Honorary White

by E. R. Braithwaite

  Next day, Mr. Englebrecht MP, whom I’d met a year ago in New York, called for me and, with his wife, took me on a leisurely tour along the shoreline of Cape Town. As we talked I tried to measure his political acumen and sophistication. An Afrikaner, he had been a schoolmaster before entering politics as a supporter of the Nationalist Party and seemed to be in complete agreement with the Government’s racial policies. To my critical remarks on the education, housing, and employment of Blacks he replied that the Bantu Act and similar laws were designed specifically for the benefit of Blacks. It became clear that, to him, Blacks are intellectually and psychologically inferior to Whites.

  He spoke of how Blacks lived in the rural Homelands, the women in servitude, tending the fields while rearing children, the men content in continual idleness except for the little effort required to tend their cattle, sheep or goats. I asked how, if that were the general rule, the mines and other industries were able to recruit all the black workers they needed. Were the Blacks impressed into service like the sailors of old?

  He complained that outsiders were far too eager to criticize South Africa without fully appreciating the prevailing situation. Few of the critics had even visited the country as I was doing for a firsthand view. The Blacks, he believed, were, for the most part, content with their circumstances, and would be quite responsive to gradual improvements, were they let alone and not incited to strikes and other anti-social actions by activists, often from outside. (An outsider from where? The only outsiders with easy access to South Africa are the British. Perhaps that’s what he meant.) The Government was aware of such activities and had the means to stop them.

  Evolution, not revolution, he reminded me, and referred pityingly to the parlous state of the British economy which was crippled perhaps beyond repair by strikes which were all, he believed, Communist inspired. That would never happen in South Africa. In any case, he believed that many people in Britain were disillusioned with conditions there and were thinking of emigrating to South Africa. I argued that though many young people were leaving Britain, South Africa was lowest among their choices of a new home, and suggested that the near inevitability of bloody confrontation between Black and White might be responsible. He said that such a confrontation was most unlikely, because it would not be allowed to happen. His haughty assurance was disturbing. How could anyone with any claim to sensitivity be so determined to ignore all the ominous signs? Or was he only saying those things to me? In the time I’d already spent in the country, I’d already heard and seen enough to convince me that events were moving, however slowly, to some awful, cataclysmic dénouement. Perhaps this man and his wife, so comfortable under the prevailing system, were really reassuring themselves that it would continue. At least for their lifetime. I then remembered that, when I had first met Englebrecht at a cocktail party in New York, he had told me that he was one of the group of censors in South Africa who had voted to ban the showing of the film of my autobiography, To Sir, with Love. When I’d asked him the reason for the ban, he’d replied,

  “As we watched that film at a private showing, we were all irritated by the sight of that black teacher being so right all the time.”

  “What do you mean by being right?” I’d asked.

  “Well, being so knowledgeable, so bright, setting the example for white students.”

  “But the film was eventually released to the public.”

  “Yes, with a change here and there.”

  I wondered if he was remembering that I was that same teacher in person, unchanged, still willing to make my small challenge to social absurdities.

  We stopped for tea at a teashop and sat at one of the outdoor tables. When the black waiter served our tea he asked me if I was the same person whose photograph was in the morning newspaper. I said I was. He told me he’d read To Sir and would like me to autograph his personal copy of the paperback edition. I wondered if my companions appreciated the implication. As long as people could think and read, there was no knowing what they might do, for themselves. Perhaps the small miracle needed to change the course of events in South Africa was already on its way.

  Chapter

  Eight

  LATER THAT WEEK I met with the Deputy Minister for Bantu Education. Formerly a dominie in the Reformed Dutch Church, he spoke of Blacks as if they were a lesser breed of man whose collective course must be carefully plotted and controlled by those whom God had elected their masters, the Whites. Painstakingly he detailed the many and varied educational programs he claimed were designed to help Blacks function in the South African society, and made it seem that huge sums of money were spent annually to that purpose. Courteously he brushed aside my suggestion that if the proscriptions against multi- and interracial education were removed, education for all might be less costly.

  “Our Blacks are incapable of learning at the same pace as Whites,” he told me, smiling his pontifical smile as if he knew he was quoting Holy Writ. “They need to be helped, slowly and carefully.”

  “Toward what level?” I asked.

  “Toward their own level. It would be foolish to place them in any educational situation beyond their limited potential.”

  “I’ve discovered that under previous governments, Blacks attended your universities and gave an excellent account of themselves. In those days their potential was never in question.”

  “You were misinformed,” he disagreed, still smiling. “In those days there were those who experimented with the educational process and were anxious to prove themselves right. Many of our Blacks were frustrated by a university experience specifically designed for Whites. This Government has learned from those mistakes.”

  “I’m thinking of my own university education,” I told him. “At no time did I feel frustrated by it or incompetent to deal with it.”

  “You cannot compare your background with that of our Bantu.” Nothing seemed likely to disturb his composure. “I’ve dealt with them all my life. As you move about through our country and see them, I’m sure you will appreciate the difference between them and yourself.” He stood up in dismissal.

