South Africa today: the state of the nation The Daily Maverick online Sometime late last year I wrote a short piece on South Africa and my (shared with countless other citizens) frustrations with the government (whom I did not vote for), bickering politicians and every other ill in this country - (the piece was inspired by the Marakana massacre). I felt compelled to write another piece. As the rape and thence murder of Anene Booysens continues to illicit a varied reaction across SA and the world, the deeper issue of the culture of violence permeating in SA has taken center stage . There are so many problems, so I’ll dive right on top of one of the biggest; though to be honest, no one could really change this in a substantial way – some problems take time to sort out, and some pain will only become manageable with even more time, the scars though, will remain, for a very very long time… I speak of Apartheid of course, and the fact that the nation of the New South Africa was born out of this heinous and evil construct. The nation which emerged was fraught with problems, but equally so, alive with possibility (to use a marketing catch phrase) and boundless potential. With such a fractured and divisive past, our subsequent number one enemy has always been ourselves. We know what we can achieve, and have achieved, but division persists with too many corrupt officials/government members, and an inactive public. However, everything I’m saying, and can and want to say, has already been said, so I’ll throw in some quotes here This is from a recent article on the Daily Maverick online newspaper: “We don’t know to what extent the frustration of young and old males, at their wits end in a society that has discarded them, where they have no jobs and women tend to get things quicker exacerbates the situation. That is not a cause, but could be an underlying issue behind incidence of sexual violence.” Link to full article here. "Cooper" referenced and quoted above is a doctor and psychiatrist. Of all the varied cultures we have in South Africa, the one we’re tending to cultivate and nurture the most in this near twenty year democracy, is violence. Here, where societal inequality is unparalleled (just the other day I watched a magazine program, showing off the a beautiful palatial mansion with sea views, a swimming pool and an entertainment deck – for the kids to entertain their friends with table tennis or snooker etc… meanwhile a few kilometers away, there are people who don’t even have a toilet in their own tiny house), dividing the country into the “have” and “have not’s”. As one local white comedian/ventriloquist put it “I grew up with the ‘we hate apartheid, but we benefited from it’ group”… the current democratically elected government has seemingly just left its people to fend for themselves – “If you want wealth, go get it”. This mentality, of every man for himself, has perpetuated from government down throughout South Africa, where we only seem to galvanize when our national sports team takes the field. There’s a lot of angst, frustration, unresolved anger, hurt and passion brewing beneath the surface, issues that weren’t dealt with in the Truth and reconciliation Commission (which should not have ended so soon) for example. Most uneducated black people (a result of every SA gov.) are too quick to haul out the race card whenever something goes against them, and most white people are too afraid/ashamed to talk about the past, and pain and suffering they know little of. I don’t know what it’s like to be forced from my home under an oppressive government and dangerous security police as I’ve grown up in a sheltered environment, mostly in the new South Africa, but older generations of my family can speak of such experiences – and that’s just one aspect… We’ve come out of an evil regime, and simply tried to live normally, act as we usually would if there was never an apartheid to speak of, but the scar on the nation as a whole is too deep to ignore. Plainly put, there’s very little dialogue between portions of society, a place or moment where one or many can vent their concerns and frustrations. So everyone seems to talk amongst friends, or keep their thoughts to themselves. I finished compiling and writing this article shortly after an introspective stroll down the Sea point promenade. Sitting there on a bench watching ships disappear and emerge from the mist off shore, looking down into the deep blue of the Atlantic, feeling the refreshing breeze which took the sting out of a hot day… What we see is nothing new; pain is pain, the world keeps turning and simple things will always be made to look complicated. Tides will continue to ebb and flow, and we will struggle on, always finding ourselves as our own worst foe.
