full disclosure

I am becoming more and more acutely aware of something as I go through my daily life, experiencing the world, all its woes, its glories, its failures and its triumphs. And this thing that I am constantly being exposed to, constantly being reminded of, constantly seeing, feeling and experiencing is, in my framework, a bitter pill to not only have to swallow, but almost silently so. Now more than ever.
Now you might be asking what exactly it is that I am becoming aware of and after a whole paragraph of (hopefully) keeping you reading to get to the answer, I will finally and with a peculiar and almost unprecedented sense of pride, say:

I am not an African.

Yes, I can hear you all moaning and groaning, and I can almost hear in some familiar (and often familial) voices, the obvious comments, but the point that I am trying to make is slightly more profound, I can assure you.

I grew up and I have lived in various provinces in South Africa, almost every single province in South Africa, as someone dutifully pointed out to me just the other day. My father was a pastor and therefore we travelled around a lot. Most of these I can’t really remember, and it’s rather sad when you think that so much of your heritage and what has shaped you to be the person you are today, is lost beneath layers and layers of other information in the tiny vessel of memory we refer to as our brain. Remember this statement. It’s important for later.

This upbringing, this journey that has brought me to where I am now has often been a tough one. But in some small, insignificant way I have often comforted myself with the notion that I am a child of Africa. I have experienced the country side, I have experienced the cities. I played cricket on a dirt road outside my house, I have slept under the stars on a farm in the Free State. I went to an Afrikaans, mixed-race school, I went to a private English school. I studied at a liberal arts college and I finished high school at a proudly Afrikaans institution. Somewhere along the line I guess that I have seen myself as a ‘child of the new South Africa’. I was born in 1990, so therefore any memory I have left of my childhood would be post-1994 and, in my mind at least, that signifies my life being a part of our new democracy. Even though it’s not factually true, I have always considered myself to be as old as our democracy is. And that, that is the reason why I think I have such a deep respect and admiration for the people that have fought so hard to make this country the place it is today, with all the opportunities it can offer me.
I might also be stepping on some toes here, but really, what else is a blog for? I also didn’t think that I needed to be black to be an African. And I still don’t.

I am of the firm belief that being an African means being a child of the soil, growing up with the harsh African sun on your back, feeling the effects of drought on farmers, loving the great outdoors, protecting what is yours, fighting for what it is that you believe in. It means being patriotic, not being afraid to say where you were born and, of course, knowing the words (and the meaning) to ‘Nkosi Sikeleli Africa’. These are all things I know, things I have experienced, and journeys I have made. This is my country as much as it is anyone else’s.

And so now I ask you why today I don’t feel like an African.

My citizenship has not been revoked; my name is the same, my race, my skin-colour, all remains as it was and yet; something has changed.
Maybe it’s because I feel that after today; I don’t want to be an African.
And yes, maybe I am more melancholic today, but such is suited to the black garb that I have donned on this ‘Black Tuesday’.

For those of you not aware of the situation in my beloved South Africa, I suggest you Google ‘Black Tuesday’ or ‘SA Secrecy Bill’ to see what I am referring to. This blog is not going to be as informative as the many qualified sites out there will be.
Upon hearing that the bill was passed in the National Assembly today, I felt my heart sink and a stunted scream of pain escaped almost inaudibly from my lips. Not because the bill has yet been put in place, not because it has directly started affecting me. But like a teenager discovering for the first time that their parents aren’t flawless or like a parent discovering for the first time that their baby boy or girl had turned into someone they didn’t know, I felt a sudden mixture of rebellion and confusion. Somehow, and I’m not sure how just yet, but somehow the phrase: ‘’We stopped looking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us.’’, fits in here so perfectly.
This fault, this flaw that I discovered today, this shaft that is hampering our progress as a young democracy, has somehow left me so detached from all that is this country and everything that Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu and Steve Biko fought for to achieve that I started to wonder whether the sacrifices of these individuals were at all necessary. I started to see more and more flaws, my eyes opened up to a whole new world.

As an artist we often deal with politics and one can almost say that all art is political. However, I have always sort of detached myself from that aspect as I felt that one needs to tell one’s own story and there was never an opportunity for me to tell my story; had I told another’s I would have felt like a hypocrite. And as much as I have always tried to stay on top of current affairs and have some idea about what is happening in this country as a whole, I have never really felt the need to get involved in politics. As a white male in SA today, I have never felt I had enough say or much leverage to say it. Somehow I had always managed to stay out of heated political discussions, because in my experience these tended to lead to very little actually being done. When voting day came, I cast my ‘’Democratic Alliance’’ vote proudly, but I never felt an urgency to do more. Until today, that is.

