The consequences of ostriching

We therefore make bold to say that South Africa is a country of two nations. One of these nations is white, relatively prosperous, regardless of gender or geographic dispersal. It has ready access to a developed economic, physical, educational, communication and other infrastructure...The second and larger nation of South Africa is black and poor, with the worst affected being women in the rural areas, the black rural population in general and the disabled...This reality of two nations, underwritten by the perpetuation of the racial, gender and spatial disparities born of a very long period of colonial and apartheid white minority domination, constitutes the material base which reinforces the notion that, indeed, we are not one nation, but two nations.  (Thabo Mbeki, 1998)

I was not affected by the recent taxi strike in Cape Town. Inconvenienced, but not affected. I watched and listened from afar and began to realise that I have the privilege of checking out because I am on the receiving end of the apartheid spatial design which makes it possible to be unaffected by the experience of the majority. And to some extent, to check out, to ostrich. 

I was away when the news broke. My sister sent me a message checking on me. I went to social media to find out what was happening. I read the traffic updates with dread. I returned to Cape Town on Saturday afternoon and the only inconvenience waiting for me was my luggage not arriving. I left the airport without my luggage, picked up my car with the hope that I will be informed when the suitcase has arrived. After a few follow up calls on Sunday morning I received a call that my suitcase was at the airport. I decided I would pick it up after church. I go to church in Khayelitsha and the airport is not too far. En route I saw three caspers (are they still called caspers?): two belonging to the police and one from a private security company. This was the first sign of alarm that something was amiss. 

I decided to go to work on Monday because I needed to finalise some admin but also to try get a sense of the effect of the strike. My drive to work was smooth. Ominously so. There was not even a hint of the violence I had read about. I arrived at work without even a hitch. I was face to face with the realisation that I live on the right side of the two nations President Mbeki spoke of in 1998 (previous reflections on this blog can be read here). This world has made it possible for me to be inconvenienced but not affected. It allows me to check out when I need to. Driving to work last week meant that my life could carry on smoothly. By and large I have the kind of life that allows me to ostrich. I developed this habit during lockdown as a form of protection. I didn't want any information about the number of deaths, I didn't want to know what was happening in the world provided my bubble was secure. It was a survival tactic because when I did start paying attention I found myself inundated with terrible news which would render me comatose. I may have perfected the art of ostriching since then.

While I am part of active communities which are interested in participating in the world, the extent of my activist work has largely been writing letters, gathering resources but not necessarily taking to the streets. In fact, I have rejected the idea of being an activist the more I have watched how middle class my world has become. While I grew up poor, it would be disingenuous and dishonest to claim any kind of working class experience other than what is in my past. While I am grateful for this change, I know that the window for upward mobility has shrunk over the past decades (as I reflect in this Mail and Guardian article) and the cycle of poverty is reproduced over and over again in many black households. I decided to go to a church in Khayelitsha because I want to remain proximate to the other world described in the extract above. I do not want to forget. I do not want to take anything for granted (and perhaps this needs a separate post to explore further). And yet, from time to time, I ostrich. 

I drive to work on the M3. If I drive via Boyes Drive for the scenic view, I can avoid the taxis on Main Road. When I get on the highway there are no taxis. I haven't been stuck in back to back traffic since I left Joburg. I roll my eyes everytime people in the southern suburbs tell me about traffic. Maybe people on the N2 and N1 have a different experience but traffic on the M3 is nothing compared to what I experienced in Joburg. If I miss the school traffic in the mornings, I can avoid traffic altogether in my daily life. This is just one example which shows that it is possible for me to curate a middle class life that knows nothing of struggle other than a few inconveniences. This realisation has left me deeply troubled because I have a glimpse into the world of people who are born into this world and know nothing of struggle. 

A few months ago when this dawned on me, I was raging with friends: given what we know about inequality, surely it must implode. I have imagined the apocalypse many times. When I first moved to Sunninghill Gardens, a gated suburb in the north of Johannesburg, I ideated about how easy it would be to block off all the entrances, and stage an insurrection: burn and kill all the middle class people living behind the safety of their walls and security. This never happened of course. Since moving to the deep south of Cape Town my apocalyptic ideations have returned. Unlike Johannesburg, this part of Cape Town has very few back routes. There's Main Road, M3, M5, Baden Powell Road and Ou Kaapse Weg. A revolt seems easy enough: block off all the main roads, start a fire and hopefully it pushes everyone towards the sea or the mountain (this hypothetical still needs some work). The point is, there's a way to block off entrances and resources and burn all the privileged people in their little suburbs. These are the ragings I shared with my friends. They are older and wiser and they laughed at my naivety. They told me we are well out of the woods of a working class revolt. Middle class people have already mastered the art of fortifying against poverty. The rich and the poor have made a truce to live parallel lives together.

In the middle of the taxi strike there was a public holiday. I went to the beach to get lunch and the weather and the throngs of people had me thinking we're in December mode. I overheard a customer talking about safety and how quiet it was on the road driving towards the beach. I wondered what had happened to the taxi strike. Was it over? Of course it was not but by Thursday and Friday decisions had been made by the powers that be that taxis would return. After loss of life and dignity and all the things that violence strips us of. And still my life went on as I had planned it. No glitches.

Today at church, the preacher shared that it took her 4 hours to return home during the strike. One of the mamas prayed for the children as they would be returning to school this week (for a moment I thought about school holidays but in fact she was referring to the strike which saw many children missing school). There was a humming agreement when the preacher reflected that "ibinzima le veki sisuka kuyo, masithembe le singena kuyo iza nomehluko" (this past week was difficult, let us hope that the new week will be better). These lamentations were a stark reminder that I live in a different world and my effort of being proximate to the real world will be in vain no matter my efforts. But there is no harm in trying.