty-white station.

The tsotsi turned round and looked out of the window on to the platform. He recognised some of his friends there and hailed them.

‘O, Zigzagza, it’s how there?’

‘It’s jewish!’

‘Hela, Tholo, my ma hears me, I want that ten-’n-six!’

‘Go get it in hell!’

Weh, my sister, don’t listen to that guy. Tell him Shakespeare nev’r said so!’

The gibberish exchange was all in exuberant superlatives.

The train left the platform in the echoes of its stridency. A washer­ woman had just got shoved into it by ungallant males, bundle and all. People in the train made sympathetic noises, but too many passengers had seen too many tragedies to be rattled by this incident. They just remained bleared.

As the train approached New Canada, the confluence of the Orlando and the Dube train lines, I looked over the head of the girl next to me. It must have been a crazy engineer who had designed this crossing. The Orlando train comes from the right. It crosses the Dube train overhead just before we reach New Canada. But when it reaches the station it is on the right again, for the Johannesburg train enters extreme left. It is a curious kind of game.

Moreover, it has necessitated cutting hill and building a bridge. But just this quirk of an engineer’s imagination has left a spectacularly beautiful scene. After the drab, chocolate-box houses of the township, monotonously identical row upon row, this gash of man’s imposition upon nature never fails to intrigue me.

Our caveman lover was still at the girl while people were changing from our train to the Westgate train in New Canada. The girl wanted to get off, but the tsotsi would not let her. When the train left the station, he gave her a vicious slap across the face so that her beret went flying. She flung a leg over

rubberneck nysgerrig person (som drejer hovedet for at se, hvad der foregår) Au-boetie min bror / min ven (afrikaans) gibberish volapyk exuberant superlatives sprudlende 3. gradsbøjninger af tillægsord stridency skingren confluence sammenløb

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 41

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

poltroons krystere ruffian bølle sies ordlyd der udtrykker skuffelse og afsky (afrikaans) son of Ham Canaan, den første sorte mand ifølge Biblen defilement besudling defiance trods made gangway stak af ned af gangen stampeding flygte vildt obliquely skråt predatory beast rovdyr

me and rolled across my lap in her hurtling escape. The tsotsi followed and as he passed me he reeled with the sway of the train.

To steady himself, he put a full paw in my face. It smelled sweaty-sour.

Then he ploughed through the humanity of the train, after the girl. Men gave way shamelessly, but one woman would not take it. She burst into a spitfire tirade that whiplashed at the men.

‘Lord, you call yourselves men, you poltroons! You let a small ruffian insult you. Fancy, he grabs at a girl in front of you – might be your daughter – this thing with the manner of a pig! If there were real men here, they’d pull his pants off and give him such a leathering he’d never sit down for a week.

But, no, you let him do this here; tonight you’ll let him do it in your homes.

And all you do is whimper, “The children of today have never no respect!”

Sies!’

The men winced. They said nothing, merely looked round at each other in shy embarrassment. But those barbed words had brought the little thug to a stop. He turned round, scowled at the woman, and with cold calculation cursed her anatomically, twisting his lips to give the word the full measure of its horror.

It was like the son of Ham finding a word for his awful discovery. It was like an impression that shuddered the throne of God Almighty. It was both a defilement and a defiance.

‘Hela, you street urchin, that woman is your mother,’ came the shrill voice of the big hulk of a man, who had all the time been sitting quietly opposite me, humming his lewd little township ditty. Now he moved towards where the tsotsi stood rooted.

There was menace in every swing of his clumsy movements, and the half-mumbled tune of his song sounded like under-breath cursing for all its calmness. The carriage froze into silence.

Suddenly, the woman shrieked and men scampered onto seats. The tsotsi had drawn a sheath-knife, and he faced the big man.

There is something odd that a knife does to various people in a crowd.

Most women go into pointless clamour, sometimes even hugging fast the men who might fight for them. Some men made gangway, stampeding helter-skelter; but with that hulk of a man, the sight of the gleaming blade in the tsotsi’s hand drove him berserk. The splashing people left a sort of arena.

There was an evil leer in his eye, much as if he were experiencing satanic satisfaction.

Croesus Cemetery flashed past.

