Political Turmoil in South Africa During the 1950s

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Each week my mother visited me at school where I was a boarder. We would sit together in her blue mini-minor in the school’s car park. While we waited for my sister, a day scholar, to arrive we could catch up with each other. She updated me about family news and the political unrest outside the school grounds. This news always seemed like it came from another planet, far from the beautiful green lawns, the manicured trees and the generally peaceful school environment.

“Did you hear about the bus boycott?” she asked one day when I got into her little car. It was winter and I was tired after playing hockey. “I’m planning to give lifts to the boycotters this afternoon. It’s such a long way for the workers to walk”. No, I didn’t know about the boycott, and could not figure how so many African workers in the city would ever get home to Soweto or Alexandra Township.

Later she told me that the African women were protesting about the new pass law that made it illegal for them to be found without their reference book. “They’re protesting all around the country and hundreds have been arrested.” My mother’s alarm was palpable. I had visions of the numerous women that worked as domestics—worrying about the documents that legalized their presence in the city. If a woman crossed the road to visit a neighbor friend, or if she went to the corner café to buy milk, she would be in danger without her documents. This was already the situation for African men, and it was humiliating and enraging for them.  I could sense the tightening control of African’s lives by the government. As a white girl in boarding school, all this news felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool—somehow it did not connect with me on a personal level. Guilt washed over me as I realized how cut off we were in school. But I was proud of my mum for her indignation, and gave her a hug,

 On another visit, my mother announced that the government was removing all Africans from Sophiatown, and bulldozing their shacks. “They have to go and live in Soweto, but how are they going to do that?” She shook her head pondering what seemed so impossible. “And Sophiatown is going to become a suburb for whites only.” I knew Sophiatown was not so far from where we lived. It was a slum with tin shacks, dusty roads, and few amenities. But it had a vibrant African life with African jazz bands and the popular penny-whistle music that I adored. We had recently hired some penny-whistlers from Sophiatown to play at one of our parties.

“It’s not fair, not fair at all” I banged my hands on the dashboard of the car. What was really going on, in the same city that I was living in, yet I was so unaware of the events? I could hardly fathom the significance of all the bad news.

Next time she visited me she told me “There’s a treason trial now, and Mandela is accused with others. But we must not mention his name because he is a banned person—it’s dangerous.” My mother was grim-faced. She seemed worried and depressed. I knew she was right about the danger. I had heard of a man being sent to jail because he drank coffee from a mug sporting a picture of Mandela. All we knew at that time was that Mandela’s name was a no-no. We didn’t talk about Mandela or the Treason Trial at school. We had little knowledge of the deeper, darker components of the growing anti-government movements. When I returned to school activities, I seldom discussed these things she had told me with my friends. I was aware enough to realize the schism of opinions about racial matters. So I kept the news quiet.

“By the way, your Uncle David is becoming radical about the South African situation. I fear he may do something rash”. Feelings of dread overcame me. Now things were getting closer. David Pratt was my godfather—a special person to me. Apart from his being a successful dairy farmer, I knew little about his political views. This news was ominous. White liberals were being put in jail without charge along with countless Africans, Indians and Coloreds. The killings had started. The car felt hot and claustrophobic—I needed to get out.

“There’s been a fire at the Margaret Ballinger Home. Lots of kids died in that fire despite our efforts to call the fire brigade. The firemen didn’t come for hours and the damage was done. I think it was intentional”. Her eyes welled with tears. “And the government is insisting that we disband the MBH and move it into a black area.” She was on the executive board of this convalescent home and the news upset her deeply. I squeezed her hand. I too loved the MBH, having spent many hours playing with the kids while she attended meetings.

These events troubled me but I felt far from the action. We were very protected at our school, and apart from my mother’s news reports and occasionally reading The Rand Daily Mail, there was little discussion about the events happening around us. We didn’t know much about the government’s efforts to ensure South Africa was under complete control by the whites and, more particularly, the Afrikaans-speaking whites, the Afrikaners.

“You know your father thinks apartheid is a reasonable idea. He thinks the means of apartheid could justify the end, and the end is an orderly country that works”.

“Oh wait a minute!” I looked at her in disbelief. Shockwaves went through me. I didn’t realize there was a schism in my family. I suddenly emerged out of my sleepy detachment, sensing the very real danger Uncle David was putting himself in, and the unspeakable possibility that my family might be driven apart on political issues. I walked back to my classroom for homework hour, my legs dragging, my world feeling darker than ever before. I was struck by the uninvolved position of my school as far as us students were concerned. How was I going to play a role in the increasingly oppressive country of my birth, especially as a boarder at this privileged school? 
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Jumping in Cape Town

Jumping in Cape Town                                                            Feb 2012

‘I can jump over you’ he said, looking down at me from his height of about 7 feet. I look up at him in disbelief.

‘You mean if I am standing up, or lying down on the floor?’

