My first introduction to race relations in South Africa came in
1995, when I was five. My family had just moved to Swaziland from India, and we
were going to South Africa on a family holiday. Apartheid had just ended. My
mother tried explaining that white people hadn't treated black people or Indian
people well. "They're going to be mean to me!" I wailed. Having been
born in New Delhi, having gone to an Indian nursery school, and having mostly
Indian friends, I thought I was Indian. Eighteen years later, I've returned to
South Africa to intern at the Southern Africa Litigation Centre, and I now
understand that I'm actually white.
The last two days in Johannesburg have been an indication of how far
race relations have come, but also how much is left to be done. Two days ago, I
visited the fantastically-curated Apartheid Museum. It included the famous
episode during the 1995 Rugby World Cup, hosted in South Africa. Mandela, ever
conscious of symbolism, shocked the mostly-white crowd by appearing on the
field before the game, dressed in the South African captain's jersey. Rugby is
traditionally a white sport in South Africa, and thus was seen to represent apartheid.
The stadium was stunned, but someone started to chant. "Nel-son! Nel-son!"
The rest of the stadium joined in, and South Africa Springboks went on to
defeat the New Zealand All-Blacks (whose nickname derives from their jersey)
15-12. Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman, and Matt Damon liked the story so much
that they turned it into a movie.
Last night, my brother's friend Warren and I went to a sports bar to
watch the Springboks play Italy. Coincidentally, Bafana Bafana - South Africa's
soccer team - was playing against the Central African Republic at the same
time, and the bar was screening both games. To the left, where the Springboks
game was being screened, the room was almost entirely white. To the right,
where the soccer was being screened, the crowd was almost entirely black.
Warren and I positioned ourselves in the middle, so that he could watch the
rugby and I could watch the soccer. Warren leaned over and told me to notice
the different reactions if a goal or a try were scored. Bafana Bafana scored!
3-0! The right side of the bar erupted, with people shouting, whistling in joy,
and jumping out of their chairs to celebrate. The left side of the room didn't
seem to notice. That game ended shortly after, so all screens now showed rugby.
A few people left, but most stayed to watch. Italy started pressing, bringing
the game to 20-10, but Bryan Habana, a star South African player, broke away
from a crowd of tackles to score a try. At 26-10, the game was beyond Italy's
reach. A handful of people on the right side of the bar cheered, but it was
nothing like before. To my right, I overheard a lady chastise her friend for
not cheering. "Habana is black!", she informed him.
But that sports
bar is a sign of progress. Just twenty years ago, such a scene could not even
have existed. Warren, a white South African, speaks Zulu, Xhosa, and Sesotho.
The scars of apartheid are still evident, but there's hope.
