by Irma Joubert
She felt every word inside her, felt them pass through her.
“But . . . I could never get divorced. Even if she leaves, she’s still my wife.”
“I know, Boelie.”
“That’s . . . why I came to talk to you. Don’t get the wrong idea, I don’t think you . . .” There was another awkward silence.
“I understand, Boelie.”
“That’s why I want you to carry on, Pérsomi. You should get married, lead a normal life.”
She gave him a slow smile. “Is my life not normal?”
He refused to be distracted. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, Boelie, I know. And I understand that you want me to be happy.”
“You do understand.” For the first time he smiled. “Like you always do.”
When she came home late that afternoon, thankful that it was Friday and the weekend lay ahead, her ma, Aunt Duifie, and Oom Polla were in the sitting room. They often sat there, listening to the serials on Springbok Radio. But the minute she walked in, she sensed she had walked into a lion’s den.
“Pérsomi!” her ma’s shrill cry summoned her.
As usual, Oom Polla and Aunt Duifie were sitting on the sofa. Her ma was on the chair with its brand-new, garish cover. Pérsomi sank into the deep easy chair and stretched her legs in front of her.
Oom Polla came straight to the point. “I hear you’re going to represent the Asians in court?”
“That’s right, Oom Polla.”
Jemima’s hands flew to her face. “Oh heavens, in court?”
“Yes, Ma, that’s where I work, every week.”
“It’s not a good thing I told Oom Polla here it’s not good he must speak,” wheezed Aunt Duifie.
“Pérsomi, my girl, like Aunt Duifie here says, it’s not a good thing,” Oom Polla said, and coughed. “I know politics, if anyone knows politics—”
“People are talking, they’re talking everywhere—at the hairdresser’s and everywhere!” Aunt Duifie interrupted.
“Oom Polla, Aunt Duifie, it’s my job, and it’s what I’m going to do. If people want to talk, let them. At least I’ve given them something to talk about.”
“But heavens, Pérsomi, the Indians? Must you do it?” her ma asked.
“No, Ma, I choose to do it, because I believe the removal of Mr. Ismail and his family and the other Indian families is wrong.” Pérsomi felt her patience wearing thin, her anger mounting. The afternoon was taking its toll. “Next time people talk,” she said, “ask them why they don’t come and talk to me.”
“That’s what I said straight talking it’s the only way but people will never do it they’re too scared of you,” said Aunt Duifie, bobbing her head.
“If they’re too spineless to say things to my face, there’s nothing we can do about it,” said Pérsomi and got to her feet. “I’m going to the drive-in tonight. I want to take a bath.”
“With a boyfriend?” her ma asked as she turned to go.
No, Ma, with my loyal friend Reinier, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue.
It was just the beginning. The following Tuesday evening there was a knock on the door. When she opened, the minister, Pieter Hanekom, stood on the doorstep.
She noticed the chief elder behind him, awkward in a black suit and tie. She immediately guessed the purpose of the visit. She had noticed the sidelong glances in church on Sunday.
“Dominee Pieter, Oom Daan, please come inside,” she said, opening the door wider.
The minister placed his Bible on the coffee table. They had tea. Her ma didn’t say a word. In awe of the company, she sat stiffly in her chair. When they’d had their tea, Pérsomi said: “I think Oom Daan du Plesssis and Dominee Hanekom have come to speak to me about my representing the Indian families in court, Ma.” She looked at the elder. “Am I right, Oom Daan?”
The elder flushed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His thick forefinger tugged at the tie that was strangling him. “Well, if you want to put it that way.”
“It would be best to talk alone. Would you like to go to bed, Ma?” Pérsomi suggested.
“Oh heavens,” said her ma, getting up.
“See you in the morning. Sleep tight,” Pérsomi said reassuringly.
When her ma had left, Oom Daan cleared his throat. “Pérsomi,” he said in a solemn voice, “the honorable church council thought it our duty to conduct a conversation with you about certain rumors that have come to our ears.”
Oom Daan could be very long-winded. She waited for him to continue.
“We’ve heard you want to help the Asians resist their relocation to Modderkuil.”
“That’s right, Oom Daan.”
Oom Daan sat back smugly. He had done his duty, now the young minister could take over. Here it comes, thought Pérsomi. Because Oom Daan was one thing, but Pieter Hanekom was more than just words.
Pieter leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, his long fingers entwined.
He has lovely eyes, Pérsomi thought briefly, deep blue, flecked with gray.
He gave her an earnest look, then jumped right in, going way back in history, crossing Blood River, traveling barefoot across the Drakensberg, passing along the way the burning farmsteads and the concentration camps . . .
He had a beautiful voice and was clever with words. But she had no need of a history lesson. “Pieter,” she interrupted, “get to the point.”
He gave her an amused smile, then nodded. The point, as she had expected, was that the church supported the policy of separate development because it had its roots in the Scriptures.
“By defending the Indians in their suit against the town council you are undermining the entire foundation of goverment policy,” he argued. “How can you justify that?”
“We have a Christian government, Pieter,” she said. “How do you justify supporting laws that are utterly un-Christian, such as the Group Areas Act?”
