South Africa

This past May marks 20 years since I and my family emigrated from South Africa.

Hard to believe that it has been that long. Perhaps it was my dad and brother's recent trip to South Africa that has prompted this quest to know the country of my birth but that would not be entirely true. I have been desiring to know more about South Africa for a couple of years now. I have felt gypped since I moved from there before I really understood the complexities of the country's history but I have also felt gypped here in Canada and the lack of knowledge I possess about this country's history. My quest is to get to know the country of my birth and the country I now call home.

My dad and brother's recent trip to SA (South Africa will be abbreviated for the rest of this post) sparked a small measure of jealously but a whole lot of admiration as my brother, though he was born there, was too young when we left to remember much. I was glad for him to be able to experience a trip back to the "homeland" with my dad but it also continues to wind the mysterious tale of the man and his exodus from his country that is my dad. Though it continues to be a mystery to me, as I read and explore and discover more about the complicated and conflicted history, SA is still the land of my birth and I know so little about it. I am finding that the rumors I have heard about it's not so glamorous history might actually be true.

I was very young in age and in mind when we left and I have asked the question, "Why didn't I know? Why didn't I understand?" Looking back on the scenario now, I doubt that my 11 year old mind would have been able to grasp the magnitude of the events going on around me. I knew that there were differences between white people and black people...I went to a segregated school, whites only. I knew that I was confused by what I was being taught in school and the efforts my parents were making to try and teach us to treat everyone, no matter the color of their skin, with respect. I remember being fascinated with language and when it came time to learn the local tribal language, Zulu, in school, I was thrilled. But I also can remember hearing either from my teacher or my classmates that we were learning the black's language simply to be able to insult them further, in their own language no less as if insulting them in our own language and actions was not enough.

A while ago, my dad loaned me a book, an autobiography of a young black man who grew up in some the worst living conditions in SA. I started reading this book with the naive anticipation of learning more about my birth country from another perspective. Another perspective is certainly what I got! I am both deeply disturbed and intrigued at this young man's story. The more I read, the more I realize that the experiences he recounts where basically happening right in my back yard but I knew nothing about it. What would I have done, at 11 years old, with knowledge of such deplorable conditions?! Perhaps my innocent ignorance saved my sanity.