How I Learnt To See In Colour

Note by the editor/ usual writer of A Vigilant Voice: This piece was written by a young, white man, who was at first shy to share it with me. Our skin colours differ, and he was thus nervous that I would take offense. I do not. I agree, in very large part, with what he says. This piece discusses how racial policies and a common anti-white sentiment in South Africa reinforces a racial divide, rather than eradicating it. The author of this piece encourages you to share your own opinion and experience. You are welcome to do so by commenting on this article or emailing vigilantvoicersa@gmail.com

If you are having trouble viewing this article, please try my other domain: http://avigilantvoice.weebly.com/home/how-i-learnt-to-see-in-colour-anonymous How I Learnt to See in Colour When I was born, I had no concept of colour – like everyone else. My eyes were fine; I am talking about a different kind of Colour here. My early years were, in part, spent learning about the rainbow, the colours that are included in it and the colours that are not. It wasn't until later on that I learnt that the rainbow had a second, and far darker, role in South Africa. When I was in grade 1, a scant few years after what some call the “miracle of transformation” in 1994, my almost entirely white (yes, I refer to skin colour) class gained a new learner a few days into the school year. For her sake and mine, I will leave out the names from this article. She had a bit of an abrasive personality, to be sure, but was generally a good person and does not deserve to be linked in even a passing way to the bitterness that I intend to share on these pages. I met her in the years before I saw in colour, and while it was certainly obvious she was different to most of us, she was not more so than the tall guy or the tiny guy or the girl with the crazy red hair and skin like a startled ghost. Sadly, my innocence withered soon enough. That's life, right? We all eventually learn that the world is a dark place... or end up paying for our self-deception when we run right into the difference between our idealistic dreams and the dull grey middle grounds that reality tends to exist in. So, what happened? I started learning that the colour of my skin closes doors for me in my own country. It started as a distant concept: realising that race quotas exist for jobs. It seemed odd, but surely at worst it would mean that a few people get appointed for their skin colour? All adults work, right? Things like that get very relevant, though, when one's own family is touched by the quota system. And so I saw my father, a hard worker and always willing to help where he was needed, passed over for promotion. Was a person of another race chosen instead? Well, no. The position was left vacant. No space for another white in the quota. After a month or two, nobody qualified and interested could be found to fill the post – nobody of an “appropriate” race, at least. So my father was promoted, sort of. He was given an “acting” position. In short, he was given the work, but only part of the pay, since the employer could neither afford to leave the position vacant, nor to appoint another person with white skin. Quotas. While the “acting” position eventually became a full appointment, I was very disillusioned by that time. How could I not be bitter? My father did his work, both well and on time – but he was not rewarded as he should have been. Somehow, his skin counted against, the same kind of skin I have to this day. Suddenly, there was Colour. There was difference. And there was a conflict. My primary school years were a relatively isolated time, despite this. There were black students at my school – not the majority, but enough that I was used to being around them. I felt no hate for them. Why would I? Perhaps a twinge of discomfort, since they acted differently, and sounded different. The same way I was uncomfortable when someone shouted when I knew it was inappropriate. We were all kids, though, and our little feuds and alliances cared little for colour. Inevitably, I moved on to high school. There, the mix was much closer to even, with at least several individuals from any race you care to name, and easily more home languages amongst the students than there were grades in the school. Arriving there, I was already a little wary of this issue of “colour”. I saw that it mattered to the government, saw that it mattered to the people around me. I had also learned the story of Dingaan's betrayal of the white settlers who came to him to arrange a peaceful coexistence, and what happened subsequently at the battle at Blood River; a tale which left me a bit guarded. I was suspicious: Why had this part of our country's history conveniently never been mentioned in school yet? Like almost every person of my skin colour and approximate age, I had heard that my father and his peers had compulsory military training and service time. In my case, my only thought on the matter for a long time was that I was glad that I would not have to do the same. More information on that would become apparent to me later in my life. So, high school. A difficult time for just about everyone, filled with uncertainty and discovery and development of one's personality and world view. Colour was an added factor in mine, as I am sure it has been for every South African for a very long time. High school was not exactly a constant confrontation with the all-too-common and increasing poverty that besets our country or the pervasive consequences of Apartheid that the ANC has almost entirely failed to expunge, particularly if one were to believe their recent extraordinary claims that the economy is entirely controlled by a shadowy conspiracy amongst an alliance of supposed hyper-rich white