We arrived in South Africa on Wednesday morning; and, after a quick break for showers and settling in at the hotel, we drove to the Apartheid Museum of Johannesburg. I felt then, and still feel now, days later, nearly overwhelmed by the experience. This isn’t a criticism, but instead reflects the near impossibility of capturing Apartheid in all its breadth and scope and abject viciousness. There was, quite frankly, not enough time (nor even mental space) to take it all in; in fact, I found myself periodically skimming in the interest of time and sanity. I want to be clear here: I think it is important that the museum felt as overwhelming as it did, that we were unable to “grasp” it all. It speaks to the destructive power of systemic ubiquity—one of the very things that allowed Apartheid to lengthen its roots and flourish.
For my own part, this experience also brought to the fore the importance of our assigned readings/films and of my own extracurricular reading/viewing on South Africa and Apartheid. It was a direct result of much of it--Cry, the Beloved Country, Born a Crime, My Traitor’s Heart, Long Walk to Freedom, and others—that I was able to make some “sense” of what I was seeing. I had read about the racial reclassifications in My Traitor’s Heart, for example, so a certain foundation had already been built for me; and I had some background on the ANC from Long Walk to Freedom, so reading about it in the museum felt familiar rather than entirely foreign. In this way, the readings/viewings acted as frameworks for the detailed narrative that the museum set forth—making the overwhelming digestible. Truth be told, I cannot imagine having grasped much of what the museum held without having already consumed some of the books and films that I did. In the shadow of my experience at the museum, I am reminded of the parallels (and differences) between our two countries and their histories of racism and broad injustice—of the ways in which we have learned (and might continue to learn) from one another’s successes and failures. There is so very much that binds us in this regard even if our struggles have manifested in unique ways and along varying continuums. Is this why South Africa feels so comfortable for me? Is it because I recognize these forms of oppressions as juxtaposed to these forms of progress? Is it because I, too, live in a society full to bursting with contradiction and strife, but one that I cannot help but call home because its imperfections speak to its ongoing fight? I’m not sure. But maybe, just maybe.
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AuthorI'm Kelly. I teach English as a Second Language, business English, and writing. I eat poems for dinner. Archives
January 2019
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