As is often the case with these enlightening moments, I immediately wanted to know more, before I could write this blog, and, although I did find out quite a lot, there is a lot more that I still want to know.
Today I read Lindiwe Mazibuko’s moving speech to parliament in which she proclaimed that the DA will not stop fighting this secrecy bill. The power of her words as she, young, black South African woman, faced an entire parliament of people far beyond her years moved me. She confronted them with words that said: ‘What will you, the Members on that side of the House, tell your grandchildren one day? I know you will tell them that you fought for freedom. But will you also tell them you helped to destroy it?’’. I also read that she had confronted someone about their use of the word ‘darkies’ in parliament and that his rebuttal was to call her a ‘coconut’ (brown on the outside, white on the inside). This exemplary child of Africa, a young black girl with a past that resembles that of most in South Africa, a young black girl with dignity who has carved her own way in the Democratic Alliance in as little as four years. This woman who now, not much older than I am, is standing in front of hundreds of men who have fought for this freedom that she has and is confronting them about the bad decisions they are about to make. This takes strength, character, dignity, respect and a lot of hard work. This, this is what I thought meant being an African.

I read an interesting article today where a reporter who was due to interview Ms Mazibuko, wanted to get a clear sense of what the everyman (or woman, in this case) thought of her. The reporter showed a picture of Lindiwe to her domestic worker whose response was: ‘DA. Bad.’ I heard that Ms Mazibuko can speak 4 official South African languages and has lived in suburban and rural South Africa. And just because she dares to oppose, as the DA’s national spokesperson, a government so inbred with their own propagandas, their own pride and their own misguided sense of power she is labelled as not being a ‘true African’ or being one of the enemy.

Therefore I think it’s important to assess one thing: Who is more African? The corrupt? Those who steal from the people to fund their own pockets? Those who are quick to jump on the ‘race-train’ whenever they are being held accountable? Those who keep their affairs a secret, because they know that it is not within the best interests of those they govern? Or is it those who stand up for what they believe in? Those who are prepared to fight an uphill-battle? Those who stand in the face of adversity and keep their head held high, because even if they don’t know where they are going, at least they know where they have been?
I would argue the latter.

Our generation, my generation, we’re always saying how we haven’t had anything worth fighting for. Well, this is basically being handed to us on a silver platter. The time of posting protesting status updates and protesting tweets is over. I think it’s safe to say that the government couldn’t care less about your 140 characters. There is no point in wearing black clothing anymore unless you’re wearing it whilst toyi-toying. Silent protest is a thing of the past. I think it’s time that the youth of this country rally up with the same amount of force that they did in 1965. The time has come that we start marching through the streets again, holding our heads high. The time has come for us to go out there and do something. And say something!

I was scrolling through my friends’ status updates on Facebook today and the general consensus is that my generation - of all races, colours and creeds – is ready to start fighting for this country. And so am I.
Speak up, speak out, and march, march till your feet bleed, march till you faint under this glorious African sun. Because that’s how you change a country, that’s how you get a government to listen. ‘’Nothing will change if you change nothing’’.

That is what I call being an African. It has nothing to do with skin. It has nothing to do with who was here first, which language you speak or which tribe you belong to. It has to do with an inherent urge to fight for what it is you love.

I feel, at this point, that it’s an appropriate time for me to directly address the ANC:

I am not an African, purely because you all call yourselves Africans. And if you are the barometer to which I should measure my African heritage, I want nothing of it.
I want to be a South African. I want to be a South African like Nelson Mandela, like Lindiwe Mazibuko, like Helen Zille, Ingrid Jonker and Ferial Haffajee. I want you to remember my name. I want you to see my face and be haunted by it. Because in the very near future it will come parading down the streets, joined by thousands of young South Africans refusing to sit back and watch you destroy what our forefathers fought so hard to build. Because I have feet and I will march them. I will march them till I feel that my legacy has been left and felt. I will not tell my grandchildren one day that I stood by and watched our beautiful young democracy being destroyed by an authoritarian government who themselves have turned into the very monster they fought so hard to conquer many years before.*
I am 21 years old, a child of South Africa, and I am not afraid to fight for what I believe in. And that makes me more of a South African than any of you.

