Nelson Mandela and the power of a man

South Africa is relieved. Nelson Mandela, Madiba or tata is home again. One of the most  asked questions the last few weeks was probably, 'What will happen with South Africa after his death? "A question that is probably more irrelevant than relevant, but still a question that puzzles many.  Yesterday, having  a dinner with friends, we talked about the man who many, especially of our generation, worship as a hero of the South. As one of the guests puts it: Mandela and Che Gevara colored our walls in our quest for a better world.  Being a young student, I was singing to the tunes of 'Free Nelson Mandela'. I knew very little about South Africa. There was Zola Budd, the great athlete who ran barefoot and received the British nationality because of Apartheid. There was also Pieter Willem Botha, Die Groot Krokodil and the Prime Minister of this country with a horrible regime where everyone was called Botha. There was Helene Pastors who was responsable for a bomb attack and that even triggered a lot of discussions on apartheid in Belgium. There were Paul Simon and Miriam Makeba, who made me familiar with South African sounds and put me in touch with the other side of South Africa. But my first encounter with South Africa was a picture of a dead boy, Hector Pieterson, carried by a friend.  The thirteen year old boy lost his life during the Soweto uprisings in 1976.  As a child of about the same age I did not understand why these cruel policemen would kill a defenseless child. It was unreal. I did not understand a lot about Apartheid. All I knew that it was terrible to treat people differently because of their skin color, even murder someone else and on top of it, shooting innocent children. It did not seem to fit the times we were living in and as far as I understood, even less in a country with a certain civilization. This was not done. A normal reflection for an eleven year and for sure in the late 70s when bringing civilization to these African countries was still a noble mission as if they did not have a civilization themselves. Gradually, the country continued to fascinate me. I still remember the news when and how Frederik Willem de Klerk removed Botha from the office and these were the first signs of improvement. The ban on the ANC was lifted and all this led to the release of Nelson Mandela. Eureka!

Nelson Mandela and the events symbolized the injustice in the world but even more the belief that grass movements can make a change and make the injustice disappear. However, twenty years later, the images and stories we are receiving these days seem not very promising. South Africa is believed to become a country of violence and poverty, not as bad as Congo, wanting to stress how bad it is, but still. We get reports on rapes, drug problems, AIDS, extreme poverty, townships, corrupt politicians and racial violence and as a metaphor: the extreme right-wing Afrikaners who are preparing for a race war in training camps. It looks like this nation is adrift and it is leaving us with one question "What will happen to South Africa when Nelson Mandela dies?"
There are a lot of problems. Problems that were difficult to predict. And even more, could one predict them? There was a minority of white upper class with money, a lot of poor black poverty but perhaps even more, a country that was opened up to a world that was very rapidly putting its mark on the South African society. The free market took over, there was too little correction from the government and the huge gap between rich and poor remained.

I have to admit that our visits often leave me with a pessimistic view. Visits to the townships are no feast for the eye. I was often shocked by young people on drugs, just hanging around, the glances, sometimes apathetic, sometimes aggressive. I was shocked to see AIDS Patients, kids and mums waiting for their medication, schools without books and newspapers filled with stories of a corrupt Zuma and his entourage who are using the tax money for their own gain. But not only townships shock. There is the persistent segregation, a legacy of apartheid that is still a fact in South Africa. Rich remain in their enclaves, not only the white elite but also the black elite, separating as such the rich from the poor in South Africa. People take their car in the secure compounds to drive to the heavily secured shopping malls, avoiding the non-secured areas. People are obsessed with violence in South Africa. For sure, it is a violent country but there are not only the victims of physical violence but there is also the violence with which weapons, security systems, insurance are merchandised and the idea that one should take the law into their own hands. It is separating people from each other and even more setting up people against each other.

