Like most who were subjected to this age of overspending and under-caring, I have many silly memories of this period which was characterised by big hair and leg-warmers, frilly shirts, frillier music and egotistical economics.
There were the countless times we bunked school to watch Pop-Shop music videos taped on our Betamax casettes. The unnatural but aching longing to look like Madonna. Not being allowed to leave the house looking like Madonna. Packing secret accessories in my bag. Looking silly, all night long.
I remember understanding the state of the nation for the first time in Standard 9 Geography. What a shock it was to discover that there were more black people living in South Africa than white people. Where were they all hiding? I knew only the domestic worker who worked in our home and the casually employed, nameless gardeners who popped in and out during the course of the year. Apparently, there were millions of black people living a few kilometers away that I had never met - kids my age, going to schools I had never driven past, living in neighbourhoods I had only heard of in the whispered mutterings of the adults and the occasional radio broadcast.
In the eighties my mom owned an exclusive boutique, full of taffeta and puffy sleeves, padded shoulders and glorious sequins. Valentino, Balenciaga, Versace, Fendi ... these were names I grew up with. I wore their designs at a time when brands were little appreciated in South Africa and I really just wanted to look more mainstream. My Matric Dance outfit was real silk of Italian design but I was not the belle of the ball. My friend in black satin, with a big black bow on her tiny derrier stole the show.
On Saturday mornings I often worked in the shop, manning the front desk and cash box for my mother who took the chance to run some errands for the husehold. I was not alone: Maria, the trusted and much loved help, was always there, keeping the stock freshly pressed and the accessories neatly displayed. She had become my mother's confidant and constant companion during the long slow days when customers were scarse and the few that came in out of curiosity were appalled by the import prices. My mom had promoted Maria from back-room tea-girl to front-of-house assistant out of appreciation for her ability to not only translate indifference into sales, but also because Maria made the silence more bearable with her friendly disposition and pleasant chatter.
On one particular Saturday, I realised just how different my world really was to Maria's. I was at the front desk, doing some reading and Maria was leaning on the central display case, willing customers into the shop. Suddenly, two policeman stomped in, shouting orders at Maria in Afrikaans and ignoring me completely. I was gob-smacked and completely paralysed with fear. Maria cried out and ran to the back of the shop. The policemen ran after her. I heard scuffling, swearing, a few thuds and then silence. The policemen walked slowly out of the shop without acknowledging me at all.
Quiet. A minute later Maria emerged, her face a little swollen and her eyes puffy and red.
"What did they want?" I was shaking.
"They just wanted to see my pass, madam."
Nothing more was said. I was almost eighteen but I had never had to speak to an angry policeman or seen anyone victimised by one. I felt weird, like I was on the wrong side of a game I did not know the rules of. Maria wiped her eyes over and over and eventually, mercifully, our day came to an end and we closed shop. She went her way and I went mine. Just as it should be.
There would be many more incidents and a deeper understanding with time. My naiveté became anger and my anger fuelled a resolve to make things better.
Today the eighteen year-olds are called Born Frees. The year they were born, apartheid died (apparently).
In my experience, most of them are pretty indifferent about politics. Most are bored by stories of the "bad old days". I find this distressing.
So when they want to say something relevant to life as it is lived today in South Africa, I am listening! There is nothing more important than developing your own voice as a young person. To be able to articulate your opinion in a compelling manner is an art and a skill that we must encourage young people to master, especially if they disagree with the mainstream.
If ever there was a time for social revolution it is right now, right here. I want to know eighteen year-olds are not paralysed by fear, or apathy, when they understand they are living in a divided and unjust society. I want to hear how they think, what they see and what they feel.
Perhaps, then, their voices will spark the change that will help us to transcend our past and move forward to create a preferable future for all.
In 1987, in the midst of all the plastic, a couple of young South Africans recorded a demo record, the flip side of which contained a song called Weeping. For two weeks the state-owned Radio Five played the song without interference from the notorious official censors inspite of the fact that the song contained a brief instrumental echo of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika", at that time the anthem of the African National Congress, and, therefore, banned under Apartheid law.
Today the words have even more relevance than they had then. Read them and weep.
WEEPING
Written by Dan Heymann
(Copyright Bright Blue)
______________________________
I knew a man who lived in fear
It was huge, it was angry, it was drawing near
Behind his house, a secret place
Was the shadow of the demon he could never face
He built a wall of steel and flame
And men with guns, to keep it tame
Then standing back, he made it plain
That the nightmare would never ever rise again
But the fear and the fire and the guns remain
It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping
And then one day the neighbors came
They were curious to know about the smoke and flame
They stood around outside the wall
But of course there was nothing to be heard at all
"My friends," he said, "We’ve reached our goal
The threat is under firm control
As long as peace and order reign
I’ll be damned if I can see a reason to explain
Why the fear and the fire and the guns remain" It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping
No comments:
Post a Comment