I have now fully disclosed.

ANC, your move.



*October 19, 1977. South Africa’s Apartheid Government bans several newspapers for publishing news articles about the beating and murder of Steve Biko at the hands of police. The ANC protested this violently.
November 22, 2011. The ANC passes the Protection of Information Bill allowing the incarceration and banning of any entity that publicizes any information about the corrupt nature or actions of members of government.
The nation must know.

''It takes a moose to change a life...''

Last night I had the honour of seeing one of the most profound theatrical productions I have ever seen on a South African stage: ''Karoo Moose''. I laughed incessantly, I cried uncontrollably and I was moved and affected.
Some of my friends were unaffected – but most of the people I spoke to were stirred by this beautifully crafted production by director Lara Foot.

It was showcased using a very simple, yet effective set, simple suggestive costuming and a variety of African sounds and imagery. Some of which I am sure will stay with me for a long time to come.

I must be honest – (Rule #1 of a blog: always be honest) – I was apprehensive about seeing the show when I heard the theme and what it was exactly about.
I find South African texts and plays quite stereotypical and discriminating sometimes and I have often felt victimised when I leave a theatre space – just because I am a white Afrikaans-speaking male.

This has made me very disconnected towards many writers, directors and actors who still perform these types of productions – because how are they relevant to me today?
I am not saying at all that I don't want to hear about history or what had happened – but I think the generation that I live in now has come to a point where we are ready to move on.
And it sometimes feels to me like the arts are not yet read to step out of that box because: it works, I guess. Or maybe they are not sure if there are any stories to tell in South Africa that does not have some form of political, historical connection?
In a way – without sounding offensive - I have come to a point where I don't want to hear how bad Apartheid was for black people and how white people were all to blame. I also don't want to be faced with white guilt every time I see a sculpture or a film or a play that depicts a black person being discriminated against somewhere, somehow.
Because, it was not my fault.
I was never there, remember?
I wasn't even born yet.
And I don't think I should have to apologise.

Sometimes - and I don't think I am the only one – I feel extremely un-African. I didn't grow up in extreme poverty, my parents didn't have to struggle to be treated as equals in society, I never wear loin-cloths or goatskins and I never chant and pray to any ancestors. Is this what it means to be African? Am I not African because I speak Afrikaans and I am white?
I grew up in this land too, I have also tasted the riches of this earth, I have also walked the dusty plains of this barren soil – isn't that essentially what it means to call a country your homeland? Not how many ancestors you had living there or who was here first. Whether you are African doesn't depend on what the colour of your skin is or in which language you speak and sing – you are African if what you stand for is equality, acceptance, teamwork and a deeply rooted love for every crack and crevice this country has to offer.

Here is where I think ''Karoo Moose'' has hit the nail on the head – we have so many beautiful stories to tell, but they are not told because we focus too much on what has happened than on what is happening now.
''Karoo Moose'' tells the story of a village of people and how their lives are affected by the coming of a very strange ''wild moose'' to the village. The moose, which was supposed to be transported to a zoo – as a gift to the President – had managed to escape and is now wandering the Karoo in search of somewhere to belong. But, the story doesn't centre around the moose at all – it tells the stories of the people who have witnessed the moose's coming. Beautifully crafted stories displaying the complexities of the human spirit and our amazing ability, as Africans, to be resilient and to fight for what we believe in.
In ''Karoo Moose'', suddenly I didn't feel like a foreigner watching a South African play – I could relate to the stories, the imagery, the hurt, the brutality of life without feeling like any of it was my fault. I saw a white family living harmoniously with a black family – no victimisation, no discrimination. I saw the South Africa that I have grown up in, not the South Africa that Athol Fugard and others have created for us. Not the South Africa that was shoved in my face by older generations. And suddenly, I could relate.

I would like to thank the director, the writer and the performers for opening my eyes again to the wonderful diversity that is our country and for making me feel like an important part of that diversity.
Before last night, I used to feel like a lost white boy running aimlessly, without a home, without somewhere that I can belong in this extreme diversity that is South Africa. (a bit like the moose, I guess)

But, now, I think that that has changed.
I feel in touch, now, with every grain of soil, every mountainside rock, every drop of ocean, every African and their story.
Perhaps now... it is time to tell my own story.