The Big Read: The story that broke my heart

Any author will tell you that a book launch could kill you.

You perform for about an hour, that time often extended by the obligatory Q&A session, after which wellmeaning people form long queues for you to sign your books they had just purchased.

At a poorly managed launch, more than one admirer will engage you in a lengthy conversation about anything, oblivious to the mildly agitated people behind him or her.

By this time you no longer hear words, your legs want to give way under you, and you are dying of thirst or hunger or both.

But smile you must, for these people made the time to come out and hear you on a cold night and even spent their money on your book.

There was, however, something puzzling about the family approaching me on Tuesday last week at a Johannesburg book launch.

The wife and mother already seemed to have tears in her eyes. The father stood back, smiling gently. And the daughter, a Wits archaeology student, had six of the expensive books under her arm. Odd, but that was just the beginning.

“Would you please sign these books for my children?” asked the now clearly emotional mom.

Of course I wondered whether they had television for entertainment; so many kids? But then I remembered a pastor with two small children, barely nine months apart, explaining the effects of loadshedding on his reproductive life.

“Sure. What are their names?” Then the South African surprise.

The white, Jewish family rattled off a list of African names: Thuso, Sipho, Katlego and on. Curious, I had to ask.

Years ago the mother was inspired by what we had done at the University of the Free State to feed hungry students, and that, she says, changed her life.

The chocolatiers from Hillbrow then decided to invest their lives in making sure they supported as many poor students as they could afford, putting them through high school and now through our best universities.

But they did not simply drop money into private bank accounts; they took care of these youth and when it became clear that accommodation, food and loving support were also required, they renovated their home so that the students became part of a committed family.

A book for their biological daughter also meant a book for their other children from places far away.

The family is currently setting up a non-profit organisation to collect laptops and provide all forms of assistance including medical aid, food and emotional support to students who require it.

The NPO will be called IMMI, which, translated from the Hebrew, means “My Mother” as well as “With Me”.

Said the wife: “Ideally, I would like to see other mothers of students taking on kids and embracing them into their families.”

Every time I sink into despair as a result of another mind-numbing story of racist students and bigoted judges fished from social media, I come across people like this incredible South African family.

They are unlikely to make the headlines, of course. Stories of compassion from unexpected quarters do not make the news as easily as freely available accounts of offensive behaviour.

Nor do stories of caring across racial divides matter in an angry but increasingly hostile public culture that dismisses pain from the other side as “white tears” or “black victimhood”.

This Johannesburg family are bridgebuilders; they live Mandela’s values and do not scoff at the ideals (and they are just that) that the Rainbow Nation is expected to contain.

They know that with privilege comes responsibility, and with our unequal history a sense of duty.

They do this not out of political obligation but compassion. They do not wring their hands and ask that question I so often hear: “What can we do to make a difference?” They act. Not with bitterness but a sense of joy.

They know the risk and ridicule that come with supporting  youth from  outside of their social, economic and cultural comfort zones.

Yet they love and laugh even as they serve and embrace those around them.

The father sent an e-mail while I was tearing up after hearing their incredible story.

A Jewish boy rushed home from school and excitedly told his mother that he won a part in the school play. “What part did you get?” asked the overjoyed mother. “I play the part of the Jewish father,” said the boy.

The mother scowled at him: “Go back and tell the teacher you want a speaking part!”

I love our country, wherever I might be found.