Apartheid in South Africa. My Experiences as a South African (Updated)

(updated December 11, 2013)

The death of Nelson Mandela - my hero and the world’s icon - brings to the surface the deep shame I have carried with me for all of my adult life. I was once a typical white South African – privileged and spoiled – who learned by example to treat with disregard the needs and feelings of black people. Having spent 29 years living under the Apartheid regime before immigrating to Canada almost 40 years ago, it is with pain and penetrating regret that I reflect upon my experience and transgressions.

In a country once filled with turmoil and hate, Nelson Mandela’s voice was silenced by 27 years spent as a political prisoner. His historic walk to freedom culminated in his rise to become South African’s first black President, from where he would lead the country into a brighter future, and to the end of Apartheid. The year was 1994.

During the last months of Mandela’s life, as he lay gravely ill, his voice was once again silenced – this time by the tubes keeping his lungs clear of fluid. But his words will never be silenced, as his courage, dignity and determination earned him a place in the annals of South African – and indeed international history.

Learning Discrimination

Our typical South African household employed two servants whose salaries were shamefully low – as was the practice at the time. One of our servants was a lady named Nancy Sampson - a ‘coloured’ (mixed race) woman - who spent 22 years of her life taking care of our family with the utmost love and devotion before she passed away in her 50’s. My story revolves around Nancy, because I believe that the memories I have of my relationship with her epitomize what later fuelled my hatred of Apartheid.

Ms. Nancy Sampson, family servant

In my family – your garden-variety white South African family of yester-year - there was never any discussion about the meaning or impact of racial discrimination in South Africa. Apartheid was neither discussed nor questioned. As a child and as a teenager I did not possess the insight to remove the ‘blinkers’ from my eyes, and it was only in my 20’s that I began to awaken from the slumber so ingeniously instilled in my family and me by the Apartheid regime.

I try hard not to think how many times, during my teenage years, Nancy asked me to stop what I was doing for a moment, in order to help her with something. But how could I have helped? I was far too busy luxuriating in the pleasures reserved for white South Africans. The South Africa in which I grew up did not teach me to look beyond my own self-serving needs when interacting with ‘non-white’ people. I would never have dared to refuse to help a white adult!

Living Quarters of South African Domestic Servants

I cringe when I think about the ten-foot-square room in which my beloved Nancy (like millions of other servants) spent so much of her life - a tiny, dark, cluttered room with a tiny window and no bathroom ... a room which served as her bedroom, living room, kitchen and dining room … a room located in the back yard of our lovely home (you know? the one with the swimming pool on the half-acre property?).

The vivid picture of these appalling living quarters remains indelibly imprinted in my mind’s eye, and leaves me feeling heart-sore and ashamed.

Entertaining spouses in this tiny, hopelessly inadequate room was frequently a recipe for disaster. No household was immune, for example, to the frequent midnight police invasion of the servants’ quarters. The purpose of these ‘visits’ was to catch and (often brutally) arrest a spouse spending a night with his wife because he did not carry his ‘pass’ - his identity document which stated where he could live and work. I recoil at the very sound of that word.

Awakening

Miraculously, in my early twenties, I began to emerge from my unconscious stupour, as I began to see and feel, at the very deepest level, the horrors perpetrated in the name of ‘Apartheid laws’ – from the self-indulgent carelessness I had displayed, to the blatant cruelty with which the black people in South Africa were treated on a daily basis.

Like most non-white South Africans with live-in positions, Nancy had a home to which she returned on her days off (of which there were so few, as was typical at that time). One day I offered to give her a ride, since it was raining. When we were almost there she asked me to drop her off a little distance away. Not wanting her to have to walk in the rain, I ignored her request – but instantly regretted this when I realized that I had taken away what little dignity she could salvage, for her home was a small, corrugated iron shanty inhabited by who-knows-how-many of her family members.

Home of Ms. Nancy Sampson

I remember how, in earlier years, Nancy used to tell me (if I took the time to listen) that they were 'waiting for a "council house' – whatever that meant. How would I know? I never stopped to ask! Of course, they never got this 'council house'. Why, oh why didn't I hear the plea behind that piece of information? Why didn't I listen? Why didn't I try to help?

In Alan Paton’s famous classic - ‘Cry the Beloved Country’ - there is a scene which tears at my heartstrings. Paton writes about an encounter between an elderly black gentleman trying to find his missing son in the big city of Johannesburg - and a white man whom he approaches with a question. The white man responds with the authoritarian contempt so typical of the white-to-black communication of those days, while the elderly black gentleman maintains the polite subservience equally typical of older black men in those times. I can still touch on the painful feelings I experienced reading the book.
Yet, by my actions and inactions, was I any different? When I look back now at the selfishness I displayed towards Nancy, I wonder if she - like the elderly man in ‘Cry the Beloved Country’ - had any idea just how thoughtless and unkind my behaviour was? Or was she conditioned - by the South Africa of those days - to expect and unquestioningly accept discourtesy?

By acknowledging and openly sharing my lack of moral consciousness and my blatant disregard for the needs and feelings of the black people in South Africa, I try to sooth my own inner wounds of sorrow and regret. Whereas I have learned to forgive myself, the memories of my personal iniquities - and my failure to challenge the glaring injustices of the Apartheid laws - still retain the power to elicit feelings of shame.

I was relieved beyond measure when my former husband and I finally made the decision to leave South Africa. I was 29 years old.

It is now almost 40 years later. Like most ex-South Africans, I carry with me a deep love for the culture of South Africa. My home is adorned with beautiful African sculpture and art, and my insides melt when I hear African music, or watch African style dancing. There is a part of me that will always be South African, and with that comes sadness about the person I once was.

I know that for our family, leaving South Africa was the right decision. My biggest reward came in a strange package many years later. My daughter, who was attending graduate school in Buffalo, New York, talked frequently about her close friend and fellow student, Sharon. I met Sharon for the first time at their graduation ceremony. Sharon is a black woman. Her colour was of such irrelevance to my daughter that she had never even thought to mention it to me!

My children are indeed ‘colour blind‘- and I will never, ever take this for granted.

May Nelson Mandela rest in peace.

“Homeless”

Adele Gould was born and grew up as a white woman in Apartheid, South Africa where three of her five children were born. She left the country in 1980 and made Toronto her home. She obtained her Masters Degree at University of Toronto in Social Work, the profession in which she worked until her retirement. At age 56 Adele was diagnosed with Parkinsons Disease and now works as a volunteer in hospice care helping clients with life threatening illnesses to write legacy letters to leave behind for family members. Visit Adele's Blog in which she writes on her pilgrimage and her thoughts about the human condition. Contact Adele Gould