men. What high school was, was both an introduction to my de facto position of automatic moral bankruptcy and an opportunity to realise exactly how pervasive the anti-white sentiment in South Africa is. There are a few examples that crystallize glimpses of the process that burned the lines between colours indelibly on my world view. One of the more subtle factors was the phrasing and composition of Department of Education materials; the selection of material to cover in English and so on. There was, of course, nothing blatantly against white people, but eventually the recurring theme of “Apartheid was bad, black people are valiantly rebuilding” started to chafe. From the selection of passages for comprehension tests to the almost inevitably black new business owner in financial maths questions to the heavy focus on struggle poetry, I was subtly prodded and reminded that my skin marked me as a “bad guy”, or at least not one of the protagonist(s). Minor to negligible on its own, to be sure, and could even perhaps be dismissed as paranoia. So, on to more concrete examples. Have you ever been minding your business, only to have a group of people interrupt your work for no better purpose than to heckle you? Standard high school stuff, but in my case there was, again, a lingering hint of Colour. I recall on many occasions that I was confronted by groups of black learners, always when I was on my own and preferably not near too many people. What then? Leading questions, attempted provocation, snide little comments about my skin and my supposed “default racist” attitude. According to these black learners, I was racist for wanting to go out with a girl from my own culture (unfortunately, this implies a girl of my own colour). I was racist for having a packed lunch. Subtle and not so subtle comments suggested that white people are all invaders, are thieves and should be ashamed for daring to reflect more of the sun's light than others. I am sure it was partly in jest – and I am not foolish enough to think that these malicious individuals were representative of black people in general – but it certainly pointed out the uncomfortable truth that any black person can take up the race card against me, solely because of the colour of my skin. They could insult me with little consequence (“boys will be boys”), but should I dare to insult one of them, let alone a group of mostly or only black students, teachers got very interested. I was careful never to let myself be manoeuvred into a corner on this, but there was a difference, a disadvantage rooted in my very skin. It stung my sense of justice and equality. A remarkable glimpse into the attitude behind these little everyday events was afforded to me by a debate – my school decided to organise a series of open debates on various topics. Health, technology, a hotly contested one about creationism and evolutionism, and of course, politics. One debate interested me a lot, as I was nearing the end of my high school career at the time: “Should race still be a factor in determining university entrance?” I am well aware there are many households stuck in horrific cycles of poverty. I am aware that the average black family has had a much harder time historically than the average white family. I am very much of the opinion that Apartheid was foolish in design and terrible in execution. There is no excuse for violating human rights like that; for oppressing people based on race or culture or language; for denying people the chance to grow to their fullest. My nature and sense of justice tells me that the right way to live is for everyone to be given an opportunity to grow. A framework to help them learn and make something of themselves. If they fail at that, it is their own problem, but they should be guaranteed their basic rights in any situation. Why do I mention this? To provide some flimsy protection against an accusation of racism, racism that will surely rise from my words as they are inevitably cursed to be “white words”? No, and please go to the effort of reading before judging (snap judgements have been lamentably popular lately). I had a certain expectation, an assumption of sorts, about the attitude my peers from the various African tribes of South Africa would bring to the debate. My expectation was wildly wrong for most of them. I expected a possible argument against scrapping the racially discriminatory university entrance system on the grounds that it would provide some aid in alleviating the root causes of poverty and poor education. What I did not expect, yet got from several black fellow students, was an outpouring of hate and envy unlike anything I had experienced before. Keep in mind, this was a good school, with moderately high school fees. My peers were not from poor homes. There was much shouting. There was an armload of accusations and enough outrage to float a small fleet. White people were made out to be constitutionally incapable of being as morally upright as the saints of the only important cause: The Glorious Struggle against the White Oppression of Apartheid. Suggesting that it was time to move from racially selective policies to policies focusing on supporting the poor and less fortunate people irrespective of race, I heard that day, was High Treason. White people should all be falling over themselves to thank the merciful Mandela and his holy ANC that the policies were just biased towards black people, rather than excluding white people entirely (several of the learners, despite never having seen Apartheid in action nor gone hungry themselves, seemed to think that exclusion would have been more appropriate). There were moderate and well-reasoned arguments from black learners, true. However, I walked away that day knowing that there is a vocal and almost