  Next was a luncheon with Mr. Englebrecht and some of his fellow MPs, who were gathered and waiting for me in a small, private dining room in the House. When the introductions were made, I realized that they were all of the ruling Nationalist Party, and as we settled into conversation, I noticed how eager each seemed to prove his party loyalty and political savvy. One of them had recently “crossed over” from the opposition United Party.

  “Would that be a case of political defection?” I needled him.

  “Not at all. For as long as I shared the views and objectives of the United Party members, I worked in pursuit of those objectives. But political attitudes should be responsive to the people’s interests, and the United Party is philosophically behind the times. I believe in this country and its destiny so I joined the party whose objectives and vision matched mine.”

  He was going to some lengths to convince me that his move was not dictated by political opportunism. I wondered about his constituents. English parliamentarians seemed generally flexible in the face of political realities. These South Africans, without exception, demonstrated an unfailing inflexibility, making me wonder if it was because they dared not drift from the rigid philosophical center, for fear of being labeled liberal, the political kiss of death. They spoke of their country and its people, but left me in no doubt that they meant white people and were completely insensitive to the plight of anyone else. They seemed to believe that their political supremacy would last forever and that no effort by the Blacks inside or anyone else outside could reverse the situation.

  There were no political signs to contradict them. Their main opposition, the United Party, was torn by internal strife and, in fact, offered no realistic alternative platforms. Differing only in degree, the United Party’s attitude to Blacks was paternalistic and repressive, as they were careful to a
void any progressive recommendations beyond the minimal sops to overseas criticisms. The brand new Nationalist was in his element, an enthusiastic convert among those diehards. He suggested that South Africa’s policies were hardly different from those practiced in some parts of the United States.

  I countered this by saying that I was currently on the faculty of a Southern university and had discovered that some of the most adventurously progressive changes in American social and educational attitudes were taking place in the South. Whereas a few years ago Southern American Blacks were denied even the right to vote, today they were competing for and sometimes being elected to high office, including that of mayor and could soon be expected to aim higher, much higher.

  Lest there be any misunderstanding of where I stood, I reminded them that I was a native of a country of Blacks, governed by Blacks, descendants of slaves and indentured laborers. As I walked and drove around their country, I could discover no genetic difference between the black South Africans and myself, and felt confirmed in my confidence that I was the equal of anyone, black or white.

  They remained courteously adamant, refusing even to consider the existence of any parallels. They believed they were in the right, the God-given right of Afrikaners who understood their place in Africa and were not interested in references to other, distant situations. They made no attempt to support their positions by argument. Each one would make a statement, either well-rehearsed or familiar through frequent use, and the others would express complete agreement. The wonder of it all was that they were saying it to me.

  I examined my own reactions to them. They were bigots, just like others I had met in other countries. Their bigotry was no less offensive to me because they were South African. On the contrary. How could they imagine that I, in my black skin, was different from the Blacks all around them? If they knew that the native Blacks feared and hated them and would seize the opportunity to be revenged on them, why did they assume that I would feel differently?

  Maybe they really didn’t give a damn about what I thought or how I felt. Maybe their sitting, eating, and talking with me was the real measure of their contempt. I was black. In these near-intimate circumstances they could tell me and show me what they felt about the millions of Blacks like me whom they ruled with cruelty and contempt, enforced by banning, restriction, imprisonment, and death.

  I asked them about their political opposition in general and Mrs. Helen Suzman in particular. Their responses demonstrated their complete confidence in the power of their party and in the prevailing national indifference. They showed little respect for Mrs. Suzman’s politics but were eager to claim her as proof of the Government’s ability to accommodate criticism. Could these men ever conceive of relinquishing this enormous power or sharing it with Blacks?

  On returning to my hotel, I received a telephone call from someone who introduced himself as Mr. Welcome Msomi. He told me that he knew of me, had heard and read of my presence in South Africa, was an ardent fan especially after reading Reluctant Neighbors with which he fully identified, and wished to invite me to a performance of the Zulu Theatre Company’s version of Macbeth, or, in Zulu, Umabatha, written in Zulu by Mr. Msomi himself, who also played the lead. I promptly accepted the invitation.

  Umabatha was staged at the Maynardville Open Air Theatre. The aged, gnarled trees which ringed the grassy stage were an ideal background for the grim events of Shakespeare’s bloody tragedy. From the opening moments when the three witches emerged leaping and shrieking from the cavernous dark between the trees, through the spectacular tribal dances, the plotting to kill Duncan (Dungane) and Banquo (Bhangane) and their deaths, and the final defeat and death of Macbeth (Babatha), the audience was held enthralled.