He shook his head slightly. “We have a Christian government, quite right, and it stands to reason they wouldn’t make laws that are in breach of biblical values. The government introduced these laws because the Bible clearly preaches separation between nations.”
“Where in the Bible does it propagate the segregation of people?” she asked, frowning.
“Remember the Tower of Babel, where God Himself instituted segregation by dividing the people into different language groups, thereby causing them to move into separate areas? Read Genesis 11, Pérsomi, and you’ll see that God Himself is the Great Separator. He wants people of different languages and cultures to people the earth.”
“I also believe that people should honor their language and culture,” she said, “but why can’t it happen while they are neighbors, so mutual contact can take place? Why should they be moved four miles out of town?”
Pieter reached for his Bible. His long fingers carefully turned the delicate pages. “In Acts 17, verse 26, the apostle Paul says in his sermon at the Areopagus: ‘And (He) hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before appointed, and the bounds of their habitation.’ Paul tells the Greeks in no uncertain terms that God ordained a permanent dwelling place for each nation.”
“That sermon, as I understand it, is not about a division between nations, but about Paul explaining that the ‘unknown God’ is the God who created everything, and not a God who resides in temples. In any case, Paul refers to dwelling places in verse 26. Does he also mention the various nations’ places of business?”
Pieter thought for a moment, a guarded expression in his eyes. “You’re known as a clever lawyer, Pérsomi.” He drew a deep breath. “But we shouldn’t try to outsmart God. Like the various nations in St. Paul’s sermon, the various racial groups in South Africa should each be given their own residential area so they can uphold their respective languages, cultures, and traditions.”
“And what about the justice God demands from us, Pieter?” she asked calmly. “
Tell me you honestly believe we can swear before God we’re being fair to the Indian families, and especially the traders, if we move them four miles out of town.”
“The Asians in our town are Muslims. Heathens, Pérsomi,” Pieter said earnestly. “Our church has tried to persuade them, but their hearts remain hard. We can no longer allow Satan to dwell in the heart of our town. We can no longer support the children of Satan with our money.”
“So it’s not because of their skin color that the council is relocating them, but because of their religion?” asked Pérsomi.
“Pérsomi, I don’t serve on the council and I don’t know what their motives are. But to me the removal is justifiable on religious grounds, yes.”
“I see. And what about Mr. Cohen then?” she asked, referring to a Jewish businessman. “Or is his religion close enough to ours? He regards Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as his ancestors, after all, while Mr. Ismail’s religion acknowledges only Father Abraham—the Muslims are the descendants of Ishmael, aren’t they, of Hagar, the concubine? Or will we eventually relocate Mr. Cohen and his tailor’s shop as well, because of his religion? Followed by the Perreiras, because they represent the Roman threat? And what about Mr. Angelo, the café owner? I hear in their church—”
“Pérsomi, wait,” Pieter threw up his hands. “I see your point, but . . .”
“And what about the Great Commandment, Pieter? Love thy neighbor? Do you really think the town council’s action against Mr. Ismail and his people speaks of neighborly love? Didn’t Jesus Himself teach us to love our neighbors as ourselves? Would we have moved one of our own Afrikaner traders four miles out of town and told him, build a store on this bare earth and sell your goods to . . . who?”
“In the long run I do believe we are acting out of love, Pérsomi. We Afrikaners want our own residential areas, am I right?”
“I believe most Afrikaners do, yes.”
“Well, from a Christian viewpoint we also want to grant all the different races their own areas, where they can live and prosper. It may not seem like a charitable action to you now, but think of the future: in ten years’ time, won’t the Indian community be much happier in their own area, among their own people?”
“Let’s say you’re right, Pieter, which, by the way, I don’t believe you are, but let’s leave it there. Let’s say you’re right. How are the traders supposed to survive? Who will buy their wares—the other Indian traders? The majority of their customers are the whites and natives of the town and surrounding areas, not their own people.”
Pieter shook his head. “I’m here to inform you of the official view of the church—a view I totally support. If you can’t accept that, Pérsomi, then I don’t know.”
She leaned forward in her chair. Her voice sounded cold to her own ears. “If I carry on with the case, Pieter, are you and the church council going to deny me the sacraments?”
He drew a slow breath. “Pérsomi, let’s not say things we might later regret.”
“I do sometimes regret things I’ve said or done, Pieter. But more often I’ve regretted things I didn’t say or do.”
The minister and the elder left late that evening, their mission unaccomplished. But I didn’t accomplish anything either, Pérsomi thought when sleep evaded her yet again. They still believe they’re right.
In the early hours doubt set in: Am I doing the right thing? What if . . .
And when Gerbrand sat down in the deck chair beside her the following Sunday after lunch and asked, “Pérsomi, are you a Communist?” she realized with a shock how far-reaching the consequences of her decision were.
“Who said so?” she asked.
“Some kids at school.”
“Because I’m acting on behalf of Mr. Ismail?”
“They say you’re a coolie lover,” he muttered, not looking at her.
“Don’t ever use that word again, Gerbrand,” Pérsomi said.
A frown creased his forehead. “What word?”