And yet there is the fear that it even will be worse once Mandela is no longer alive. I have the impression that this feeling is stronger abroad than in South Africa. There is a feeling that anarchy will take over but is still waiting out of respect for Madiba and does not want to damage 'his ANC'. What is it with Madiba that he should stay alive because the country would not fall apart? And do people in South Africa think this themselves?
I can not speak for South Africa as a country but I can testify from my many conversations and observations I had during my stay in Cape Town that maybe this big anarchy will not happen. Personal stories and working with the people in townships leave me with the impression that the reality is much more nuanced. Structural changes have been implemented, still far from perfect but they are there and I heard so many testimonies from people that still believe in  a better South Africa. There are so many initiatives bridging the gap between poor and rich, people starting up local projects, there are also the initiatives from the government like free handing out of AIDS inhibitors, schools that are functioning, the universities are mixed. There are the neighborhoods where the security systems are not so prominent, where the segregation is not visible and there are even female bus drivers with  a headscarf.  The voices of black and colored intellectuals are getting heard, such as those of writers, musicians, filmmakers but also business leaders, retailers, restaurant owners, accountants, secretaries ... people that set an example for the others and the reason to keep dreaming of a future in which opportunities will be given to everyone and make these poor people believe they will be able to share their successful story.

Many believe in the message of Mandela for a better world and many take it to heart. He suffered to get a better country and he was able to start over without convicting the others. This is the power of Madiba.  The symbol Mandela will not disappear very soon, even if the man is no longer there.
Many will undoubtedly cry, and I will certainly be one of them, but his legacy, despite all the current problems, will lead, step by step, to a country that makes life 'bearable' for everyone.

A while ago, I started my blog with the words, "I'm staying at an old English house in what once were the quarters of the maid. The view is fantastic. I look out at Table Mountain with Cape Town at its feet. This is the city where I will encounter people and listen to their experiences with and in the city." Meanwhile, we are two months later and I have a room with a different view.

The view is beautiful. The green countryside of Boutersem should inspire me immensely  but direct contact with the South African reality is no longer there, the motivating talks are no longer there, the domestic duties are calling again, dog and cat are crying for my  attention, preoccupations of friends and family require my attention , classes have begun and my view gets a bit hazy. It is all a bit blurry ... and I am giving into the many distractions that are surrounding me and often I try to find excuses for my lack of motivation. But I'm only human.

Until yesterday ... Nikita, a fellow student, and I decided to work in the library. She writes about her experiences in India, where she lived in a commune of leprosy. I decided to refocus  on my stories from South Africa. I have to submit a thesis this year in which I write about my experiences in an anthropological way. I decide to look into some literature that gives me some tips on how to to proceed, I rewrite some of my text, yet another time ... I am unable to write anything that gives me any satisfaction. I do not  really know what to say and even less how I should write it to comply with the rules of the art of anthropology and yet I am still desperately looking for that art.

Then came the break ... breaks are a welcome distraction for students. The break turned out to be the moment the vicious circle might be broken and the complaining and nagging might stop. Coincidentally, my supervisor also needed a welcome distraction, and perhaps even more his cigarette. Frankly, I don't dare to face the man. My openness, despair and frustration I  shared  too many times with him, but even more my lack of writings, make me decide that I'd rather look the other side than start talking to him.

But one has to do what one has to do ... I start a conversation ... a bit clumsy, and I tell him that I'm working for him. He's my supervisor and he must read the thesis. As usual, he was not really impressed but he tries to give me some promotoral advice: "Do not work for me,  you have to do this for yourself."  He even repeated it. Honestly, I usually am quick to answer but I lacked the energy to answer him. A lot of thoughts passed my mind and one of them was that maybe "I often put myself in a too vulnerable position and to be honest this is none of his concern. There are so many students, there are so many theses and this thesis is my main concern, for him it is just routine. Leave the man in peace. "

With almost no courage and a bit of despair and an advice of my promotor that really did not inspire me, I started reading again. "Even better, now I am writing a thesis for myself, I thought ... that helps ... If this was not real motivational advice ... "

But maybe the guy knows me better than I think, or maybe not, but it seems like he hit  a nerve. His words were crossing my mind throughout the day, I was a bit 'pissed' and I was thinking ... "hmmm ... for myself ... I choose to study: for myself? I came to Cape Town to satisfy my own curiosity? Did I study to enrich myself, literally and figuratively?" 

