Читать книгу Bending the Rules - Rafique Gangat - Страница 6

The train journey from Gandhi’s station

My hometown of Weenen, about 120 kilometres inland from my grandfather’s farm, had only a primary school. So I started my high school years in Estcourt and then moved to Pietermaritzburg, where I stayed at a boarding home. There, my companions were Ismail, a textile engineer trained in Manchester, and Ibrahim, a lawyer doing his articles. They introduced me to, among others, the works of Ayn Rand, Hermann Hesse, Jean-Paul Sartre, and JD Salinger. It was around this time that I was also exposed to rock music and Led Zeppelin. My rebellion began to take root.

To begin with, when I was in my second-last year of high school, I was forced to start learning Afrikaans because that year, 1972, the Nationalist government made it a compulsory language of instruction. I resented this because I was studying Latin and, with a consistent A grade, doing well at it. Besides, I saw no reason to learn Afrikaans, especially as I lived in the predominantly English province of Natal (as it was then).

Imagine the difficulty of starting to learn a new language at such a late stage in my schooling, from teachers who were trying to learn it at the same time. I hated the language being imposed on me and started questioning apartheid education.

At the time, various student movements were being formed. With a group of friends, I went to the home of a student activist (who went on to become an ANC minister) to listen to his strategy for disobedience and dissent. This went out the window when I saw the horrid living conditions of their domestic worker.

For me, political or activist rhetoric meant nothing without human kindness, on which I was nurtured. In our home we had always treated our domestic worker as an equal. My grandfather had translated the Bible into isiZulu for his community and my mum went to an isiZulu-speaking school, because there was no other. At the activist’s home, while talking to the domestic worker, I felt deeply grateful that I, too, had learnt to speak isiZulu while growing up in Weenen.

My rebellion was being awakened, but I was not enticed into any camp or political party. I was on my own.

My first encounter with the African National Congress (ANC) had been pretty revealing. During the 1963–64 Rivonia Trial, a group of leading ANC members from Ladysmith had visited my dad and asked for a cash donation for the families of those on trial for acts of sabotage carried out with the aim of overthrowing the apartheid government. My dad had generously offered food parcels, which they rejected. Instead, they threatened to burn down his business. To this my father had responded, “Get out of my house now, and if you guys ever try to burn me down, I will go down fighting.”

These incidents made an impression on me.

I opted to find my own course, believing that many rivers could lead to the sea of freedom; that the ANC’s path was not the only one that would take me there.

As for my future, it was charted out by my dad – a man of moral stature and solid principles. When I finished high school, I would go to medical school and become a doctor – a profession that was respected in the community. But apartheid stepped in and destroyed this dream. I failed Afrikaans miserably, which affected my overall matric aggregate and, with the limited number of seats available to people of colour at the country’s medical schools, there was no way for me to be admitted. I jokingly referred to my G grade for Afrikaans as “goed” but in truth it was not “good” because it destroyed my chances of studying medicine.

One option was, of course, to go abroad. But my dad was adamant that no son of his was ever going to study overseas, because he thought it would lead to marriage with a white woman. Besides being against the law in South Africa, this was against his religious principles.

Eventually I landed up at the only tertiary institution designated for Indians, the University of Durban-Westville (now a campus of the University of KwaZulu-Natal). What struck me most was the number of police and security operatives all over campus, presumably there to thwart any potential dissent against apartheid. Yet this was supposed to be an institute of higher learning?

I enrolled for a BCom degree majoring in industrial psychology.

One day, during an English class, Professor Moola, who was lecturing on a Ted Hughes poem “Pike”, stopped midway, looked me in the eye and said, “You back there, why are you not taking any notes?”

“I’m listening to your interpretation and at the time of the exams, I’ll give you mine. So, why should I give you yours, when in fact you will be asking for mine?”

This response offended him and he lashed out with, “Get out of my class now and never return. I don’t want to see your face again.”

I grudgingly complied, knowing that my principles mattered most and nothing was going to undermine my free-thinking nature.

This was followed by an incident during a statistics class, given by an Afrikaner, Professor Calitz, who insisted on talking mostly in Afrikaans, with some bad English thrown in. Statistics is tough enough as a subject, but being taught in Afrikaans made it even more complicated for me.

I was thrown out of the class because the professor insisted that we wear ties, which Afrikaner students did at their universities. I arrived wearing a T-shirt with a tie.

His words rang in my ears, “Get out of my class! Uit, uit, uit!”

I walked out with my head held high, to the applause of fellow students.

My rebellion was not political. I believed that university was where I could exercise freedom of thought and action, but clearly this was a delusion.

A week later, I missed an exam because of the death of my cousin, who was like an older brother to me. When I explained to the industrial psychology professor that I could provide a copy of the death certificate and a letter from the mayor of my town stating that I had, in fact, attended the funeral on the date in question, I was told: “You Indians are all liars! I don’t believe you and you can consider yourself failed.”

The only subjects I was left with were economics and practical Afrikaans, which I was compelled to do to make up for failing the language in matric.

My take was simple. I had three options: become part of the apartheid regime, work within and around the system, or rebel against it.

I chose the third option, which led me to quit, pack my bags and hitch a ride back to Weenen. The furthest I managed to get was Pietermaritzburg, where my journey ground to a halt. No Good Samaritan emerged to take me any further.

Eventually, as evening drew near, I headed to the local railway station, planning to get home by train. After having bought a ticket to Colenso, the closest railway stop to Weenen, I called my dad using the pay-phone, “Hello, Papa, I am calling from the railway station in Pietermaritzburg. I am on my way to Colenso. Please pick me up from there at 10 o’clock.”

A rather irate Papa responded, “Are you not supposed to be at university? Why are you coming home?”

