We need to be kinder to ourselves and provide ourselves with the leadership we so need. We have to come to terms with the fact that South Africa is a divided nation, we are in fact more at odds with each other than ever before. Perhaps, if we accept this fact, we can make sense of the upsetting scenes playing out around us.
Accept that the so-called rainbow nation is a travesty, a silly act of continuously pouring water into a leaking bucket, hoping it will hold. Especially for the black masses. A lot of PR and effort has gone into the notion of “unity” in this country, but in recent years the clashes between the dominant races — black and white — have taken us to the bad old days of apartheid.
We went from being beaten down in the streets, mauled by police dogs, segregated and dehumanised in the most unfathomable form, to wearing those patronising post-apartheid peace dove T-shirts and worshipping Nelson Mandela. We now beat each other in the streets, hurl insults, commit senseless killings and refuse to play by the constitution’s preamble which alleges that this country, as socially torn up as it is, belongs to all who live in it, “united in our diversity”.
The unfinished project of apartheid keeps catching up with us. It leaves a bitter taste in our mouths — so bitter we do not know what to do or make of it, except to go on social media and defend our right to exist in our fullness. Racism is not merely a stain on our democracy, but an indictment of an entrenched intolerance that’s bold as brass.
Just this week a man on X who goes by the name of Rieb van Janbeeck was involved in a tussle with users who called out his post of two pictures: one a domesticated robot, and another a portrait of an artist dressed as a maid, and he asked “who would you choose?”. He spent half of the engagement on that post asking what was so racist about what he posted. My observation is that his pretence and lack of grasp of what was wrong was so unbecoming that the people engaging him did not know what to say, or how to defend it except to put it bluntly that he was indeed being racist.
Figuratively speaking, he stabbed a group of people and dared to ask them why they were bleeding. He demanded that they perform their trauma and educate him on why using a picture of a black woman as a maid not only entrenches stereotypes, but is a form of degradation. Conveniently avoiding the fact that maids were created by a system and people who were too busy conquering the world but left the running of their households to black women. What is clear though, is he views black women as a labour force and nothing else, when he sees a robot that can pack dishes and be sent around, he immediately thinks of a black woman.
There is nothing new here; because fortunately for him and unfortunately for us, Amandla has never been ours. We chant “Amandla ... Awethu” and sing it in circles, but his kind live it, amandla is theirs. Hence he can spend the day confused as to why probing whether one would choose a robotic maid over a black woman is a farce.
Respect, kindness and tolerance often only go as far as you are useful. We are nowhere near being economically, psychologically, physically or socially liberated.
In his Fanonian: Practices in South Africa, from Steve Biko to Abahlali baseMjondolo book, British author Nigel Gibson made a sobering assessment of the absurdity of whiteness. That in the early 1990s when black people started to increasingly move to the cities in defiance of the state, those behind big walls started feeling insecure and increased their security. However, though, “fearful of the poor, these heavily surveyed spaces nonetheless continued to use the labour of people living on shack settlements (as domestic workers, gardeners and security guards)”.
When we sing, “My mama was a kitchen girl, my father was a garden boy,” we are not only paying homage to their sacrifices and survival despite being dealt a raw deal, we are recognising that we are products of labourers who were and still are considered to be of the lowest form. So when a white man goes on social media and parades ignorance over an obvious bias against black people, we become numb. And bit by bit, we are reminded that this place (South Africa), though ours by virtue of being the first occupants, has not been ours in a long time.
If amandla was ours, Maria Makgato, 45, and Lucia Ndlovu, 34, from Polokwane would probably be alive and their bodies would have never known what it’s like to be licked by a pig while you lay dead over rotten dairy products. Cape Town farmer Christoffel Stoman would not have been brave enough to break the legs of Khwezi Jantjies, 6, allegedly over stealing an orange from his farm.
If amandla was ours, surely the promise of the preamble, that through this document and piece of laws the quality of lives of all would be achieved, they would not be found let alone foraging for food, but in the wrong and dangerous places. Dogs would not be set on Veneruru Kavari by Piet Groenewald and his stepson Stephan Greef in Groblersdal. In the same town, Corrie Pretorius, would not be seen brazenly attacking a 16-year-old boy over salt seasoning.
But because they can, they do. The choice is between us and robots, we are nothing but labour. Respect, kindness and tolerance often only go as far as you are useful. We are nowhere near being economically, psychologically, physically or socially liberated. It’s a purge and all we have is an allowance of a few words for outrage on social media, but when it comes down to it, we have been reduced to punching bags.
The question, however, is, for how long must this go on? When will amandla locate us, truly be awethu?
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