“Coolie. They’re Indians. It’s like swearing at them if you call them coolies.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Do you know what this thing is about, Gerbrand?”
“Yes,” he answered and dug with his bare toes into a groove in the red cement porch. “Pa explained it to me.”
“Maybe you should explain it to the other kids then,” she proposed.
He turned to her, his freckled face very serious. “They wouldn’t listen,” he said, “so I beat them up.”
She drew a sharp breath. “Gerbrand! Don’t ever do that! Violence doesn’t solve anything.”
“Well, they stopped talking about you,” he said defensively. “I just wanted to ask if you’re a Communist.”
“Not everyone who doesn’t agree with the government is a Communist, Gerbrand. I believe that the relocation of Mr. Ismail’s store is wrong, so I’m willing to help them. I’m definitely not a Communist.”
“I’m glad,” he said, getting to his feet. “I put nine partridge eggs under old Bettie, and she hatched them all, she’s my ma’s best hen. The chicks are really pretty, would you like to see, Pérsomi?”
Pérsomi wrote to the town council early in June, inviting them to a dinner hosted by the Indian community, “during which they hope to have a friendly discussion about the proposed relocation to Modderkuil.”
“Miss Pérsomi, you must help us,” said Mrs. Ravat, wringing her puffy hands. “We want to give the Boers a smart dinner.”
“I suggest you serve them traditional Indian fare,” said Pérsomi, “only with less curry and peppers, or the councillors’ mouths will be on fire and they won’t be able to say a word.”
The Indian women laughed shyly. “Do you really think we should make our own food?” she asked.
Two weeks before the dinner Pérsomi went in search of Yusuf at his surgery. She hadn’t seen him for a long time, except in passing, and she hadn’t spoken to him in a while. He seemed surprised to see her and greeted her rather stiffly. “Aren’t you afraid to come here?” he asked.
“Afraid?” she asked. “Of course not. Why?”
He shrugged. “What brings you here?”
“Well, I want to know how you are,” she stalled.
“Fine, but I can’t offer you tea. I have to get to the hospital,” he said, gathering his instruments. “How can I help you?”
She hesitated a moment. She had hoped for time to create a more congenial atmosphere. “Yusuf, I think you should attend the dinner. Actually, I think you should be the spokesperson for the Indian community.”
“My grandpa is the leader of our community, Pérsomi.”
“We can let your grandpa speak as well, but he’s a simple man who speaks from his heart. You have a university degree. You can deliver an academic argument. Together you’ll make a good team.”
He shook his head. “I want nothing to do with those people,” he said. “They can do as they please with me, I can fight my own battles. But my grandpa and the others . . . Heavens, Pérsomi, they’re old people. If they hurt my grandpa I couldn’t handle it.”
“That’s why you should join me in the fight, Yusuf,” she said. “I know there’s dissension in the council. If we put our case well enough, we might be able to swing two or three councillors’ votes in our favor. That may be enough to save at least your stores and your surgery.”
He shut his doctor’s case. “We know how these people think, Pérsomi. And accommodating the needs of a few local Indian families is definitely not high on their list of priorities.”
“We can’t just give up and lie down, Yusuf,” she said.
He picked up his case. “I’ll think about it,” he said vaguely.
“Thanks, Yusuf.” She headed for the door.
When she reached the door, he said, “Pérsomi?”
She turned. “Yes, Yusuf?”
“Don’t come here again.”
She gave him a baffled look. “Why not?”
There was a grim expression around his m
outh. “I have enough problems already. I don’t want to be arrested for immorality as well.”
The men transported the tables and arranged them in a straight line down the middle of the town hall. Around the tables they put twelve council chairs—the same ones that were used for the movies on a Saturday night.
The women, dressed in their customary long black frocks and wide trousers, covered the tables with snow-white tablecloths. They brought brand-new crockery from their stores, unpacked boxes of shiny new cutlery, set the tables exactly the way Pérsomi had shown them.
Only the councillors would be sitting down to eat. Whites and Asians could not dine together. It was unheard of. Besides, Asians were not allowed to attend social functions in the town hall.
“But two of you can address them, after dinner,” Pérsomi had said. “I obtained special permission from the magistrate.”
Behind the scenes the tension was tangible. Everything had to be perfect.
But the dishes piled with the delicious food were returned to a back room—temporarily serving as a kitchen—still half full.
“The people aren’t eating,” said Mrs. Ravat worriedly. “There’s nothing wrong with the food, is there?”
“The food is delicious,” Pérsomi assured her. “I suppose they’re just not very hungry.”
Her voice was cheerful and there was a smile on her face, but her unease was growing.
After dinner Mr. Ismail addressed the diners. He spoke from his heart, as Pérsomi had known he would. He began by referring to the Honorable President Kruger who had given them the land seventy years ago. He spoke about his papa, whom some of the councillors had known. He took them through the Boer War and the Rebellion, when they had kept their stores open for the Boers, through the drought and depression of ’33, when maize flour and sugar and coffee were supplied “on the book”—at a time when the storekeepers themselves often didn’t know how they were going to put food on their tables the following day.