Diapason

Diapason (n)- a full, rich outpouring of melodious sound. 

I wrote this a few weeks ago but thought I would share it now that I have had time to type it up. 

I attended a memorial lecture honoring Stephen Bantu Biko last night. The event was hosted jointly by CANRAD, NMMU’s Center for the Advancement of Non-Racialism and Democracy and AZAPO, the Azanian People’s Organization. Azania refers to the land stretching down from East Africa, basically Sub-Saharan Africa. It’s interesting to see a center for non-racialism and the former Black Consciousness Movement operating together. Does “non-racialism” imply anti-racism, which implies an ownership of racial identity by oppressed groups? I was always under the impression that Steve Biko’s work with promoting Black Consciousness was rejecting the white status quo to reject “Blackness.” That doesn’t seem to mesh so well with non-racialism. Indeed, the entire student/staff body was invited to the event, multiple times, but the vast majority of the attendees were AZAPO members. I was one of four white people in an auditorium full of people. It bothers me that since I have been living here, I have a tendency to take a inventory of the represented groups. Not specifically racial groups, but genders, languages, nationalities, whether people wear glasses or not. I first thought it was a reaction to South Africa’s significantly different racial composition but maybe I am simply trying to learn about the nation’s people. I remember in high school history class answering the question “How many races are there?” with “One: human.”However, people here are much attached, defining themselves by their racial/ethnic/cultural groups. The number of races is pretty much set: Black, White, Coloured, Indian. Race and differences between races are just too important to the history here, I suppose. People don’t want to separate themselves from their past struggles or achievements to embrace unity and justice. People should in no way abandon their unique cultural traditions or languages but the animosity seen sometimes is staggering to me. I have been told, “Oh, no, Zulus hate Xhosas,” “Oh, it’s because he’s Shaangaan. Nobody likes the Shangaan,” “I’m not African. I’m South African,” and “I’m not Khoi; I’m not San. I’m not that African. I’m more Griqua [I can’t pronounce your Xhosa last name].” 

                I have noticed that it sometimes looks as though people segregate themselves according to race but what is actually happening is quite different. Even though English is the language of business, politics, and higher education in South Africa, almost no one’s first language is English. People learn to speak English as they grow up but speak a variety of other languages at home. Even for one who is fluent in another language, using the first language is probably more comfortable. If there are others around who speak your home language, you are going to gravitate towards them to be able to better communicate. It just so happens that native Xhosa speakers have dark skin while native Afrikaans speakers have lighter skin. I have no idea to what extent this factor divides people but language is definitely the segregating factor in my classes at the university. It’s actually a bit frustrating because in group settings, the people who speak the same languages will be talking to one another and those like me, who do not speak Afrikaans, Xhosa, Zulu, or any other represented language, are left out of the loop. This is a difficult issue: surely having a variety of language groups is indicative of a thriving diverse community. Suppression of the speaking of native languages was a policy of the Apartheid government. The problem is that the people are literally not speaking the same language; how can they communicate with one another? Can a community exist without communication? If not, the result is sub-communities still segregated along the lines of language and, unintentionally, race as well. 

Anyways, at the event, I was slightly concerned that I wouldn’t be welcome as a white person at a Black Consciousness Movement event. It’s like one day when my Momma asked me as I said I enjoyed a song that talked about Jesus, “What does it mean to you?” It means I stand in solidarity with the struggle of the past that is still quite evidently unresolved today. It means I recognize Steve Biko’s work, his morals, his courage and his power and that I denounce the injustices of the era when he fought. Of course, no one paid me (or my skin color) any attention. The nice guy sitting next to me thought I was afraid of all the Black people (he told me so) and he thought it was funny that I didn’t understand any of the Xhosa being spoken. I suppose I was a little overwhelmed but I was never scared.  

Something that I have noticed being here is that Black speakers are very long-winded. They take a long time to say what they mean. The most proficient speakers take long, almost excruciating pauses in the middle of their sentences to heighten the drama between clauses (if you don’t believe me, watch a YouTube video of one of Jacob Zuma’s speeches). I was not all that impressed with the event’s keynote speaker. He spoke about the inadequacies of today’s political leadership in contrast to that of Biko’s time, mostly criticizing the current government. Everyone knows the country, the continent, the whole world has problems. This professor (Comrade Mosala) offered no solutions to the predicament and in no way connected the problems with AZAPO’s cause except for saying that AZAPO was better than the ANC.  How can this possibly mesh with Biko’s ideas of power through unity? In the question section, someone asked what the solution to our problems is and he replied with, “I cannot tell you the answers. To find them, you must go out and try to die, like Biko did. It is your time to die.” While I appreciated the sentimentalism, I did not really care for the sentiments. I though South Africa was past that point? That we would stand for no more death in the name of freedom? I suppose the Marikana events of late indicate otherwise. The Prof said he had prepared an end to his talk that praised the future of humanity in light and in respect of Biko’s legacy but that he felt entirely unjustified in delivering it given the deaths at Marikana. 

The part of the talk that was the most captivating was his personal experience with Biko and his leadership. After having been arrested with six of his comrades for a political demonstration, Biko asked to see Mosala specifically and apparently criticized him: if you are only seven people, no matter if you have right ideas, you are not a being a leader. A leader is nothing without followers (or something to that effect). Unfortunately, the rest of the speech was wholly unremarkable. The best part of the event for me was hearing the protest songs being sung by the AZAPO members. Everyone was standing up, clapping, swaying, and rocking in time to the diapason of deep bases and soulful altos. At the end, we sang N’kosi Sikelel’ iAfrika and I felt quite proud to be standing there, with my ‘a’ shape fist in the air, singing along. It’s an old hymn turned resistance song turned national anthem, creating unity out of disparity. But then, even still, some Afrikaner folk only sing the parts in English and Afrikaans because they haven’t bothered to learn the words in the other languages. Even still, I felt like an imposter perching in the precipice of integration not diving into the pool. I read Khabzela (finally) last week and the author brought up a point that I often think but don’t see reflected in South African culture: sometimes eclecticism can be counterproductive. People trying to work together, live together, and create a unified, peaceful country together aren’t privileged to the same background, aren’t raised with the same values or goals. How can they be communicating? Why weren’t there more white folk at that event? Integrating such diversity into a functional whole is a hefty challenge South Africa is facing. 

The week before, Stephen and I went to the NMMU choir presentation as per my request and his reluctance. When the choir came on, they started singing in such a diapason that I couldn’t help the tears from running down my cheeks. “THIS,” I thought, “is the Africa I have been looking for.” I started to realize that the glorious, unified image South Africa portrays to the rest of the world is a careful façade, a show. The choir was just as comfortable with medieval German  as new South Africa. Sure, people are living together, sharing equal rights but the temporary celebration of freedom has fun out. The rejoicing is over and people are wondering when, if at all, their problems will be solved by the “New South Africa.” The beauty and grace of tradition integrated with modernity, of Mama Africa, is a poetic myth. I was quite naïve to think otherwise. We left the concert with Stephen bearing a pained look of “I told you so” and I feeling more disappointed in this country than ever. I though South Africa could, was going to, teach the world a thing or two about reconciliation. Until the AZAPO event, it seemed a farce. Now, I think: where things are moving forward, where problems are being solved, that spirit of Africa is absent. Where the spirit of Africa is, progress isn’t. I don’t know why.