Seconds before the impact, the tsotsi lifted the blade and plunged it obliquely. Like an instinctive, predatory beast, he seemed to know exactly

42 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 42-43

where the vulnerable jugular was and he aimed for it. The jerk of the train deflected his stroke, though, and the blade slit a long cleavage down the big man’s open chest.

With a demonical scream, the big man reached out for the boy crudely, careless now of the blade that made another gash in his arm. He caught the boy by the upper arm with the left hand, and between the legs with the right, and lifted him bodily. Then he hurled him towards me. The flight went clean through the paneless window, and only a long cry trailed in the wake of the rushing train.

Suddenly passengers darted to the windows; the human missile was nowhere to be seen. It was not a fight proper, not a full-blown quarrel. It was just an incident in the morning Dube train.

The big man, bespattered with blood, got off at Langlaagte Station.

Only after we had left the station did the stunned passengers break out into a cacophony of chattering.

Odd, that no one expressed sympathy for the boy or the man. They were just greedily relishing the thrilling episode of the morning.

(1972)

cacophony uharmonisk larm relishing nydende

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 43

28/01/15 16.29

LIFE AND STRUGGLE DURING APARTHEID

poltroons krystere ruffian bølle sies ordlyd der udtrykker skuffelse og afsky (afrikaans) son of Ham Canaan, den første sorte mand ifølge Biblen defilement besudling defiance trods made gangway stak af ned af gangen stampeding flygte vildt obliquely skråt predatory beast rovdyr

me and rolled across my lap in her hurtling escape. The tsotsi followed and as he passed me he reeled with the sway of the train.

To steady himself, he put a full paw in my face. It smelled sweaty-sour.

Then he ploughed through the humanity of the train, after the girl. Men gave way shamelessly, but one woman would not take it. She burst into a spitfire tirade that whiplashed at the men.

‘Lord, you call yourselves men, you poltroons! You let a small ruffian insult you. Fancy, he grabs at a girl in front of you – might be your daughter – this thing with the manner of a pig! If there were real men here, they’d pull his pants off and give him such a leathering he’d never sit down for a week.

But, no, you let him do this here; tonight you’ll let him do it in your homes.

And all you do is whimper, “The children of today have never no respect!”

Sies!’

The men winced. They said nothing, merely looked round at each other in shy embarrassment. But those barbed words had brought the little thug to a stop. He turned round, scowled at the woman, and with cold calculation cursed her anatomically, twisting his lips to give the word the full measure of its horror.

It was like the son of Ham finding a word for his awful discovery. It was like an impression that shuddered the throne of God Almighty. It was both a defilement and a defiance.

‘Hela, you street urchin, that woman is your mother,’ came the shrill voice of the big hulk of a man, who had all the time been sitting quietly opposite me, humming his lewd little township ditty. Now he moved towards where the tsotsi stood rooted.

There was menace in every swing of his clumsy movements, and the half-mumbled tune of his song sounded like under-breath cursing for all its calmness. The carriage froze into silence.

Suddenly, the woman shrieked and men scampered onto seats. The tsotsi had drawn a sheath-knife, and he faced the big man.

There is something odd that a knife does to various people in a crowd.

Most women go into pointless clamour, sometimes even hugging fast the men who might fight for them. Some men made gangway, stampeding helter-skelter; but with that hulk of a man, the sight of the gleaming blade in the tsotsi’s hand drove him berserk. The splashing people left a sort of arena.

There was an evil leer in his eye, much as if he were experiencing satanic satisfaction.

Croesus Cemetery flashed past.

Seconds before the impact, the tsotsi lifted the blade and plunged it obliquely. Like an instinctive, predatory beast, he seemed to know exactly

42 FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

APARTHEID/ZEFSIDE_indhold.indd 42-43

where the vulnerable jugular was and he aimed for it. The jerk of the train deflected his stroke, though, and the blade slit a long cleavage down the big man’s open chest.

With a demonical scream, the big man reached out for the boy crudely, careless now of the blade that made another gash in his arm. He caught the boy by the upper arm with the left hand, and between the legs with the right, and lifted him bodily. Then he hurled him towards me. The flight went clean through the paneless window, and only a long cry trailed in the wake of the rushing train.