Meanwhile I was reading a lecture given by René Devisch, retired professor of our department. He gave the lecture for the occasion of his Honorary Doctorate of Kinshasa. The man talks about what motivated him to do anthropology and what he thinks an anthropologist is. It inspires me, for the first time in a long time, I am a bit motivated. I also want to bring stories of ordinary people. My decision to study anthropology was to learn how to look differently at people but even more so to write differently about people. How can I write about the reality of Capetonians without losing the authenticity of their experiences but also with a certain objectivity. In telling subjective stories of people, I would like to discover how  societies continually evolve and even more how people are dealing with it. So in a way, I am writing this thesis for myself. But mostly I am writing these stories for them.  These people trusted me to tell me their stories and experiences and they deserve to be heard. Their reality is not as black/white as history makes us belief, and based on their subjective experience, I hope I can offer a more nuanced picture. I owe this to them. And ... I am also doing it a bit for you, promoter, first and foremost because I want you to teach me how to write about people but somehow I am still hoping that I can touch you even for a moment with my stories of a group of Afrikaners in their city, Cape Town. 

'Afrikaans Kos' and more

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"What is this? This is for you, daddy told her. Because it is your birthday. It has four thick feeth. Two ears that look like towels which have been eaten. On his back and head there is a a bump full of thin red small hairs. Hanging from his thick behind, there is a tail hanging, longer than Ping's plait. But craziest of all, this crazy dog has a nose that is hanging till the ground. This is not a nose, this is a trunk, said daddy. And this is not a dog, Marthe , this is an elephant. " Antjie Krog was reading out of a 'miraculous' Flemish children's book "Sam, a true story of a daughter and her elephant" written by Ingrid Vander Veken and translated in Afrikaans by Antjie Krog. Lapa uitgewers organized its annual meeting where African writers could present their book. As the annual tradition wants it, there was also a Flemish writer invited. This time Antjie, renowned South African writer, had chosen the book. She stayed at the 'writers' apartment in Antwerp, and found on the book shelves this nice booklet Ingrid wrote. It is a story about a girl who received an elephant for her birthday. It is a story based on true facts. It was organized at the premises of the literary club of Dutch - Afrikaner literature. There has always been a close bond between South Africa and Flanders of which the meeting was a prove of. Is it the language or is there more? Afrikaners are natural descendants of Dutch and Germans but there is still a certain complicity with Flemish people. The language is closer to the Flemish than the Dutch. Ingrid told me that she thinks there are many similarities between West - ,East Flemish and Afrikaans. The sk-sound (instead of sch) for sure and also the double negation and words such gezei (said), seun (son) but it is not only the language, there's more. When I entered the building, I was thinking of a conversation with a South African friend, who has been visiting Belgium recently and was asked to make a work of art that is typical for Flanders but also to bring the different cultures together. The artwork still needs to be revealed, but food and drinks are involved. He told me that he was struck to see that people seem to find each other in restaurants, tea rooms, cafes and that these are the places where Flemish, Belgians and other cultures do not care about differences. We all eat Chinese, Flemish, Belgian, Turkish, Spanish. And just this is what strikes me about South Africa as well. Afrikaners also love food and drinks. You have to admit that receiving a glass of white wine at a literature event at 9:30 am, might only happen in Belgium as well. Although in Belgium you'd rather get a glass of beer instead. Not only wine was served to tickle our taste buds but also delicious dishes were being served. They all are the result of a history of several cultures as their names suggest. Huge platters with bobotie sosaties, samoosas, vetkoek and of course the melktert, sweets, koeksisters, malvapudding, tambo  colored the tables. And as it happened I just read the book of Antjie Krog "Change of Tongue". She describes the importance of the kombuis (kitchen) for Afrikaners. Her Ouma once made a feast for the English Governor General, the enemy of the Afrikaners. The love for eating radiates from the letter that her Ouma wrote about the the event: "Klasie presented this enormous pudding to him in a Newley painted wheelbarrow. With the coffee we served milk tart, koeksiskters and Aunt Stoffie's feather-light jam puffs and paper -thin slices of guava marinated in port. " Much has been written about Afrikaners and they very definitely have a complex history but now when I will return I will associate the Afrikaners, just like my South African friend says for him the Flemisch identity is associated with the food culture, with the delicious dishes and a glass of wine. And perhaps here lies our complicity, in the ability to experience the culture of the other in our own culture through the food culture.