by Thordis Elva
After realizing that this jeweler is well outside my price range, Tom and I continue our walk. We pass one of the Waterfront’s countless souvenir stores, boasting an eight-foot Nelson Mandela made out of beaded wire. His hands look like rakes with spread, angular fingers. The proportions of the face are skewed, complete with eyebrows that are uncomfortably reminiscent of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. He’s wearing a gaudy sweater made of beads in at least four shades of neon blue. Mandela’s signature white hair covers the head, removing any doubt about the statue’s identity. The overall look is radically kitsch, deeply violating my sense of aesthetics to the point where I’m embarrassed that I can’t take my eyes off it.
‘I’ll take a picture of you and him,’ Tom offers.
I’m shocked at the suggestion until I realize that he’s kidding, judging by the wide grin on his face.
‘Ha ha. Very funny,’ I reply in an icy voice. What nerve!
He pretends he didn’t hear me and reaches for my camera phone with feigned sincerity. ‘C’mon, just one tourist shot.’
Even though I know full well that humor is a necessary companion on our journey, my ego still crumbles under the first joke he makes at my expense. Too soon. A part of me even thinks that I should be the one to crack the first joke, not him. I regain my cool, put on a bitter smile, and reply: ‘Go to hell, Stranger.’
He shrugs. ‘Fair enough. Your call.’
Closer to downtown, the buildings stretch higher and higher until we’re surrounded by skyscrapers rising proudly out of the asphalt. Meanwhile, Tom describes how his family moved to a coastal suburb in another part of the country after the fairytale childhood on the hobby farm. His mother was offered a job, and both parents thought it would be a chance to expand the family’s horizons. ‘I remember the tears my older brother and I cried when they told us; we were both enjoying high school, and we struggled to see the logic of our parents. The first few months were really tough. The adjustment to the new private school was the hardest part, and it wasn’t easy to break into friendship groups or to deal with the cultural change. There was a pretty specific mold to fit. If you weren’t interested in surfing and rugby, you were either bullied or left out. Surfing I had an interest in, but rugby seemed alien to me.’
‘So your love for surfing was originally a means to survive in a town full of bigots?’
His eyes narrow a bit. ‘If you didn’t make the cut, you weren’t one of the “fellas”. So yes, I loved surfing, but it was also a bit of an “in”.’
I whistle softly in surprise.
‘But don’t get me wrong, the area we moved to consisted of suburbs stretching along beautiful east-coast beaches. It might have been hard at first, but I got used to the way of life there pretty quickly. Hard not to when you’re thirteen and living a block away from a national park and surf beach. There were some really solid relationships seeded in those high school years, too, and some of the people I met at school are still near and dear friends. Speaking of near and dear ones, I should mention a young man that my mother took in before I was born who has been a constant figure in my life. He’s older than me — he traveled the world and would write letters to us, telling stories of his foreign adventures. If I had a life mentor, he’d be it. He’s been a big influence, and I reckon has inspired me to wonder about what’s over that next hill. He’s a massive support also, and as adults I consider him a dear friend.’
Listening to his life story, it’s obvious that Tom didn’t lack brothers to love, learn from, and identify with. I silently ponder how it would’ve affected him if he’d had a sister too. Would it have changed anything for me?
As if he read my thoughts, Tom adds: ‘We also had three female exchange students while I was growing up. My parents wanted us to experience other cultures and expand our world views, but having our foreign “sisters” in the family was also a way to develop our understanding of girls.’
Listening to Tom’s story, I note that central Cape Town is a ghost town today. Capetonians must be eager travelers during Easter, much like Icelanders who flock out of town on bank holidays. Wherever we go, we’re met with closed doors and quiet businesses. In spite of the missing hustle and bustle, the city is far from empty. On every street we encounter the homeless citizens of Cape Town. They watch us closely and the attention isn’t always friendly. Turning a corner near the train station, we walk into a group of people gathered around a ghetto blaster. A haggard man wearing a dirty baseball cap points at me, and the group by the ghetto blaster turns to face us.
‘We should get going,’ I whisper, quickening my step.
‘I agree. Should we take a taxi?’ He nods towards a taxi waiting beneath a row of trees that are swaying in the wind.