Suddenly passengers darted to the windows; the human missile was nowhere to be seen. It was not a fight proper, not a full-blown quarrel. It was just an incident in the morning Dube train.

The big man, bespattered with blood, got off at Langlaagte Station.

Only after we had left the station did the stunned passengers break out into a cacophony of chattering.

Odd, that no one expressed sympathy for the boy or the man. They were just greedily relishing the thrilling episode of the morning.

(1972)

cacophony uharmonisk larm relishing nydende

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE 43

28/01/15 16.29

fold

fold

1991-2005: Aprox. 250.000 white South Africans emigrate

For de fleste vil APARTHEID klinge lige så velkendt og ubehageligt, som ZEFSIDE klinger fremmed og uhåndgribeligt. Zef er en sydafrikansk subkultur med udspring i den hvide underklasse. Det er symptomatisk for Sydafrika, at selv ting der ikke handler om apartheid og race, stadig handler om race. Ligesom sydafrikanere af blandet oprindelse forsøgte at lyve sig hvide under apartheid, beskyldes hvide Zef-rappere nu for at stjæle sort kultur i deres søgen efter identitet.

1991-2006: Aprox. 1,500 white South African farmers are killed Nelson Mandela is elected president

1995:

South Africa hosts and wins the Rugby World Cup

1996:

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission begins its work

2002:

Chester Williams releases autobiography

2003:

The Black Economic Empowerment programme is implemented

2005:

Allegations of corruption are levied against Deputy President Jacob Zuma of the ANC

2009:

Jacob Zuma is elected president

2010:

Die Antwoord releases Zefside

2010:

South Africa hosts the 2010 FIFA World Cup

2010:

The Equality Court convicts Julius Malema of hate speech against whites.

He is expelled from the ANC

2013:

Nelson Mandela dies

2014:

The Economic Freedom Fighters led by Julius Malema enters parliament as the third-largest party

Antologien From Apartheid to Zefside samler et bredt udsnit af tekster i forskellige genrer og stilarter. Fordelt over to kapitler beskæftiger teksterne sig med henholdsvis tiden under og efter apartheid i Sydafrika med et særligt fokus på menneskelige skæbner og identitet.

Forfatterne tæller blandt andre Rayda Jacobs, Nadine Gordimer, Richard Rive, Alan Paton, John Matshikiza og Die Antwoord.

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE

1994:

fold

fold

BEFORE

NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN

AFTER

11 mm

Alle teksterne er gloseret, og de er præsenteret med elevaktiverende arbejdsopgaver, der lægger op til tekstnærhed og refleksion. Teksterne er desuden sat sammen på en måde, der skaber rig mulighed for perspektivering mellem teksterne.

Bogen vil desuden kunne bruges i tværfaglige forløb med historie omkring Sydafrika eller i forløb med samfundsfag omkring identitetsdannelse.

Pre-Historic: Bushmen migrate to South Africa Aprox. 500: Bantu tribes migrate to South Africa

NIELS-MARTIN TRIER JOSEFSEN

FROM APARTHEID TO ZEFSIDE LINDHARDT OG RINGHOF

ISBN 978877066022

www.logr.dk

valgt_OMSLAG_apartheid/zefside.indd 1

1652:

The first Dutch settlers arrive at the Cape

1835 1902:

The Great Trek begins South Africa becomes a British colony after the Boer Wars

1912:

The ANC is founded

1913:

The Natives’ Land Act is passed

1948:

Daniel François Malan becomes prime minister

1950:

The Group Areas Act is passed

1952:

The Defiance of Unjust Laws Campaign

1953:

The Reservation of Separate Amenities Act is passed

1956:

Blacks lose the right to vote

1960:

The ANC is banned

1960:

The Sharpeville Massacre

1962:

The United Nations condemn apartheid and South Africa is banned from participating in international sports events

1962:

Political activist Nelson Mandela is imprisoned

1966:

Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd is murdered

1976:

The Soweto Uprising

1989:

W. F. de Klerk is elected president

1990:

The ban on the ANC and other anti-apartheid organizations is lifted, the death sentence is suspended, and several prisoners, including Nelson Mandela, are released

28/01/15 15.54 fold

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