Читать книгу Internal Frontiers - Jon Soske - Страница 8

Preface and Acknowledgments

In July 2004, I visited Durban for the first time, where one of my guides was the late and dearly missed historian Jeff Guy. After finishing lunch, he introduced me to his children, Joe and Heli, who had arrived at the same café. He suggested that we speak, since I had expressed interest in postapartheid social movements and they had been active in some of these campaigns. The next day, we met for a coffee at a seaside café and, among many other things, they talked about the way that the local African National Congress (ANC) invoked historical inequalities between Africans and Indians in order to undercut service delivery protests in Indian townships such as Chatsworth, in effect using racial divisions to attack the very kinds of activism that had helped bring the ANC to power. After our conversation, I walked through the Grey Street neighborhood in downtown Durban, absorbed in the markets, shops, colonnades, mosques and minarets, and curry stalls. In a very hazy and undeveloped fashion, I started to wonder about the place of this Indian Ocean city in the history of South Africa and the significance of the Indian diaspora, as well as Indian and African racial divisions, for the development of the liberation struggle and African nationalism.

The research that I finished in 2009 sought to integrate Indian and African histories in Durban within a single narrative while providing a critical account of how the antiapartheid struggle addressed the question of the also-colonized other. Strongly influenced by Walter Rodney’s seminal History of the Guyanese Working People, I felt the conviction that the ANC had failed to overcome—and perhaps exacerbated—racial divisions by building a superficial alliance from above rather than class unity from below. Against an official rhetoric and historiography that stressed nonracialism, my research spent considerable time uncovering Natal’s fraught racial histories and the currents of racial thinking within the liberation organizations. Nationalism, I believed, was inevitably haunted by the specter of race. While this research informs the present book, I draw rather different conclusions in the account that follows. While Natal’s racial divisions were (and remain) stark, they form only one part of a more complex and interesting story about how race was lived in black communities in the early days of apartheid. Moreover, my research did not fully appreciate the awareness within the ANC of both these racial dynamics and the dangerous entanglements between racial and nationalist thinking. There was a philosophical audacity to the ANC’s vision of inclusive African nationalism that—in the current age of managerial multiculturalism—is easy to misrecognize. While still critical in its approach, Internal Frontiers is far more interested in the power of African nationalist thought and the ANC’s attempt to rethink the meaning of nation in the midst of life and death struggles. As I attempt to show, the effort to reimagine African nationalism in radically open terms was one of the twentieth century’s major intellectual achievements.

I conducted my research in the Department of History at the University of Toronto. Given Toronto’s location within a geography etched by the British Empire, the city was a fertile space to begin to reflect on these questions. Not only did I benefit from the mentorship and advice of a wonderful community of Africanist scholars, my colleagues, friends, and collaborators also invited me to think through my project in relationship to parallel and connected histories across South Asia, the Caribbean, and Palestine. I am deeply grateful to Alissa Trotz, Michelle Murphy, Melanie Newton, Ritu Birla, Rick Halpern, Jens Hanssen, Shivrang Setlur, Brian Beaton, Doris Bergen, John Saul, Natalie Zemon Davis, Lauren Dimonte, Richard Iton, Ato Quayson, Christopher Linhares, Terrance Ranger, Melanie Sampson, Dickson Eyoh, J. Edward Chamberlin, Ian Hacking, Lorna Goodison, Luis Jacob, Chris Curreri, Lauren Lydic, and Antoinette Handley. Sean Hawkins was a generous and supportive mentor who insisted on the ethical stakes of the historian’s craft. Choosing to study with him was one of the best decisions of my life. Melissa Levin listened and argued with me patiently over the course of a decade. Her friendship has improved every word of this book. While finishing my research, I had the opportunity to collaborate with Hillina Seife, Haema Sivanesan, and Tejpal Ajji on the South-South: Interruptions and Encounters exhibition. Their friendships, and other opportunities to work with the South Asian Visual Art Centre, have greatly enriched my understanding of the issues explored in these pages.