“I quit university and I shall explain my reasons tonight.” I put the phone down before he could utter another word.

Then I sat on a bench designated for non-whites, waiting for the train to arrive, where I would be seated in a non-white coach. As it was mid-winter and bitterly cold, I hesitantly approached the kiosk, which had a “Whites Only” sign above it, to beg for a cup of coffee. Even though I was prepared to pay double the rate, the white attendant said, “Fuck off, coolie!”

It then dawned on me that this was the same spot where Mahatma Gandhi had been kicked off the train because he was not white. Thus had begun his journey of liberating India from colonial rule, and his inspiration to South Africans to liberate themselves from the oppression of apartheid. With these thoughts on my mind, I was soon on the train to Colenso. That cold winter’s night I was a very confused young man, pondering what life had in store for him.

At the next station, which was at the village of Sweetwater, a well-dressed black man joined me in the compartment for Indians, blacks and coloureds.

He said, “Hello, my name is Moses.” He extended his hand, which I shook warmly, responding with, “My name is Rafique, but all my friends call me Raf.”

As the train snaked up the mountains and onto the grassy plains of the Natal Midlands, we settled down to a serious discussion about racial discrimination. While I told Moses about the incident at the station and what had happened at university, he shared some similar anecdotes of his own.

We moved on to talk about how apartheid rule could be eradicated, and what could replace it. As an advocate of the Gandhian principle of non-violent resistance, I spoke about economic upliftment and empowerment, which I believed could arm us in our fight for freedom.

Moses, however, was convinced that a bloody revolution led by blacks, the overwhelming majority in the country, was the only way. When I asked what would happen to people like me, he responded, “My friend, like a storm, it would simply destroy everything in its path, good and bad trees.”

At Colenso, I faced a very angry father. I had a lot of explaining to do.

After much discussion, it was settled that I would stay at home.

I fitted into my parents’ retail business and soon started what may be called a pioneering black economic empowerment initiative.

One day, while dealing with Dick Mbele, a regular customer whom I had befriended, I asked, “Dick, do you have an empty room at your house where you could run a business?”

He replied, “I don’t know anything about business.”

I said, “Trust me, I’ll teach and guide you.”

It didn’t take much for Dick to be convinced; he had nothing to lose and more to gain.

We started with a few basic consumer goods, at a reduced price, which I delivered to him in our Datsun bakkie. I suggested that he could add a decent mark-up because villagers would be willing to pay for the convenience of being able to shop on their doorstep as it saved them time and travel expense. We agreed that when his stock was dwindling he would come back to me to replenish his supplies – a simple, yet effective, model.

Over time, my dad, my mum and I trained more and more entrepreneurs in the basics of good business. And through this enterprise, we extended our business into a lucrative wholesale operation. As with every business, other traders in town cottoned on and began to set up their own satellite operations in the villages. I took this as a cue to move on to manufacturing – mealie meal in particular, as it was the staple diet of the locals. However, my dad wasn’t keen to venture beyond his comfort zone, so I decided to move out of the family business and chart my own course instead.

In Weenen, I interacted with the locals and learnt a great deal about Zulu culture and tribal customs. I became close to the various chiefs in the area and often went fishing in their territory on the banks of the Tugela River.

My relationship with the whites was somewhat complicated. White farmers found me arrogant – or so they told my father. It was because I questioned their beliefs.

For example, a farmer named Le Roux once said to me, “See, the cows don’t sleep with the sheep and the horses sleep separately, so we need to live separately, as we are different.”

To which I responded, “Don’t the brown horses sleep with the black ones? Don’t the black cows sleep with the brown ones? To me, it’s a case of ‘same difference’.”

He never raised the subject again. I knew the white farmers saw me as being very different from my cousins who had remained in Weenen. I even dressed differently, not conservatively, as they did.

Whites and Indians never socialised together, except for the Saturday-night Hollywood movie, which was screened at the local town hall. The local Indians were generously given about twenty seats in one corner, with a separate entrance/exit and different tickets, sold by my cousin Samad.

Everyone dressed up in his or her best for movie nights. However, the white boys, who were conservative farmers, did not in any way resemble the boys in the movie, who sported long hair and wore fashionable bellbottoms. I did, which meant I got lots of attention from the farmers’ daughters. We flirted, making eye contact and communicating sexual vibes across the divide, which – with no one watching – translated into the real thing when our paths crossed on their farms or on my regular fishing outings on their lands.

These liaisons demonstrated the futility of racial segregation on which apartheid laws were based. But, instead of being eased up they began to be more strictly imposed; indeed even expanded in a way that caused my family, and countless others across the country, intense pain and sorrow.

Initially, when the Group Areas Act was being implemented across the country, the Gangat family continued to live on the property we had always owned. Weenen was a small, forgotten village where there were only a few Indian families in addition to ours. However, our lives were irrevocably changed as a result of a spiteful act by a white farmer named Bekker.

Apparently he had gone to Pretoria and put in a request to government authorities that the Indians in Weenen should be moved out of town to a separate residential and business zone, and that our land should be declared a white area. His request was granted. What added a barb to Bekker’s action was that some time before, my grandfather had helped him by buying cattle for him and then letting him settle the debt by supplying milk to our family.

I had grown up with my uncles, aunts and cousins as neighbours; our homes were open to each other and we lived like one big, extended family. Suddenly, that idyllic way of life was shattered and the Gangat family was forced to disperse. The Group Areas Act had struck a cruel blow.

Petty apartheid, in the form of things such as separate amenities, made life difficult. But it really hurt to lose your family home and the memories that resided there. It was not just traumatic; it was profoundly painful. Similar, I imagine, to how Gandhi had felt when he was kicked out of that train in Pietermaritzburg.