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The Program
A story of our
programming and how we only recognise programs when we come
face-to-face with them. Until then we are blissfully unaware of how we act and why.
As I stood talking to
two canoeists, I felt my hands shaking.
“You look
shocked. What’s up?” One of them asked.
“I have just come out of a full-blown political meeting, in that
school.” I pointed up to the rural South African school, perched atop a
nearby hill.
I could taste
the bitter adrenalin from my intense fear. My mouth was still dry after drinking
water. I felt strangely distant and removed from this magical scene. Down below us, the
Umsundusi river wound, through the majestic Valley of a Thousand hills,
on its way towards the Umgeni river. From the oft-mighty confluence,
both rivers combine their powers and surge towards the Indian Ocean.
In less than a
month’s time, 800 canoeists would climb into their canoes and
race between the Kwa-Zulu Natal provincial capital of Pietermaritzburg
and the beautiful coastal city of Durban.
They would battle the
mountains, the rivers and the rapids for 3 days over the 120km course.
Barely 3 months later, South Africa would hold its first democratic
election.
It was early 1994. We
lived in scary times. People were free to move and yet were still
separated by race and status. I was a societal oddity. There were
comparatively few other white people who dared venture into rural South
Africa on a social/ community liaison basis.
On one side of the
river, the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) exercised control, on the other
the African National Congress (ANC). Some of the leaders and their
people, were new to the concept of democracy and inter-party violence
was the order of the day. Our media showed the violent scenes and
pictures each day.
We had become accustomed to the terrible stories of
these troubled times.
“Are you
mad?”, asked the canoeist, as his partner nodded assent.
“You certainly are braver than I am!” He laughed and shook
his head in disbelief.
I was known as the
“peacemaker” and had become what was then termed a
“white Zulu”. Assimilated into their cultures and
traditions and accepted amongst the Zulu people of Enkhambathini, I was
beginning to believe that I was indeed at one with the amaZulu. Until
now.
It had been over three
hours, since I had left the meeting and a gnawing residual fear and
emptiness reverberated in my chest. “What was it? I was safe
now.” I began to re-live the events.
It was my
responsibility to ensure the safety of the canoeists, through
communication and initiating sponsorship of schools and clinics, in the
poor riverside communities. Natal canoeing was the only sports body
with a dedicated development fund for rural communities, and had been
since 1982. I had been in the hot seat since1990.
Wherever there was a
clash between canoeists and the locals - I would meet the leaders and
their communities, to find ways forward. I had even become a member of the
Ngcolosi clan - near Inanda dam and truly felt that I was a “Zulu”.
My travels had taken
me to many communities. I had met multitudes of rural people, in schools,
halls and churches and had slowly become accepted.
My body language, my
inflection, my perception of communities and communication was becoming
more and more African each day.
A number of canoeists
had recently called to complain of youngsters throwing stones at them.
I met the perennially friendly and helpful Inkosi (Chief) Mlaba of
KwaXimba and mentioned the problem. “No problem, Bhungane,”
he said, “come to our meeting on Sunday at 10am. All the people
will be there.”
I felt comfortable
with his invitation to talk to the local community. This was what I did
so well.
So on that hot, humid
January weekend I drove into the beautiful Valley of a Thousand Hills.
I arrived at the school a little late, to compensate for rural time. I
knew that people normally only leave their homes when they see the
first cars arrive! And lo and behold, at 10.30 am I was still early!
A few formal looking
people in suits, wandered around the deserted school.
“Sanibonani,” I greeted. “Yebo! Sawubona.” they
responded. “I have come to meet the Inkosi.”
“Oh,” they said knowingly. “He will be here just
now.”
I was ushered to a
seat in a far corner of the schoolyard. The yard was closed in on
three sides by lines of classrooms. It was a long way back to the only entrance.
As the crowd slowly began to grow, I greeted people and was greeted in
return.
An unusual spirit
began to build.