‘Standing up, of course! I can jump right over you.’

Now I stand about five and a half feet – not particularly tall, admittedly, but that’s quite a jump. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘let’s see you do it. In fact I will give you ten rand if you do.’

‘Oh no! A Masai man does not jump for ten rand. I am a warrior. I would jump over you if you give me a girl. A girl who respects a warrior.’

‘So what is a Masai warrior doing in Cape Town?’ I ask. He’s somewhat disdainful now, peering down at me through his dark glasses. He’s a slim, willowy type. His legs and arms are long, and I check what he’s wearing on his feet.  He follows my gaze.

‘I am making myself some money here, but I do not like it here. If I could go home, I would throw away these sunglasses and dress properly, in the Masai way. And I would get my proper shoes. A warrior cannot jump in these Nikes - they’re too heavy.’

I am shopping in a South African curio shop with my niece. I finger the various items unenthusiastically. They are just so much dross, many of them with a distinctly Chinese look about them. They looked tawdry and uninteresting. But this Masai warrior might be the real thing, a man residing outside of his culture, uncomfortable and out of context.

He spots my niece. ‘I could jump for her, perhaps.’

‘You mean you could jump over me for her?’

‘Absolutely not!’ retorts my niece, who has a perfectly fine and tall boyfriend already – a philosophy student.

Now I am imagining jumping competitions between the two young men, raising the bar to jumping over a SUV, or maybe a mini-bus. My mind is racing at the possibilities.

 ‘C’mon, we’re getting out of here.’ My niece grabs my arm and drags me to the relative safety of the sidewalk of Loop Street where muggers abound and the traffic is wild. The afternoon of curio shopping had taken on an unexpected valence very different from the anticipated acquisition of carvings or baskets or beads.

South Africa 1

We've been in Cape Town about 10 days now and it has been hectic to say the least. Apart from seeing Athol Fugard's excellent play  'Statements' (about the old 'immorality act' that forbade whites and non-whites having sex), we have been nose to the grindstone working on the condo where we will stay for the 3 months. It was in a pitiful condition. It has been a sort of camping experience, staying at friends (they're away) and my sister and husband in the delightful seaside village of Hermanus last weekend. It was good relaxation and  fun, with good food, good wine, and good company in a beautiful place (1.5 hours along the coast from Cape Town).

I watched sunrise this morning with Table Mnt glowing and warming up. Now, at midday, it looks blueish-purple.

The weather is  lovely and hot.  The locals are complaining but not us. They don't know how hot we get in Madison in July and August! Yesterday we went to Kirstenbosch Gardens for lunch with friends, and then a little walk followed by a short snooze under a tree. It is magnificent there, with the mountains very present and glowing dark blue. the gardens are extraordinary especially the wild Fynbos plants. The rows of Agapanthus are going off now, but the Strelitzia look dandy - also called Birds of Paradise There are tree ferns and cycads, and an excellent collection of indigenous plants used for medicines, food, teas, and whatever people need. The healers say that plants offer everything needed by humans..

I am planning to teach yoga as a volunteer with SevaUnite. We will go to various townships and work with high school students from these impoverished and highly abusive regions. The idea is to bring some mental calm into their fraught lives.

My Party

A large flat rock is my table. Tall golden grasses surround it, as well as several thorn trees, the ones with the flat tops. They shade the table, like umbrellas.  The aloes make the candlesticks, so it’s a real party.

The table is laden with delicacies—seeds in their pods, little brown nuts, dried Mopani worms, green fern fronds, red berries from the Good Luck tree, and squigglies and wrigglies. Most of my guests prefer the squigglies and wrigglies—they’re more fun to eat because you have to catch them before they escape off the plate, especially the jumping beans.

My guests are an unlikely lot. I will seat them around the rock table, a special place for each of them.

My first guest is wise Owl. She looks this way and that, her beak is sharp, and her talons are strong. Sometime I go flying with Owl, sitting on her back holding tightly so I don’t fall off. She takes me where I want to go. Her wings beat, whooshing the air, up and down. We glide and dive and rise again. She thinks a lot but says very little. In her presence I tend to answer my own questions—big questions. I get true answers from Owl, most of the time. And she never opens her beak!

Opposite from Owl, I seat the Mice. I never know how many will show up because they are busy, busy, busy. When I ask them “How’ve you been?” they reply “Busy,” and look at me strangely like I ought to be busy too. They get their work done, and sometimes they do my work too, if I’m lucky. Their busy-ness inspires me, gives me hope for new and better things. The Mice watch Owl carefully, just in case she is thinking of nice Mice for dinner. But there are plenty of good things for Owl to eat on my table, and she is not interested in Mice today.

