Honorary White (5 page)

“You asked me earlier how I planned to move around and learn about conditions. I'll see what the officials want to show me, but I'd like to hear from you and other Blacks, too, about conditions as you see them, if you'd be willing to talk to me and show me.”

“Only if you're prepared to come and see us where we live,” Molefe replied. “We can't come often to John's house. Too risky for him and his family. Before you know it the Security Police will be on to him for consorting with Blacks. They'll think we're plotting something. In any case, it would be better to show you how we live than merely tell you about it. Think your stomach can stand it?”

“Certainly. If yours can.”

John's wife and children served some cool drinks and the discussion switched to other things. Mainly writing. Poetry. Now I discovered that the white guest, Brian, was involved in publishing and promoting the works of black authors and poets in South Africa. Without a white person to help, Blacks had no access to the publishing houses. Obie, whose recently published book of poems had been very well received, was particularly bitter about this.

“In every way, at every turn, we're made and kept dependent on the white man. Brian here's okay, but why should we have to need even him? Whites come along and claim to be interested in our poetry, novels and plays and promise to act on our behalf. Then they promote our work for their own benefit, they complete the negotiation without a word to us, they give us what they choose. They know we can't fight them in the courts. God, let our day come!”

The Whites seemed quite unmoved by these outbursts as if they'd either heard them all before or were confident that they occupied a separate and different place in the Blacks' regard. Perhaps people like John, his family, and Brian represented a bridgehead of interracial trust and understanding. Maybe there were others like him. John's surname suggested that he was of Boer stock. His hands were rough and calloused by hard work. How did he manage to win the trust of Blacks like these bright, intelligent men? How deep and real was his liberal stance? His children seemed comfortable in the company of Blacks, and children of that age are usually an excellent barometer of a family's racial attitudes. Christ, there was so much to be learned and so little time. I'd planned to stay six weeks and already that seemed too short.

On my way to the hotel that night, driven by John's wife, I saw two of the police vans making their rounds; mobile gray boxes already heavy with the nightly haul. There, I thought, but for the grace of God …

Next morning, I was up early—the noise of traffic from the street below nudged me awake. I showered, breakfasted, and I decided to take a stroll, perhaps to window-shop for some small memento of my visit to this city. At a street intersection near the hotel, a police minicar stood by the curb. I crossed the road, giving no more than a fleeting glance to the burly, red-faced officer at the wheel, and made my way slowly down the block, pausing outside a fruitstand to admire the racked display boxes laden with luscious fruit. Yellow mangoes, dark purple plums, large tight bunches of black grapes, red flecked yellow peaches nestling in pockets of soft paper, pears, grapefruit, bananas, nectarines, all looking so fresh and delectable. Two dark-skinned men, Indians, waited courteously on the customers. I wondered if the Indians owned the shop or merely worked there, and promised myself to buy some of the fruit on my way back.

A little farther along, I stopped to watch a construction site across the street. Blacks and Whites pulling and carrying, hammering and drilling amid the noise and bustle, the towering naked girders and the swinging crane cables. From where I stood, there seemed to be harmony on that job, the natural, active interdependence I'd observed on building sites in New York, London, or Paris. I'd inquire about it. I noticed that the policeman was approaching on foot from the right, jackbooted and helmeted, the leather thongs from a thick club dangling beside his right leg, his face anonymous behind large dark goggles.

Huge, powerful, and casual, he seemed to be walking directly toward where I stood. I wondered if I should move out of his way, but quickly rejected the idea. Hell, the sidewalk was wide enough for both of us and more. In New York, black petitioners had told of brutal treatment at the hands of the South African police. One had said to me, “The police come along and toss you into their car and take you to the police station. They ask you questions and you must remember to say ‘
Baas,
'
each time you answer. If you don't, they beat you across the mouth with their short clubs to teach you how to speak to a white man.” Blacks aren't allowed to say Yes and No. They must always show proper humility to the white
Baas.
Fascinated, I watched him approach. As he came nearer and nearer, I felt nervous, fearful flutterings in my gut and sudden perspiration ran coldly down my armpits. Good sense told me to move, step back or forward, but stubbornness made me stay where I was.

I felt afraid, awed by the towering faceless size of him, until it was too late to move; I braced myself for the inevitable crunching contact—but suddenly, nimbly, he sidestepped away from me and continued his slow, deliberate way until he was out of sight.

Later, I mentioned the near-incident in a telephone conversation with a friend who advised me to do the safe thing in the future and give way, unless I wanted a brutal beating with no redress. He reminded me that the policeman would have no way of knowing that I was an overseas visitor and would merely consider my behavior another instance of “kaffir cheek” which deserved whatever it got, and no one, Black or White, would intervene on my behalf. I could easily be hauled off to the nearest police station and humiliated before any attempt was made to identify me, my unfamiliar accent notwithstanding.

I paid a courtesy call at the Office of Information to let the officials know I had arrived in Johannesburg and to find out what formalities I would have to go through to achieve my purpose, learning about the lives of Blacks. I was courteously received and told that the information offices in every city would be happy to facilitate my inquiries in every way. No formalities were necessary except when I wished to visit the black enclaves in or near the major cities. For entry into these a special police pass was required. This pass, I was told, was intended for my own protection; the crime rate in those enclaves was very high, and the authorities were concerned for my safety. I thanked the Information Officer and expressed the wish then and there to visit Soweto, the largest black township within the immediate environs of Johannesburg. I was promptly given permission, together with a guide, an employee of the Information Office, and promised a comprehensive look at every facet of life in the black community. I was told that my guide, a blonde young woman, was very knowledgeable about Soweto and would be able to answer any question put to her about the township and its inhabitants. A white guide to inform me about the living conditions of blacks in a Black enclave in which not even a single White lived or was allowed to live? What would she really know? I'd wait and see.