Since my first research trip to South Africa in 2006, I have found a generous and welcoming community of scholars at the University of the Witwatersrand. During this and subsequent trips, I was repeatedly humbled by the willingness of South African colleagues to share their knowledge, research, and resources. Through the friendships of Ronit Frenkel and Pamila Gupta, I was introduced to the discussions regarding South Africa–India connections and Indian Ocean studies that eventually evolved into the Centre for Indian Studies in Africa (CISA), where I was Postdoctoral Fellow from 2009 to 2011. These conversations were crucial to the development of this project. I would like to thank Ronit, Pamila, Juan Orrantia, Natasha Erlank, Zen Marie, Phillip Bonner, Noor Nieftagodien, Madhumita Lahiri, Achille Mbembe, Dan Ojwang, Bhekizizwe Peterson, Shireen Hassim, Rehana Ebrahim-Vally, Thembinkosi Goniwe, Kelly Gillespie, and Kevin “Owl” Heydenrych. As director of CISA, Dilip Menon provided institutional support and, more importantly, our conversations enriched my understanding of intellectual history. This book is much stronger due to the comments and criticisms of Arianna Lissoni over the course of several years. Liz Gunner’s knowledge of Natal and Zulu culture have been an inexhaustible resource. Lungile Madywabe helped me with isiZulu translations. Working on the film African-Indian Odyssey with Hina Saiyada was a vital experience. I hope that my many discussions with Sarah Nuttall, and the influence of her scholarship, are evident in the pages that follow.

Isabel Hofmeyr, mentor extraordinaire, deserves her own paragraph. Since my first conference paper, she has been able to see—far beyond me—the potential of this project and gently encouraged me to go further. If not for her wisdom, brilliant insights, and scholarly example, this book would not have been written.

I had the opportunity to present two of the book’s chapters, 3 and 4, at the history seminar at the University of Kwa-Zulu Natal. For a historian of Durban, the seminar was an invaluable space, an opportunity for comment and critique from scholars who have dedicated their careers to Natal and its history. In addition to Jeff, I owe debts to Catherine Burns, Julie Parle, Goolam Vahed, Keith Breckenridge, Gerhard Mare, Vukile Khumalo, Vishnu Padayachee, and Thembisa Waetjen. Bill Freund, who hosted me during research trips to Durban, has been a wonderful friend and teacher. His boundless erudition and seminal research on Natal have been central to my education.

In addition to Bill, several other scholars read and commented on my manuscript. This book has gained significantly from the insights of Thomas Blom Hansen, Aisha Khan, Surendra Bhana, Sharad Chari, Mark Hunter, and Joseph Lelyveld.

In 2014, I received a Mellon Fellowship to spend a semester at the Center for Humanities Research (CHR) at the University of the Western Cape, where I completed the process of conceptualizing this book. The CHR is a peerless space and the opportunity to participate in its discussions has been invaluable. Heidi Grunebaum, who invited me to CHR, helped me think through the idea of a global moment of Partition. In numerous discussions, Patricia Hayes deepened my understanding of the aesthetic dimensions of resistance politics. I am grateful for the exmaple and scholarship of Suren Pillay, Ciraj Rassool, Uma Dhupelia-Mesthrie, Helena Pohlandt-McCormick, and Gary Minkley. More than any other historian, Premesh Lalu’s work has shaped how I understand the problem space of African nationalist thought. My debt to him is immense.

Since moving to Montreal, I have enjoyed the advice and support of Subho Basu, Laura Madokoro, Elizabeth Elbourne, Gwyn Campbell, Tassos Anastassiadis, Lorenz Lüthi, Daviken Studnicki-Gizbert, Rachel Berger, Andrew Ivaska, Rachel Sandwell, Monica Patterson, Suzanne Morton, Allan Greer, Malek Abisaab, Monica Popescu, Laila Parsons, Catherine Desbarats, Catherine Lu, Elena Razlogova, and Selin Murat. Renee Saucier, Yasmine Mosimann, and Lauren Laframboise provided research assistance. Working with Rajee Paña Jeji Shergill on the Info Bomb exhibition greatly enriched my understanding of Partition. Thank you to Jim Morris for his friendship in the last days of finishing this project.

Antoinette Burton, who read two versions of this manuscript, was unstintingly generous in her feedback and criticisms. One of the great joys of this project was thinking through some of its questions in collaboration with her. Paul Landau vetted material, answered queries, and (most importantly) his scholarship helped me understand the great historical depth of the inclusive tradition within African political culture. While finishing this book, I have been inspired by the courage and philosophical conviction of Rashad Ramazanov and Konul Ismayilova.

