May 16, 2008
The plea was very simple. Please could people send food to the community center in Alexandria Township just north of Johannesburg.
"Many, many African children are hungry and because of the pass laws, thousands of black people cannot go into white areas to get work," said the speaker, a priest, who was addressing the Junior Rotary. (Of which I was a member during high school.) "Because there is no work, well, the kids are hungry, and that is so sad. It is sad because just down the road from starving kids, fortunate people are eating huge meals and leaving food on their plates which is then thrown away."
The priest, an old African man with watery eyes, tried to smile as he looked out at us with hurt in his heart.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Please help." He said softly. He humbly dropped his head and clasped his hands together in the traditional African way.
I felt his pain. It really resonated in my soul.
I was about fourteen at the time and felt compelled to help.
The next weekend I gathered some friends together including Janet, Katherine and Pat Campbell, who lived down the road.
We walked the street of Orange Grove, Linksfield and Mountain View, going house-to-house collecting canned food. I was surprised at how generous many of the people were.
Not everyone greeted us with enthusiasm though. Some people told us to go away, that they had their own problems. One Afrikaans man told me to get the hell off his property and to mind my own bloody business. "You Englishmen will be sorry," he said. "Feeding black kids is like feeding pit bulls. They are going to rip you throat out when they get big enough to attack you. We need to keep their numbers down man. Now "&$#@ off Englishman."
"Your arse in a glass," I yelled as I backed away from his front door.
"He's ignorant," said Janet Campbell, always the peacemaker in our neighborhood, pushing me back down the drive toward the street. "Leave him to live in his own sad little world." (Janet was the youngest in our group and could easily have been related to Mother Theresa.)
We put the food in boxes and the next weekend my dad took us down to the outskirts of Alexandra Township.
Alexandra, described by Nelson Mandela as "exhilarating and precarious", is a sprawling ghetto some 12km north-east of Johannesburg. Today 170 000 people live in this ghetto, in an area of approximately two square kilometers. This incredibly poor shantytown is totally surrounded by wealthy suburbs.
During the height of apartheid, white, predominately Afrikaans policemen, patrolled all roads leading in to Alexandra. Their orders where to keep the "subversive' whites out and the blacks in.
In those days, black people had to carry papers to allow them into white areas after dark and were often rounded up in raids on white areas after sunset, and either jailed or beaten for disobeying the brutal 'Pass' laws.
We were given directions to a small church-run community center on the outskirts of Alex, where we were asked to deliver the food. The center was not in Alex proper, so my father felt it would be pretty safe to go there. (The government controlled media constantly spewed out warnings that blacks had to be 'contained' because they were about to rebel and kill white people.)
We all chatted excitedly when we saw the ramshackle church and community center but before we reached it, we were stopped by two white policemen sitting in a van on top of the road leading down to the church.
"What are you doing here?" asked one of the policemen, leaning into our car window.
"We brought some food for the kids," said my dad. "We're taking it just down there to the community center. We won't be long. The kids here collected the food. Just want to drop it off you know." He pointed at the center not five hundred yards down the street.
"Ja, but that's a bloody black church, you know?" Said the policeman.
"Yes," said my father. "I know."
"You can't just go into Alexandra," said the cop, stretching to his full height. Those houties (derogatory term for blacks) will kill you, man. No whites allowed in there. It's for your own safety meneer. (Sir.) They'll kill you just like that. Life means nothing to them."
"But we brought the food," I chimed in from the back seat.
"Ja, no problem. Just leave it here," said the policeman. "I'll have one of the boys (black policeman, who had no rank, were called boys by white cops) take it down there."
We unloaded the boxes at the policeman's feet and got back into the car.
As we were backing away I saw the policeman, reach into the box and take out a jar of fruit. I saw him open the lid and pour the contents down his throat, most of it spilling onto the road. He took a box of crackers and tore it open.
"Dad, stop the car." I yelled.
My father pulled up and, as he did, I jumped out of the car.
"Get back in here," yelled my dad.
"But he's eating the food." I said.
I rushed over to the cop with my father and the other kids in tow.
"It's not for you!" I said, bending down and picking up one of the boxes.
"What's the problem?" said the cop, wiping his mouth.
"No problem," said my father, stepping between the policeman and me. "This food was promised to someone else. I think we'll take it with us and figure something out."
"I can't believe he ate some of it." I said.
"Ja. You are just bloody lucky I didn't eat YOU," said the cop, laughing toward the second policeman who was leaning against the van smoking a cigarette.
I was about to explode when my father gently placed his palm across my mouth. I wanted to yell and scream at the cop. I wanted to tell him I hated him and his laws and his absolute disregard for hungry African kids. And how we had damn-well walked miles and friggin' miles collecting the food. And how hard it was to knock on people's doors and beg for donations. I wanted to tell him I hoped he would starve to death one day. The blood was boiling in my fourteen year-old body.
"It's okay, whispered my father. "It's okay."
My dad ruffled my hair.
"Go to the car," he said to all of us. "C'mon."
I turned and took the box back to the car. I think Kathy Campbell picked up the other box while my father shepherded us back to the vehicle.
"You'll be thankful for us one day," spat the policeman. "We'll save your blerrie (bloody) lives."
We drove back to our neighborhood in silence.
The following day we took the food to a church in our neighborhood, who in turn took the food to the community center we were unable to visit. For some reason, the police allowed clergy to enter Alexandra Township. (Excuse the pun but thank God for that.)
We went to a lot of trouble for those two simple cardboard boxes of food, half eaten by the damn policeman, but that was all forgotten when the letter arrived. The 'thank you' note (sent from the community center in Alexandra Township) said the food and our kindness was received and much appreciated.
And, even though we said we weren't going to collect food again.
We did it again the next month.
And the month after.
Although, thanks to Nelson Mandela, the pass laws are gone and Africans enjoy equal rights, there is still an incredible amount of work to do to dismantle the hatred and poverty that grew and festered in South Africa all those years ago.
Posted by trevor at May 16, 2008 04:13 PM