On the far left I seat Leopard, who has many spots and strong legs for running. He has an aristocratic face with fine whiskers and big golden eyes. Leopard smirks—he knows he is the fastest creature and he doesn’t want anyone to forget it.  The others don’t like Leopard very much. Besides, he has a nasty smell about him. But Leopard is proud and bold, even if he is self-centered. Occasionally I take a ride on his back as he gallops over the grasslands just for the fun of it. Then he rests in a tree, draped over the branches like somebody’s washing hung out to dry. He looks like he’s asleep but really he is watching through half-closed eyes. He knows that pride goes before a fall, and he doesn’t want to fall out of his

tree and make a fool of himself.  It’s lonely being Leopard, and he is glad to be included at my party. 

Next to Leopard sits Snake—long and colorful. Most of the time she is wound into a pretty, neat coil. Then she stretches out and slides quietly out of sight. Snake is a healer, but she is dangerous too. You can’t have one without the other. Snake is seated opposite from Owl. They respect each other—both are the silent types. Snake is wise in her ways, but she’s not a thinker. She just acts when she needs to, swiftly and decisively.

 “My Nana, where is Black-backed Jackal? Didn’t you invite him? He’s my play-friend.” So I say “Of course! We will make room for him.” I like to play with Black-backed Jackal too. So I put Black-backed Jackal between Leopard and Snake, to keep the peace between them.

Grandboy Oliver is my heart’s delight. He is the future, and he’s the playful one. He plays giggly games with the Mice, slithers with Snake, and romps with Black-backed Jackal. Like me, he’s happy because all the friends are at the table, eating delightful food. The guests like the squigglies and the wrigglies the best, but Grandboy Oliver prefers a cupcake.

En Famille in Czech Republic – Summer 2011

It was a delightful week in Cesky Krumlov, in a hostel situated above the Vltava, the fast running river that flows in crazy S-bends all the way to Prague. Our Hostel Skippy (named after the sensuous Cuban singer who owned the 200 year old building) was a temporary shelter to our family as well as numerous backpackers who arrived and left. We six had the two upstairs rooms, while the others flopped in the large multi-bed downstairs room.  We made temporary friendships with young women and men from England, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the States. The last pair was two girls from Holland. As most of them did, the blond with the long hair sat on the porch overlooking the turbulent river smoking her cigarettes.

Oliver sat down opposite her and started a conversation about his frustration over some small incident with his brother Alex that had upset him. She listened carefully and attentively. She must be a teacher, well used to four year olds, I thought.

Soon the conversation turned to her cigarette and more particularly her lighter. What a fascinating piece of smoking paraphernalia! Oliver was intrigued.

 "Let me try, let me try". Oliver struggled in vain to make the lighter flame appear.

Later at our final dinner before leaving Czech Republic, we noticed Oliver making funny shapes in the air with his fingers. He's in his fantasy world, I figured, and turned my attention elsewhere. Suddenly Oliver got up from his chair and bounded to the other side of the table to grab his much older brother by his bottom jaw.

"Now you stop doing that" he growled, with a menacing scowl. Oliver can curl his upper lip unexpectedly. He is otherwise a beautiful child with big blue eyes that win him much flattery from women of all ages. In fact, he is very generous with kisses on unsuspecting women's cheeks, to their great surprise and delight. However our celebratory dinner in Prague was turning into a pub brawl, and nobody was more surprised than Alex who had been quietly minding his own business and anticipating his roast duck with cherry sauce, to be followed by palacinska with raspberries, ice-cream and whipped cream.

"You blew it! You blew it, Alex!" growled Oliver.

"Huh?"

"You stop blowing out my flame right now!" He was gripping Alex like you see adversaries do in the comics.

Oliver's mother rose to intervene in the developing ugly scene, first to cool down Alex who was both mystified and indignant, and then to interrogate young Oliver.

"What's going on here?"

"He keeps blowing out my flame", wailed Oliver.

"What flame?"

"My cigarette lighter, I'm smoking a cigarette" and he carefully tapped the imaginary cigarette ash into the real ashtray.

We all learn different things when on the road. Oliver's grandparents learned about the long-lasting grief of Czech people from the German invasion and occupation in the 1940's followed by the unbearable yoke of communism. They also absorbed the beauty of ornately decorated buildings, picturesque streets, and narrow cobbled alleys. Oliver's parents reveled in the entrancing architecture of both Prague and Cesky Krumlov, and loved rafting down the Vltva river, including shooting the numerous weirs. Alex liked shopping for gifts for the family from the arts and crafts vendors on the Charles Bridge in Prague. The adults all enjoyed the fine beers of Pilzn and Budvar, and even tried the slivovitz.

Everyone loved the fairy-tale wedding of our nephew in St Vitus church in Cesky Krumlov with the reuniting of families, long separated between Australia and the United States.  Oliver liked the trains and playgrounds but was also enthralled by the beautiful young Dutch girl with the long blond hair who taught him about smoking.

Mariana Hewson

August 8, 2011