This was no ordinary community meeting. Normally all of
the older people would shuffle in first. Assisted, or with walking
sticks. They would be joined by the Abazali (parents). The youngsters
were seldom present. And yet the younger people were streaming in
today. Dancing and hopping in the dance of unity and solidarity, they toyi-toyied into the area.
A leader came past and
said, “Inkosi Mlaba won’t be long now.” I responded
“Ngiyabonga Baba.” (Thank you father.) And waited for long
hours in the hot sun, whilst I thought of my speech.
Suddenly, and
unexpectedly, buses began to arrive at the entrance. I could see ANC
flags waving. Passengers chanted slogans. The buses rocked with
humanity. People were hanging out of the windows and some even sat on
top of the buses. “Oh no,” I thought in sudden terror,
“I am in the middle of a major political meeting!”
People began to surge
into the school. Their faces were shining with excitement. Jostling and
sweating they toyi-toyied their way in.
“Viva
Mandela!” called out a leader. “Viva!”, responded
thousands of voices.
People came skidding out of the crowd in dance.
They began to giya (a war-like movement). They ululated and delighted
in their moment. “Viva Samora Machel!” called the leader.
“Viva!” roared the people.
“Viva Joe Slovo!” Bellowed the leader. “Viva!”
“Viva ANC!” ... “Viva!”
“Viva SACP!” ... “Viva!” came the powerful
responses, one after the other.
And I was trapped.
Between me and the exit were thousands of over-excited and
politically-roused Zulus. Freedom and political power was a hop, a skip
and a jump away for them. And we all knew it.
This was a new energy.It was exciting and yet it was scary! Gasps of terror rapidly
kneaded my heart.
My oneness with the Zulu people seemed to have deserted me. I
began to feel very lonely and very white. My mouth was very dry and my
heart palpitated at high revs. Colonel Custer, at Little Big Horn, must
have felt like I did. “But,” I thought, “at least he
didn’t die alone.” I stood out like a lighthouse on a dark
night.
And yet someone would
come by, every so often, to let me know that the Inkosi would be here
soon. And I respectfully greeted all who looked my way. I knew that a few
weeks earlier and just a few hundred metres away, bullets had been
fired in anger across the river.
I knew that many of the people here had been
divorced from mainstream society for decades, if not centuries. I knew
that they all had many reasons to be angry with people who looked just like me.
I was in turmoil. My
mind was screaming, “Go! Go!” But my intellectual resolve was telling me to
complete what I had started. Deep fears came rushing up. They burst
through my humanness, into my new-found Zulu-ness.
Fear attacked my
reptilian brain. It was fight or flight. All reason deserted me,
leaving me unmoving, in pure survival mode. And strangely the people around
showed me the greatest respect.
A full 3½
terrifying hours after my arrival, the Inkosi appeared. I found out
later that he was also the chairman of the Midlands ANC. A very high
local political position.
The crowd erupted into
an ear-splitting frenzy. All that had passed, paled into insignificance as the crowd
surged, danced, viva’d and ululated.
He came to the front.
After a lot of excited, passionate chanting, they sang “Inkosi
sikelele Afrika.” God bless Africa. Their right fists clenched
and held up in solidarity. I can still feel the thrill of their voices,
raised in unison. It surged through my physical being. It was
unforgettable. An experience to be relished and enjoyed. I stood and
sang along, and for a moment I felt safe.
The Inkosi called the
meeting to order and said, “There is someone here who is
different to us.” The crowd made a sound that would have curdled
a Jedi Knight’s blood... “Wooooh!” As silence eased
its way back into three thousand throats, he said, “It is
Mthimkhulu (my local name) and he has a few things to say.” A few people began to
call out the praise names of the Mthimkhulu clan. “Mthimkhulu!
Bhungane! Makhulukhulu...!”
He waved me forward to
speak and on boneless legs, I ghosted forward. A cold sweat raced
across my skin. My face was pale and my rubbery cheeks did not
recognise the touch of my fingers. I was a dead man walking.