  Such was the vigor of the play that, though I understood not a single word of Zulu, I was irresistibly carried along with its flow, its pace, its power, and above all the natural way in which it blended into its element, the starlit, African night. Whether crossing the stage in military elegance, spears closely aligned to present a colorful phalanx, bare feet pounding rhythms from the green turf, or leaping at each other in angry confrontation, the actors filled the stage with movement, now vibrant, now attenuated as death itself. Towering above all was Umabatha, power-hungry yet fearful, a willing pawn in the hands of his ambitious, resourceful wife, magnificently played by Daisy Dumakudi, who drew repeated cheers from the audience.

  At the end of the performance, I made a surprising discovery. Beside me was a black couple, and we introduced ourselves and chatted for a few moments before the curtain went up. On the other side of me and in front were Whites, and I had felt pleased that there was no discrimination in this theatre. But looking around at the end, when the lights came up, I saw that behind me for a few rows were a group of seats occupied by Blacks, so, together we were a tiny enclave in the white audience, altogether little more than a score of black faces, but grouped together. Was it purely accidental that the only seat available was in exactly that spot? I’ll never know, but it is possible to stretch the long arm of coincidence too far. I told myself to think only of the joy of the evening.

  After the show, I was introduced to the organizers, Mrs. Renée Ahrenson and Mrs. Cecelia Sonnenberg, and the black cast. In the men’s dressing room they gathered about me, enveloping me with their enthusiastic welcome, telling me I was Zulu, my face, build, everything. They’d read and talked about my books, especially Reluctant Neighbors, because they knew from immediate and painful experience about white contempt for the black man. They appreciated the irony of this very evening, cheered so enthusiastically tonight by Whites who would not look at them in the street tomorrow.

  “We are like court jesters,” one said, “entertaining them at their command, compensated by the scraps from their table.”

  Even among the gaiety of our meeting the pervasive bitterness was there, yet it could not dampen their spirit or inhibit their determination to pursue their profession. They talked of other plays by Shakespeare and other playwrights which they planned to examine for their translatability into the fluid, powerful Zulu. One young actor asked me about my stay in Cape Town, about my movements, and whether I was being followed. He hinted that he would like to come to my hotel to talk with me privately. I told him I had no way of knowing if I was followed, but, if he was willing to take the risk, I’d be pleased to talk with him at my hotel.

  “Ride back with me to the hotel,” I invited.

  “No,” he replied. “I must go back to town with the others, but I could come to see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Come and have breakfast with me.”

  “Okay. Around nine?”

  “Fine.”

  He arrived a little before nine next morning, with three others from the Umabatha cast. We ordered breakfast and I told them how deeply impressed I had been by their performance the night before. Tremendous.

  “Sure. For the Whites,” one said.

  “I enjoyed it,” I reminded them.

  “Yes. We understand that. But who do you think benefits from it? The black actors and actresses? Never. Did you hear what happened to them in London? Same rave reviews. Same sold-out performances. Yet there wasn’t enough money to pay the boys’ hotel bills. Did you know that? Welcome might be doing all right, but what about the others? If it had been a white company with white actors on such a successful run, everybody would have been doing fine, Umabatha’s a black company, of black actors. But the management is white. The Whites are doing nicely with the production. Only the Blacks are having a rough time.”

  I needed to know where all this was leading, so I said nothing.

  “We hear you’ve talked with some of the boys, some poets you met here in town, and that you might be writing about it. So we’d like you to get the story straight.”

  “What story?”

  “The story about how helpless the black man is in this country. You’ll hear about the black
poet and the black musician and the black writer and the black actor. We’re all slaves, my friend. You know how ants keep aphids to milk them. It’s that way with the black artist. If he has any talent he’s milked by some white bastard until he’s dry. That’s how this country is. A black man cannot talk with publishers or promoters or people like that, so he has to have a white man to do it for him. So the white man takes over. He doesn’t really represent the black artist, doesn’t work for him. He becomes the boss. He calls the tune. He is the employer instead of the servant. He pays what suits him. The Black sweats his ass out. He creates. He writes. He directs. But at the end of it all, he’s never mentioned in the program notes. Whitey takes Blackey to London, Tokyo, Perth. He fills his bank account with loot and the black man returns home with nothing.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, and picked up the Umabatha program. “Look here. Welcome’s mentioned quite prominently as originator, writer, and leading man.”

  “Shit, man. Have you talked with him? Sure his name is in the book, but who do you think reaps the harvest? Welcome thinks he’s doing okay, but what about all the others in the cast? He couldn’t do it alone.”

  I wondered about that, trying to relate what these men were saying to the exuberance and enthusiasm I’d just witnessed. Was it possible for unhappy, dissatisfied players to perform with such verve? What was that line so familiar in the theater? The play’s the thing. Perhaps it was true here in Africa, here among Blacks who considered themselves as professional as any Shakespearean specialist.

  “Like all men, the black artist has to eat, my friend,” one said. “He has to have a family, he needs a decent roof, needs to buy material for his craft and all that. The white man knows all this, selects his talented lamb and draws him to the slaughterhouse. The throat is cut and the blood is drawn until the carcass is useless.”