One of the best lecturers who I encountered at Bible School made this statement on Day One, in 1994. “If what someone says about your theology makes you angry, check yourself. Usually, we get most angry about the things of which we are unsure”.
Please keep this in mind as you read my blurb, because I don’t think it applies only to theology. OK, here’s the blurb.
Once upon a time I was taught that, when addressing people on some topic, one should, firstly, establish one’s right to speak to the topic. Well here goes. If you already believe that I have a right to address this topic, then press the <<end>> key on your computer, and you’ll get to the actual point a lot quicker.
If you need a bit of priming on the history of my country, take a look here:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Union_of_South_Africa
and here:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Africa
Ask my past students; I’m not a great fan of Wikipedia, but, if you read these two items, you will probably increase your knowledge of the history of South Africa infinitudally (yeah, I just made up that word, but it’s my mother tongue (forced upon my Irish ancestors by the English), so why shouldn’t I? If Germans can have Mammutworten—which I love--and the USA can base their approach to English on malapropisms, then RSA can have Kevinisms!).
I recall—in 1961—Union Day becoming Republic Day. Who cared! At least we had fewer patriotic songs to get through at assembly. No more “God Save the Queen”. We still got a day off school (confessions of a slow-developing academic). The attentive reader will detect that I was also not very politically aware. Come on! I was eight! In the 1960s, eight year-olds were nasty little hedonists, not dot-com millionaires or environmental activists who tongue-lashed the United Nations.
Ten years later, in 1971, I was press-ganged into the South African Defence Force (another way of saying South African Offence Force). Suddenly, I realised how privileged I had been for the past seventeen years. Here were all sorts of people (with whom my parents would not have let me play) who were also South Africans and who, in their own mysterious way, loved our country. No blacks, of course! No coloureds, of course! No Indians, of course! No girls! Just white guys (of course), most of whom disliked me on principle, because I was an Engelsman. I deeply resented this tag, since my ancestry was Irish—distinctly not English. That didn’t seem to help, and I departed “Die Mag” even more angry than when I started. I can’t help having a silent giggle when I consider that it was in the Mag that I first learnt to sing Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika.
I was a relatively unsuccessful student, academically, and I did some of my best rock climbing, drinking, and vomiting during my years in academe. But there was still Republic Day; a day off from the grind of lectures, drinking, etc.
My principal memories of my early student days are of riding through pouring rain on my motorbike to get to varsity and skipping the first lecture so I could have a cup of revivifying coffee in the Students’ Union; of rock climbing, drinking, mountain rescues (my passion); of being refused admission to the exam venue, of drinking, of tear-gas on campus, tear gas in Cape Town (on the steps of the Cathedral nogal), of police dogs, of clubs, quirts, and whips…
Still no social conscience…
It was all just good fun, even if (because) my parents disapproved. And I was “white”, which made life much easier.
Then came 1976.
I was working as a civil engineer, recently resigned from the pipe band of the local highland regiment—because they thought that piping practice was more important than mountain rescue—engaged to the girl of my dreams, totally self-absorbed.
And suddenly…
… I acquired a social conscience.
Suddenly, my less-pale-than-I (hell, being being politically correct is hard work!) colleagues and friends spoke their minds; said they had had enough. They were also South African citizens; why were they oppressed? Some of them had fathers who had served in the second world war—in Egypt, nogal—where my Dad was. Shit, I hadn’t realised that there was a problem. Or, did I choose not to notice?
We remained friends, because we were friends.
I got married, we produced children. We decide to emigrate. There was obviously no future here.
In 1989, we were about to leave the country. Our eldest child was eight; our youngest not yet two. We’d miss the old place, but we had to consider our children. Over my dead body would my son ever serve in the Defence Force in which I had had to serve. The required period of service was now two years, as we relentlessly attacked our neighbours.
I had a job organised with a big IT company in Melbourne. We left Cape Town (under a political cloud), rented in Gauteng to be near the Australian Embassy.
We decided that we couldn’t go—our roots ran too deep in Mzansi.
On 11 February 1990, my wife and I had the weirdest 12th wedding anniversary ever; we spent the day watching TV—watching Madiba walk out of Vic Verster prison, a free man.
About to become our President!
The rest (to use a cliché) is history.
And so, we come to the POINT, which those who have hit <<end>> will have already read and gone to bed.
I believe that we need to embrace our ENTIRE history, not just that which comes after 1990, or 1994. What makes us who we are today is what has gone before—the nice and the not-so-nice. Our history did not begin in 1994.
Nor in 1961.
Nor in 1948.
Nor in 1910.
Nor in 1834.
Nor in 1806.
Nor, even, in 1652.
It goes back far further than that.
But, the fact is that 31st May 1910 was the day on which RSA became a country—a political entity—and no amount of bovine excreta by politicians will change that fact. No amount of mindless political rhetoric can change that.
WE SHOULD CELEBRATE!
And so, this is the country in which I live, the country that I love, the country bathed in sadness and blood and misery; just like every other country, if you take the trouble to research their history.
It is also a country of opportunity, of joy, of happiness, of promise, if you just make an effort. It is a country where, if you have a problem, someone will always help you.
It is a country that will always come up smiling.
Hosi katekisa Afrika Dzonga!