Monday, April 13, 2020

One Woman's Journey towards Truth and Reconciliation


2019/04/01  PSW
 
One Woman’s Journey towards Truth and Reconciliation.

                  This title for my memoir came to me only recently, as I became aware of a significant focus in the collection of my stories from the 1990s with details and backstories of many months of PhD research in northeast Zimbabwe, and travel across southern Africa. 
                  During ten years of my childhood in South Africa – the first decade of official apartheid - from 1948 to 1958, I was immersed in a life of white privilege.  Our family home had a thirty-foot swimming pool and a tennis court in the back garden; we took yearly safaris to game reserves in the August holidays; and my sisters and I went to Roedean, one of the top private girls’ schools in Johannesburg.  
                  It was in the senior-school history class at Roedean that I began to sense something missing in the lessons we were getting from ‘Dickie Bird’ (as we nick-named our history teacher).  Although I had no way to explain the problem, I knew it was real. Then, with two years to go before matriculation (graduation) I had an option.  I made the choice to take art and art history instead. And while I was certainly not one of our class’s top artists, it turned out to be an excellent decision.  In addition to time for painting, sculpture and pottery, the art history class covered many eras, aptly named in our textbook, Art Through the Ages.
The book, which sits on a shelf in my library to this day, has over eight-hundred  pages; sixty pages of glossary and index; with sections devoted to different eras and cultural regions of the world.  Only five pages in the entire book are on African Art, under the subheading “Primitive Art” and within those few pages, sections only for West African Sculpture and ‘Bushman’ Painting.  Despite this ‘all-but-Africa’ bias, I found art history intriguing, and was happy to leave Dickie-Bird’s class behind.
                  As I recount in this memoir, four decades later, in 1993, I return to Southern Africa - to Zimbabwe - and one of my first excursions was to the ruins of Great Zimbabwe. 
There (p…) is a photo of me, standing on the carved steps to the Upper Ruins, my hands outstretched, the expression on my face not hard to interpret: 
                  “How come no-one ever told me about the origins of this architectural wonder”
In the apartheid era, during my high-school years in South Africa, the ruins were ascribed to the Queen of Sheba.  They could not possibly have been the work of an African civilization.  It was only in 1980, when the ‘Second Chimurenga’ (struggle) ended, and Southern Rhodesia was renamed Zimbabwe, that the archeological information was allowed to be published.  Great Zimbabwe was just the first of my 1990s “truth lessons” about African culture.  This memoir recounts many more.   [and ‘Reconciliation’? … more to come]

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Guilt, Gifts and Gratitutde



2019/02/06 FishHoek Library

Prologue

Guilt, Gifts and Gratitude
I’m a white woman. I’m seventy-seven years old.
And I have a burden - a burden of Guilt.
I also have a basket - a basket of Gifts.
Before I end this life’s adventurous journey
I’d like to shed the Guilt, share the Gifts,
And express my Gratitude.
Let me explain.
The Guilt blossomed during my childhood,
growing up in a life of white privilege,
 in apartheid South Africa.
The Gifts to share are stories -
gleaned from experiences over the years in Southern African countries.
And told in Gratitude, for lessons learned
from African wisdom, generosity and resilience,
especially in the face of ongoing arrogance and inhumanities[1] of my race.



[1] [explain my version of inhumanities: capitalist inequalities esp. through “upsucking”].

Tuesday, May 24, 2016

How to Change the World? Trevor Huddleston’s Gift

Statue of Archbishop Trevor Huddleston
in Bedford, South Africa (Simon Speed)
In early 1956 in South Africa, back at school after the summer holidays, an event occurred that changed my life. I was fifteen years old, and selected as one of three girls from my high school class to spend a long-weekend in Johannesburg’s black townships. The Anglican bishop Trevor Huddleston organized this experience each year, for white school children to meet local leaders and ordinary folk, with the goal of opening eyes to a world normally hidden from their view.

Afterwards, the three chosen from each school would report back, first to the assembled students, then to a parent-teacher’s meeting. I had sat through these presentations before. They were boring. “…And then we got on the bus and went to Soweto. And then we had lunch, and then we got back on the bus….” Nothing life-changing there.

I should explain that while I was growing up, like most whites our family was comfortably cocooned in what I later came to call a ‘cotton-wool society’. My three sisters and I did not know the hardships and injustice inflicted on blacks by South Africa’s apartheid system. We had a large house, a thirty-foot swimming pool and a tennis court. We had two poodles, and Ruffles the cat. Each August before the rains, we went on a camping safari in our station wagon to a game park, near or far. In summer, my sisters and I and our friends (all white) spent every free moment in and around the pool. Before my parents’ divorce there were three ‘native’ servants - Susan, Mary, and Sam the ‘garden boy’. Last names unknown. Children and other family members unknown. After my father left and money was tight, there was only Susan. The servants’ quarters were at the back of the kitchen courtyard: two small rooms separated by a toilet stall. We children did not go back there. I snuck back only once or twice for a peek.

My “Trevor Huddleston weekend” tore open the cotton-wool cocoon – and changed my world. Our group of twenty-four girls, from eight white high-schools, was based at a suburban convent on the outskirts of Johannesburg. Over three days, we had a busy schedule. Some memories stand out. The black doctors at Baragwaneth Hospital did not let us into the wards, but they vividly described crowded conditions, and chronic shortage of basic supplies… In Soweto, the sprawling black township ten miles removed from Johannesburg, row upon row of two-room brick houses were under construction. Each had an outhouse out back, and only one standing faucet for a whole block. We learned that Soweto’s expansion was for families evicted from Sophiatown, a mixed-race suburb, which had been bulldozed just months before our visit. Only the Anglican cathedral had been spared. It loomed large and imposing above the rubble. Sunday morning we attended the service there, and I remember tears streaming down my face as I hummed the soaring melody of “Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika” (God Save Africa), sung at full voice by choir and congregation.