People reached out in
excitement and touched me as I passed. “Bhungane,” they
joyfully called. I nodded, greeted and went to stand beside the Inkosi.
I
can’t remember much of what I said that day. I know that I spoke
Zulu and I know that I sang out the praises of the Inkosi. I asked the
people to allow safe and free passage to the canoeists. My carefully
planned speech was incredibly short and I closed with, “The
Inkosi knows all about it. He will tell you more. Thank you, Ndabezita.
Thank you everybody”.
Some delighted ladies
ran out and danced a few steps around me. They giya’d! Jabbing at me with their
walking sticks and umbrellas and laughed their way back into the crowd. Someone called out “Viva, Bhungane!” And the delighted
crowd responded, “Viva”. That was my very own viva!
“Long live me?” I doubted it and received the praise from a
very scared place, and weakly acknowledged the crowd.
I headed for the
hills. For freedom. It was less than 100 metres to my car. Yet it was a
very,very long walk that day. As I passed though the crowd, I could feel all
manner of imaginary daggers piercing my flesh. Some people smiled, some
queried my name and some just stared. All were respectful. I was safe but I
was almost petrified with fear.
Much later as I drove
away from the canoeists, I asked myself, “Why, when all the signs
showed that I was safe, did I have all the physical and mental signs of
an impending violent attack? What was it that made me scared when I was
so well protected and looked after? Why? I am a respected member of
this community. I am a “white Zulu”. I contribute to this
community. I have attended a multitude of meetings. Why was I so scared
today”
As I allowed the
questions to filter into me, slowly the answers came.
For the greater part
of my life, I had read newspapers, watched TV and listened to the
radio. Much of what was represented was the “bad” side of
various political groups. I had seen black people rampaging through streets
and stadiums.
Much earlier, as a
seventeen year old, I had been a conscript in the South African Citizen
Force. We were told that we were there to protect our families against
terrorism, communism and the ANC. We were the saviours and "they" were the danger.
Suddenly, it came to
me. “I had been programmed at a deep level.”
The program
was so powerful that it overrode all of the circumstances. I had been
treated with care and respect. I was recognised and announced by the
leader of the area and a huge political party. That leader was and is a
peace-maker. The people had sung my praises. They had called out “Viva Bhungane!”
I was totally safe!
But the program spoke
differently. It took over my body and clouded my thoughts and actions.
It made me shake with fear. It opened up my adrenaline gland and my
unreasonable and Illogical fear destroyed my opportunity to speak and enjoy the
moment.
The greatest mind
authorities bear witness to the fact that the brain merely needs to
imagine something for it to appear real. The very graphic displays of
violence on TV and the printed media were mentally real experiences.
It was real to me at
the deepest level of my being. “When black people toyi-toyi,
chant slogans or gather in masses, they are dangerous.” So no
matter how well I was treated, my tainted spirit said, “You are
going to die. Right here. Right now!” All of the logical signs
were swept way by the “program.”
I began to re-evaluate
all of my values and actions against this program. And I was shocked. I
wasn’t a white Zulu - I was a big white boy from the city, who
upon occasion wore skins and spoke Zulu. Many of my past decisions had
been made on the basis of colour, race, religion.
On that day in 1994, I had taken my first
steps towards true freedom.
Freedom from politics, religious dogma,
racism and xenophobia. On the path to experiencing all people as human
beings and respecting them for their uniqueness. It is a long road and
a welcome one.
We are all programmed
in some way. Anyone who was born in South Africa before 1984, is a
victim of Apartheid. Until they recognise their particular programs
they will continue to be so.
Anyone born anywhere in the world where
there is pro-us and anti-them propaganda is equally a victim. Until they recognise it.
They should be as
lucky as I was to experience one of my programs, at first hand. And to
step forward on the road to freedom and humanness.
Brian Moore ©
10/12/2002 Durban, South Africa. trainers@iafrica.com
Author of Celebrate - The Workplace Diversity Articles and Stories Newsletter.
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