violently passionate faction of sorts in the black population of my country that would be happy to see me vanish from the face of the Earth. Clearly, to that group, it would always be a question of race. Not economic status, and how it might correlate with race. I came to that debate thinking still, in some hopeful and youthful vestige of my certainty that we are all brothers and sisters at heart, that we all wanted the same thing: to uplift the poor and bring South Africa together in comfort through honest work and progress. I left knowing that for many, the goal was not uplifting the poor and disadvantaged; they wanted to level the playing field another way – whites have to pay, eye for an eye. Until they had suffered, been excluded and had grown poor under the oppression of a government that has no love for their race and no qualms in showing it, there could be no peaceful coexistence. Perhaps my ever more cynical views are clouding my recollection somewhat, but I can certainly say that my experiences since have done little to dispel that impression. Quite the opposite. That said, I do not consider myself racist. Why? How dare I not? Am I going to crawl to a “but I had black friends” defence. Succinctly, no. I consider my dog my friend (spent about an hour playing with him, and dare I say I find him brighter than a terrifying percentage of our current senior government officials – he can actually feint and deceive believably), but that hardly means I am ready to campaign for voting rights for dogs, or even ready to let him live in the house proper. My argument is simple, and feel free to take it or leave it: I don't judge all African/black people (or any other race or congenitally affiliated group) just because I see a large majority that hates me for something I had no choice in, even though I treat the average black stranger with above average caution. If you want to claim that that viewpoint is weak/garbage/nonsensical, go right ahead: it is how I think and I care little whether you agree. If you are either of a similar mind-set, or open-minded enough to give it some thought, try looking into the difference between “rational racism” and “ideological racism” – in short, I would say it is the difference between acting on race-correlated statistics in a given context and believing that a certain race is objectively superior or inferior to another. A black stranger has (statistically speaking, as all the statements for this bit of the article will be) more reasons to get into conflict with me. I am a self-confessed mild misanthropist – basically, I am very much an introvert and generally reluctant to get into personal contact of my own initiative. That means I do not like people in general; whether that makes my experience notably different is open for speculation. As is, it is logical for me to be slightly more than averagely distrustful of a black stranger, compared to a white stranger. Again, how does the seemingly falsely gracious act of not judging an entire race for the prejudice of a few make a difference? It comes down to how I view individuals, in the way I see things. Being black makes no difference to me in the long run. While there may be some additional caution with a stranger, I discard such generalised notions once I get to know someone, white or black. Statistics are very useful, and can be of great use in guiding one's decisions. They let you know what is likely to happen. The problem, if you ask me, is when one allows statistics to dictate how one sees an individual. Not all Asians are great at maths. Not all whites are wealthy. Not all Brazilians can dance well. Not all Russians speak with an accent. Not all presidents are corrupt. Statistics suggest that such things are probably true more often than not, but limiting an individual to a stereotype like that demeans them. Even believing (no action is strictly necessary) that a person is stupid/weak/criminally inclined because of his race, forces him or her into a box, reduces them to the percentages and numbers that define the stereotype. To me, that is the essence of racism. Fancy philosophical arguments and the semantics of racism aside, it is time to move on to the halcyon years I spent at university. I got in with no trouble – I had been working hard since early in life. While my parents did not discuss the reasons for a very long time, they were preparing me to be ahead of the pack in whatever career I was going to select. Why? Well, excellence has its own advantages in any situation, but one of the major factors was that, up until I leave this country or we have a radical policy change away from BEE, I will always be at a disadvantage. Hiring a black worker counts bonus points. It helps fill out the quotas and pad the BEE compliance paperwork. It looks good in a black-empowerment-focused social environment. We have all seen more than enough evidence to be aware that having a white “face” – leader, CEO, shareholder or anything like that – is enough to damage a company, political party or organisation's credibility. For no reason other than blatant institutional anti-white racism, a “white” political party is somehow less worthy of governing; a “white” company is automatically part of a shadowy conspiracy that the ANC and EFF have described in nebulous terms and no detail as “White Monopoly Capital”. My options are simple, since this strong bias against my low melanin content is rooted deep in a racial divide that the ANC and EFF are gleefully cultivating as a source of political power and cheap moral superiority. I can give up and settle for being a second-rate citizen. I can emigrate to somewhere where my honest work is welcome, a popular option amongst white South Africans from as far back as I remember. The last alternative requires effort