For me, and I’m sure for most of the girls, those few days were the first time we had talked with ‘Africans’ (as we were asked to call them), who were not servants in our households. And the first conversations we’d ever had about the rules of apartheid that governed our lives. Back at school, I insisted to my friends that we refer to ‘natives’ as Africans. I kept up a refrain – “This system of apartheid is not fair to Africans. It’s WRONG!” My best friend Sally, said “Oh, Judy, let them be – they’re happy just as they are.” Later, the headmistress took me aside and said “Try to be a little pool of quietness.”

When I took my turn at the parent-teacher presentation, again I insisted, “Apartheid HAS to go!” Afterwards, one of the parents came up to me. “You’re fired up now," he said. "Next year, you will go off to college in America.” (I must have mentioned my mother’s plans for me.) “Study well. Come back in four years, then you can work to help get rid of apartheid.” I remember my outrage. Four YEARS. FOUR Years! We can’t wait four years! It must change NOW!

Looking back, I realize I had no idea about how to change the world. I thought that by speaking out loudly and telling people about injustice, they would respond – and change would happen. Bishop Trevor Huddleston was removed from South Africa by the Anglican Church the following year, but he kept up his crusade against apartheid until it ended, thirty-eight years later. After college I did not return to South Africa to participate in “the Struggle.” But to this day I value the weekend experience that changed my world-view.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Imagination: A Conversation with Rev. Dr. David Livingstone

“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” I spoke loudly over the roar of falling water, as I stepped up to the imposing figure standing tall, at the edge of the cataract.

“Indeed,” he replied, greeting me briefly, before turning again to gaze in wonder at the great stretch of the falls before us. “Look at that! Magnificent!”

Zimbabwe - Victoria Falls (Steve Evans CC BY 2.0)

We stood in silence for a long minute before Dr. Livingstone continued.

“I can see why folk here call it Mosi-oa-Tunya – ‘the smoke that thunders.’ This cloud of spray has been visible for days as I traveled with my companions to this wondrous place. And the rumble of the falls does indeed sound like thunder.”

As though hardly aware of my presence, he mused aloud. “But I have decided these falls shall be named after our great Queen Victoria, in honour of the British Empire.”

I spoke again. “You are the first European to discover these falls. You are also the first European to travel across the continent, from the mouth of the Zambezi River on the Indian Ocean, to reach this place. I understand you plan to continue on from here to the west coast?

No answer. I tried another tack. “You are quite the traveller. I’m doing a cross-continental journey too – I’m following in your footsteps. Well, not quite the same route. And I’m not walking.

Map of Conjectural Geography of Central Africa, from Dr. Livingstone's Notes (The Last Journals of David Livingstone, in Central Africa, from 1865 to His Death, Volume II (of 2), 1869-1873)

Dr. Livingstone finally replied to my first comment, as he continued to think aloud. “Yes, I’m the first European to discover these falls. And this naming – ‘Victoria Falls’ – will promote my mission to encourage commercial trade in this part of Africa. Trade in local goods – perhaps sugar, from new plantations. That will be a much better alternative to the horrors of the slave trade.”

He turned and looked at me earnestly for the first time. “Do you know that even though the British Parliament passed a law to abolish the trans-Atlantic slave trade back in 1807 – half a century ago – this abomination continues in many places – especially up and down eastern parts of the continent. On the east coast, where I began this journey, Portuguese and Arabs drag their captives to ships and the horrors of the slave trade continue unabated.

In reality, Livingstone did not respond to my questions. He did not move. His bronze statue stood unwavering, at its prominent location above Devil’s Cataract at the western edge of Victoria Falls. For this conversation I had travelled back in time over a century and a half. And it would be yet another twenty years before Zimbabweans began discussing the proposal to rid the famous tourist site of its imperial name and restore the original – Mosi-oa-Tunya. I think it is a good idea. But will the tourists get it?

David Livingstone memorial at Victoria Falls (Tim Rogers, CC BY-SA 3.0)

Saturday, March 12, 2016

Zimbabwe 2016

At the 2016 Agrarian South Summer School, African Institute for Agrarian Studies, Harare  

Conference underway at Bronte Hotel, Harare

Reuniting with Jane Gwati in Chindenga village 

Jane and Judith dancing

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Tererai Trent's TEDx talk: "Forgotten Women and Girls, and The Gift of Adversity"

Two years ago I wrote a post about my inspiring friend Tererai Trent. She has just recorded a beautiful TEDx talk titled "Forgotten Women and Girls, and The Gift of Adversity."




From the TEDx summary:
Tererai Trent’s story is one of hardship and adversity, combined with the determination to never give up on her dream to gain an education, then return to the village where she grew up and build a school, thus breaking a generations old pattern that neglected the educational needs of young girls. As she reminds us, “To educate is to empower, to empower is to liberate, and to liberate is to enable individuals to have dignity.” 
Dr. Tererai Trent grew up in a cattle-herding family in rural Rhodesia (now known as Zimbabwe) and dreamed of getting an education, but limited by cultural practices and a war that liberated her country, she was married with three children by the time she was eighteen. Undeterred by traditional roles and cultural norms, Tererai determinedly taught herself to read and write from her brother’s schoolbooks. From those humble beginnings, Tererai has become a world-renowned scholar, humanitarian, motivational speaker, educator, mentor, and inspiration, leading the global charge in the fight for quality education for all children.