Soweto is the largest of several black townships within the jurisdiction of Johannesburg, about fifteen miles outside the city and far enough away for the Whites not to be offended by its ugliness or threatened by the violence which frequently erupts there. It is situated in a natural hollow, the inhabitants restricted to an area of approximately thirty-four square miles. There is only one road in or out, wide and hard-surfaced to the edge of the township, and readily blocked off and controlled if necessary.

“What's the population of Soweto?” I asked my guide as we stopped briefly on a rise overlooking the township, the low, tightly packed, box-like white houses glimmering in the sunny heat, and reminiscent of the packed graveyards between Manhattan and La Guardia Airport.

“About six hundred thousand.”

She had the figure pat and ready for me. Hadn't I heard somewhere that Blacks in South Africa did not vote and no official census was taken of them? As if it had served its intended purpose, the hard-surfaced road ended abruptly at the entrance to Soweto, opposite the huge General Hospital. From there on into the township, the road was pitted and worn, with deep ruts holding water from some recent rain. Now we came upon row upon row of prefabricated four-roomed concrete houses, built closely together and separated from each other by a narrow grassy alleyway into which grew a few trees or shaggy shrubs. Some of these houses were roofed in concrete while others had corrugated galvanized metal roofs which caught and reflected the sunlight. Each house was fitted with four small windows and a door. I guessed that there was a window for each room, but those gleaming roofs worried me.

“What's it like inside?” I asked my guide. “In this heat it must be really awful.”

“Not really,” she replied. “They're designed to stay cool in summer and warm in winter.”

“How?”

“Something to do with the way they're built,” she replied lamely.

“Have you ever been in one?”

“No, but I've talked with some builders on the project.”

We stopped the car so that I could take a closer look at one of the houses. I saw no sign of electric cables or the familiar exhaust outlet which indicated internal sewerage.

“What about electric lighting?” I asked her.

“Most of the houses are fitted with electricity,” she replied. “Some of these older ones are without, but the plan is to extend it to all of them. The houses in this section are among the first built in Soweto. You can tell that because many of them have the old concrete roofs. The locals call them sleeping elephants. The newer ones are a real improvement. They have electricity and running water. The older ones have outdoor water taps.”

Ten or fifteen years earlier, she went on, Soweto was a terrible slum and the Government, in its concern for the welfare of the inhabitants, had embarked on a comprehensive rehousing scheme. From time to time, the scheme was revised and improvements included. But inevitably housing needs outstripped the pace of construction. As new houses were built, the slums were bulldozed out of existence and their occupants relocated. The houses could be bought or rented. When they were bought, the purchase related only to the building, not to the land. In Soweto and similar black townships, the house may be bought but the land on which it stands can only be leased. The length of such a lease is usually less but never more than thirty-five years, and this period may be extended or not, at the discretion of the authorities. If an extension of his lease is denied, the black lessee has no hope of appeal. My guide supplied these interesting pieces of information matter-of-factly. There was nothing bitter or vengeful about her statements or observation; she was merely providing information on a state of affairs which exists, and she was in no way personally involved.

Tenants, she informed me, fared no better. A house is rented to an individual who occupies it with his family, usually a wife and three or four small children. That is the “official” family. Because there are not enough houses to accommodate in comfort even sixty percent of those needing shelter, subletting is encouraged and practiced. The tenant benefits little from this, however, for subtenants must pay their rent, not to him, the “official” tenant, but to the landlord, the city of Johannesburg, through its local agent. It can be assumed that there is hardly a house in Soweto without its quota of subtenants, so considerable revenues must accrue to the city over and above the basic rents anticipated for the scheme.

I asked her if she could arrange for me to look inside one of the houses, but she merely smiled at that. Actually, I could not see her approaching any of those black residents. Many of the women interrupted their chores long enough to stare at us, my blonde guide and me. I wondered what they thought of us.

As the tour progressed, there was no escaping the drab sameness of the houses, the garbage-littered streets, or the few shoddy shops. Groups of youths sat outside the shops or wandered about aimlessly. My guide explained that the schools were still out for the long Christmas vacation. She pointed out what she called some of the special advantages of Soweto. Picnic grounds, a pleasantly green though unkempt oasis; a large football stadium where all the main outdoor social and athletic events, such as boxing matches, were held; a nursery school for children of working mothers; the empty Soweto High School. We pulled into the high school yard and I peeped into a classroom through a broken window. Row upon row of dusty wooden desks, the walls unrelieved by even a map. Gloomy.

Our tour continued along roads now generally tar-surfaced and comfortably passable and we stopped at the only vocational school in Soweto. About two hundred youths annually, as many as the school can now accommodate, are selected out of more than a thousand who have passed a qualifying examination, and are taught the rudiments of electrical wiring, plumbing, bricklaying and masonry, and carpentry.

The school's principal was an Englishman long resident in South Africa, and, like most school principals, complained of the acute shortage of basic equipment, materials, and textbooks, in spite of which the youths were making extraordinary progress. I saw some of the models made by the students and some of their drawings, and they compared very favorably with work I'd seen by design students in well-equipped classrooms in London and New York. One student's work was so outstanding that a visiting Swiss diplomat had given him a very expensive watch in encouragement.

The Principal said that, given the opportunity and further training, the black students could excel in the building and other industries which are clamoring for skilled labor. Unfortunately, they are victimized by South Africa's “job reservation” laws, by which all skilled and some semi-skilled jobs are reserved to Whites. A bricklayer, plasterer, or electrician must be white. The young black students, ambitious and enthusiastic while training, face a very frustrating future. They are likely to be employed as low-paid helpers to Whites less skilled than themselves and might even do the work without receiving the pay.