Over the past ten years, I have received advice, encouragement, and support from too many people to list. I am deeply grateful to Phiroze Vasunia, Marcus Rediker, Vijay Prashad, Giancarlo Casale, Gabeba Baderoon, Sean Jacobs, Dan Magaziner, T. J. Tallie, Neelika Jayawardane, Sana Aiyer, Alex Lichtenstein, David William Cohen, Marissa Moorman, Farzanah Badsha, Christopher J. Lee, Allison Schachter, James Brennan, Centime Zeleke, Frank Wilderson III, Teresa Barnes, Orhan Esen, Zuba Wai, Franco Barchiesi, Timur Hammond, Clapperton Mavhunga, Souleymane Bachir Diagne, Sarah Balakrishnan, Shannon Walsh, Serhan Lokman, Robert Vinson, Prabhu Mohapatra, Suraiya Faroqhi, Erdem Kabadayı, Robin D. G. Kelley, Imraan Coovadia, Derek Peterson, Jean Allman, Gail Gerhart, Peter Limb, Allen Isaacman, Nima Fahimian, Alicia Weisberg-Roberts, Kelyn Roberts, Peggy Kamuf, Quincy R. Lehr, Anna Norris, Octavio Guerra, Chimurenga Magazine (especially Ntone Edjabe, Stacy Hardy, and Achal Prabhala), South African History Online (Mads Nørgaard, Jeeva Rajgopaul, and many others), Şiirci Kafe, Maia Woolner, Ashraf Jamal, Christopher Cozier, Tsitsi Jaji, Jill Kelly, Nafisa Sheik, Nick R. Smith, Meghan Healy-Clancy, Jo Soske, and the Otolith Group (Anjalika Sagar and Kodwo Eshun).

Most importantly, I have received guidance and wisdom from individuals who participated in the organizations discussed in this book and encountered their intellectual worlds as living traditions of struggle. More than anything else, these conversations helped me see past political texts, as important as these are, and understand ideas as embodied in organizational cultures, symbolism, personal relationships, and ways of being. Raymond Suttner read some of my early writing on Luthuli and provided encouragement and generative insight. Bobby Marie and Phumi Mtetwa, in a crucial conversation, complicated my rather American understanding of South African racial dynamics. I have learned important things from Ahmed Kathrada, Jay Naidoo, Shamim Meer, Joe Phaahla, Amina Cachalia, Ebrahim Ismail Ebrahim, Elinor Sisulu, Zwelakhe Sisulu, Jerry Coovadia, David Hemson, Tony Mpanza, Derek Powell, Ismail Nagdee, and Tom Manthata. Bhekisizwe Ngwenya introduced me to Pan-Africanist Congress veterans in Soweto, helped me with isiZulu, and watched my back. Although comrades from the Black Consciousness Movement might disagree with some of my conclusions, I owe much to them. Thank you to Sadeque Variava, Anver Randera, Karen Randera, Saths Cooper, Jerry Waja, Zithule Cindi, Lybon Mabasa, Yosuf Veriava, and all the supporters of the Abu Asvat Institute for Nation Building.

In 2006, I interviewed Billy Nair at his favorite restaurant on a beachfront near Tongaat, north of Durban. Early the next morning, he woke me with a phone call in order to observe that I did not appreciate the symbolic power of the 1955 Freedom Charter. He asked me to imagine what it was like for him, a young Indian trade unionist in his mid-twenties, to travel from Durban to Johannesburg and stand on the stage of the Congress of the People on 26 June 1955. In front of the most representative gathering in South Africa’s history, and surrounded by comrades of every conceivable background, Nair spoke on behalf not of Indians, but of all South Africa’s working people. This story has stayed with me while writing this book. So has a very different anecdote from the indomitable Phyllis Naidoo. While selling the Guardian newspaper with an African comrade, Phyllis and her companion got caught in the rain. She insisted that he come home, take off his soaking clothes, and then warm up in a bath. She waited for him to emerge and eventually, after almost an hour had passed, knocked on the door to see what was wrong. Phyllis was surprised by the privilege revealed by her shock at the response. “I never imagined,” he moaned, “that this thing would feel so good.”

This book would not have been finished without the friendship and mentorship of Omar Badsha. As a trade unionist, antiapartheid activist, photographer, and historian, Omar has been thinking about these questions for over five decades. At each stage of writing, I shared sections with Omar, always to receive sharp-eyed criticism and his version of encouragement: “It raises the right questions.” Eventually I grew frustrated: When was I going to find some answers? As I finish this book, I believe I understand what he was saying to me. A definitive history is a dead history. The historian’s job is to take a story—sometimes familiar, sometime new—and make it resonate in the urgency of the present. If I have managed to accomplish this task in the least, it is due to Omar’s example.

Finally, I dedicate this book to Kate Elizabeth Creasey. In and between Toronto, Johannesburg, Istanbul, Cape Town, Los Angeles, Durbin, and Montreal, our life together runs like an invisible thread through these pages. Her strength, courage, love, brilliance, and forgiveness have made me better in every way.