and dedication: working hard, excelling, so that even the disadvantages piled against me legally and socially cannot keep me from growing to my potential. I may have started from a relatively privileged position – from a stable home, with two loving parents who pull in a middle-class salary by working for most of the day, sometimes until a good while after the sun goes down. I am not ashamed of that. My parents worked hard to provide me with the opportunities I needed. Yet, how different I am from many of the struggle heroes? I am working hard, pushing against a set of race-discriminatory laws (14 more race-related laws than even Apartheid had, at last count) to make something of myself in defiance of a society that looks down on me for the colour of my skin. This regime has, indeed, not perpetrated on me many of the horrors that mark Apartheid as a detestable injustice... but there are other, more insidious ways that I am being worn down in. “Break my bones and tear my flesh, but you can never chain my spirit.” A noble claim, one from a bygone age, where a man's word was his honour and people prided themselves on steadfastness and sticking to their ideals. Was that time really any better? Who knows, but the saying will be useful in illustrating what I mean by an insidious attack on me as a person in our country. Another piece to the puzzle is the psychology behind a typical abusive relationship. When an abusive partner says or hints or implies that their partner or spouse is somehow inferior, they can eventually end up believing it. There is an endless list of factors that contribute to such relationships, but in general, these two components are important: constant negative comments or criticism from the partner and a low self-esteem in the victim. Put it all together, and you have the makings of a large-scale abusive relationship. Most white people in South Africa are reminded that they are, somehow, personally responsible for poverty, crime and all inequality in society because our forebears “benefited from Apartheid”. Frankly, for most of our forebears the extent of the advantage was that they lived rather ordinary lives – sure, there was less competition in some things, but equally a smaller customer base and heavy international sanctions. So, constant criticism and negative commentary, ranging from disparaging comments about racism being endemic to whites (the irony abounds...) to calls for white people to stop hogging the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow nation (anyone have the address for that? I want my share – unless it is treasury, in which case it will either be guarded by Gordhan or stolen dry) to genocidal promises to brutalise and kill all whites. Now, the government is likely not actively encouraging actions like these, but the way a blind eye is turned to things like “Kill all Whites” t-shirts compared to the notable government contribution to the outcry over the insulting and racist, but not violence-inciting message that made Matthew Theunissen infamous is more than enough to convince me that our government happily enforces double standards. For some people (Gillian Schutte springs to mind, as an example), a self-loathing is gradually cultivated from this external message and supplants pride in the culture of one was raised in with a twisted race-hate which is used to further legitimise the message. That bit of explanation done, back to the delayed description of my university years. My university years were, fortunately for me, moderately quiet. Plenty of that eternal “white is not right” message, but I had enough pride in my culture, my family and their good works to ignore it comfortably. Of course, I never did get any of the scholarships and bursaries I applied for, but that was not too unexpected – what did stick, was how several companies were comfortable to have their representatives lie to my face about whether race is considered for their bursaries, only for the real answer to be hidden a line or two into the small print of the application – previously disadvantaged students get highest priority. Some hard work from my parents later (and a lesser contribution from me, despite having no reliable income stream) I was free to move into the wilds of the South African corporate economy. I was fortunate enough to find a good position soon after graduation. Some of my friends were not so lucky in the 26%+ morass of unemployment that has gradually seeped into our economy under the leadership of the ANC. By that time, I was a thorough cynic and there had thoroughly been impressed upon me that life is in Colour, is about Colour, and that Colour determines everything from moral integrity to the supposed validity of one's citizenship to whether it is “right” for one to own land. I was seeing in Colour. The last few years, I reckon, deserve their own discussion. Suffice it to say that the last few years have done much to support and reinforce the lines of Colour in my mind, and that my cynicism seems ever more warranted as factions and tribes fall apart in the absence of a unifying enemy – despite the zealous efforts of the ANC and EFF to make a “White Monopoly Capital” straw man to pull together the power base that is being ripped apart by rampant corruption and government failures. Perhaps another time I will write about How I Learned to Predict Doomsday – for now, I hope you understand a bit more of How I Learned to See in Colour. Perhaps you, like me, think that this divide is a tragic waste of what could be. Whether white or black, we all learn to see and fear Colour. Feel free to share your own story with the author of A Vigilant Voice, where this message will be published. Is it a forlorn hope that we can understand each other and bring the reign of Colour to an end?