The violence which has become common place in SA, and which for so many abroad is synonymous with us, is perhaps the civil war we should have had but didn’t. It was a miracle that we averted war – a poster for peace and reconciliation – but the same tools we carried in anticipation for conflict and survival, we now use on ourselves, frothing up in various forms, from drug and alcohol abuse to violence against our fellow men and women, compounded further by corruption, poverty, AIDS, all forms of crime, a lack of education, and thence morals and ethics - it's a different, passive kind of civil war. It's always amazing to me, just a few days ago my family played host to some friends from Switzerland, and their impression, along with countless others who've visited our shores, was that South African's are a warm and loving people, always ready to accommodate... so, when we put our best foot forward we can be example's for the world, but at the same time, our internal conflict can be the shame of the world - or at least one example of it... During the last days of apartheid, so many people prayed for a peaceful end, the country was a nervous hive of tension and prayer,as most sought God's guidance in our most trying time... how many though continued, and are still praying for the wellbeing of the nation?
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Image from snorttumblr A short piece on drugs, hallucinations, hazy dreams, being swallowed by the barrel of a gun, and a man thinking he's a dragon. This story was not inspired by my life events, just so you know, though felt it is quite relevant to Cape Town right now (and much of the world for that matter. I grew up pretty insulated from the bad and the ugly, however there are those quite close to me who came in for more than just a bit of a scrape. Although I must add, the reoccurring dream - that's mine. The White Line Short fiction by Steven Benjamin The man: His stare wasn’t empty; instead it was filled with years and years of what was best left forgotten... Every red vein in the former milky whites of his eyes though, which over those years of abuse had turned a faded yellow, told of a more material ruin, like glazed windows that would never again reveal what lay in the shadows on the inside. His dried crusty lips quivered. His gaze fell down, catching sight of his own trembling hands. And then the deep familiar hurt welled up in his chest. His mind drifting to the thought of a woman he once knew – who once called herself his friend – and how she’d hung on in those final minutes. He wondered about that; what hanging on to life must feel like. From where he sat, it was all a little sad… a sad quiet; no more talking, no more pleading, because a life had been terminated, swept aside, and there was little fan fair, little commemoration. So anticlimactic... As if someone had asked him “… may I live?”, and he’d looked down and answered: “No.” But instead of that word, he’d used his hands. The stare, the coffee table and the R381, ‘Oh yes, that road…’ he remembered it all now – was it the right one? Just like the hurt brimming inside, so came that old guilty feeling, settling like foam. He knew; he saw and he knew what would make it all go away. It came to him like a dream; ‘oh yes, that dream’ he remembered that too now… it sometimes happens that way; you’re thinking of something else and then suddenly fumes of recollection of a different world wafts in… My Dream: It was about time running out, and of course, just running away… I suppose it’s always something like that, isn’t it? A gravel, dead stretch of road, somewhere in the Karoo, wait, no, there was grass, so it had to have been further north, closer to where the flowers grow and bloom in spring… or was it south, the R353 maybe, from Leeu Gamka. Only, this time there was no flowers, and it was in the dark, at night. Sometimes I’d pass by a windmill – just the silhouette mind you – funny that, since there was no moonlight. In some of them there’d be two lights heading directly toward me, growing brighter in the darkness. In those ones I’d always wake up just before the light engulfed me; just before impact. Mm, there were never any stars or moon in the sky… that’s how I knew I was dreaming, even in the clearest night sky: nothing, just blank, every single time. I knew what it was all about… The getaway: One of his greatest fears arising from the unseen depths within him, percolated to the surface every so often. This was all he was good at, and, it was the worst part of him. It was a way of getting in and getting away at the same time – his only escape. It committed those around him to believe they knew him, “his kind” – whatever that means. But the few he trusted believed it was a necessary evil. Once he’d even tried liberating himself with Muti – he didn’t believe in it mind you, but when you scrape bottom, you’ll be willing to try anything once, sometimes, just to get a leg up. When you’re down, you’re really down. Sometimes when your brain is on a ‘go slow’ it can convince you of the strangest things. He knew the lie he was living had matured over years and taken root within a hidden truth – one he kept very secret. A small confession he betrayed only to himself, and only in the darkest, lowest moments – the truth that he actually liked it. Was it really a revelation? No, it’s not like he was alone in this struggle. Be it lines, holes, rocks, pipes, money, smoke; everyone has their fix, governed only by the tick of the everyday clock. He looked down at his watch… the hands of time ticking away as always. Time. He was beginning to make sense of it again, slowly, the same issues, the same old habits. Time. He’d lost quite a lot of that. read more... |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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