Following is an exasperated (and unsensored) exerpt from my journal about 6 months into our work in Cape Town:
It is impossible to live non-violently in South Africa. My lifestyle aggressively oppresses the poor. I shop almost daily at Superspar where the cashiers make only $100 a month, forcing them to live in kayamundi township where it is impossible to raise a healthy family, not to mention the crime, fear, rape, depression and hopelessness of that community. Let alone the massive fire that broke out today devastating dozens of homes just rebuilt from the conflagration of two months ago. I buy petrol that feeds overweight conglomerate executives and wealthy whites while leaving the pump man a squib R2 (30cent) tip and a s**t-eating smile. I drive, in my nearly empty minivan, past dusty and exhausted mothers, grandmothers and daughters dragging their wares miles back to home each day. Although we’re going the same way, they’ve stopped even bothering to ask for a lift. Because I’m a white bastard and I’m not allowed to give a hand to a race the rest of my brothers are trying to exterminate. I live in an all white neighborhood—casting in my lot with this band of brothers who would gladly take up arms for me should I ever suspect a black man is eying my stuff too closely. If I hire a maid or gardener I will pay them just enough to survive. Not enough to live. And if I don’t hire, I will deprive two individuals of employment jeopardizing the lives of their children—or at least their education, health, and future.
By stepping on the tail of this dark, venomous, and beautiful continent we have become objects of wrath, targets and complicit partners in one of the world’s worst race wars of all time. By running from this place, I would become another casualty, another jaded and hopeless white spineless wet rag of a wash out.
[picture by Bryan A. Adkins]
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