The relief that floods my veins as we get into the backseat is accompanied by the feeling that we narrowly escaped trouble. It’s closely followed by guilt and distaste over my own whiteness, my undeniable privilege. Tom climbs in next to me and for a split second, his knee brushes mine. It’s an innocent touch, and it doesn’t trigger any fear in me, nor an involuntary flashback. Leaning back into the seat, I celebrate this tiny victory, having worked too hard for too long to go limp with terror over trivial activities like buying coffee and sharing taxis.
The driver takes us to the South African National Gallery, as suggested by Tom, who had read about it in a tourist brochure over breakfast. We’re blown into the foyer of a majestic neo-classical building from the 1930s, praising our luck that the museum is open on Good Friday. The current photography exhibit marks one hundred years since the cruel Land Act was passed. The Act allowed black citizens to own a total of just 8 per cent of South Africa’s land, despite making up 80 per cent of the population. Justified by the apartheid policy, an increasing number of areas were declared to be for whites only, leading to the uprooting of black people and the destruction of their homes. Some of whom are still roaming the streets, I think. The photographs capture devastated people who had their life savings wrenched out of their hands. A photo of a shell-shocked woman with a goat on a leash and crying children hiding in her skirts is instantly etched into my memory.
I catch myself clenching my fists, furious at the injustice that took place in this lush country, the echoes of which reached far beyond its borders. Photograph after photograph depicts the turmoil caused by the forced relocations of black South Africans. The poverty in the government-assigned ‘black spots’ was abysmal, with no infrastructure or job opportunities, light years away from the quality of life that whites allotted themselves. My heart sinks as I read the dates. Some of the photographs are taken after I was born, in the ’80s. The systemic discrimination lasted until the historic elections of 1994, when blacks were allowed to run for office for the first time in a South African democratic election.
‘I’m ashamed of the privilege people of my race acquired by stealing from others,’ I hiss.
Tom nods, upset. ‘The cruelty is unfathomable.’
After gazing at hundreds of photographs documenting the inhumanity of racism, my mind starts to ponder the dehumanizing effects of labels; when people are no longer people, they are ‘whites’ or ‘blacks’, ‘oppressors’ or ‘the oppressed’. I turn my head to look at the man I flew here to meet, the ‘perpetrator’ who cast me in the role of ‘victim’; the labels that shape and separate us. My thoughts bounce off the walls, off the country’s history, our history. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed. All I want is a chance for my thoughts to settle in private, away from Tom. My feet carry me into the next room — and into a horror scene.
The space is small and closed off. I am met with three terrifying creatures sitting on a bench. Their skin is pale and lifeless; their eyes black, without pupils. Instead of ears, they have holes below broken horns that protrude from their hairless heads. Their noses and mouths are covered with coarse skin. Deep incisions line their bodies from the throat down to the navel, like they’ve been di
ssected. My fists are still clenched in anger towards apartheid when I realize that I am looking at its embodiment. Of course. Only when people cut out their hearts, rip off their ears, and sew their mouths shut can they condone hatred. Yet these demons are sitting relaxed on a bench like they’re killing time, much like cruelty. Cruelty also relaxed on a bench for half a century, nonchalantly crossing its legs while forming the backdrop to South African existence.
A quote by a renowned specialist in the field of sexual violence pops up in my mind: Rape is mundane. It happens every day, every hour, every minute all around the world. As horrible as it is, it’s a mundane part of everyday life.
Tom’s voice pulls me back into the present. ‘Butcher Boys by Jane Alexander,’ he reads from a sign. ‘I can’t even look at them. Holy shit that’s creepy.’ He shudders and turns away, marching quickly into the next room.
Watching him, I can’t help but wonder if his reaction is colored with guilt about his own evils. I look back at the Butcher Boys, who are staring at me through blind eyes, calm as a millpond. In the spirit of true cruelty, they couldn’t care less. Nothing is as coldhearted as perfect indifference.
When we exit the museum a while later, the wind welcomes us like an eager dog, tearing playfully at Tom’s shirt and blowing my hair into my mouth. A gorgeous garden stretches out before us, complete with sculptures and ornate fountains. I stop to look at a statue of a late leader. The bronze has turned blue, and yet I know that the leader’s skin is white and his gender is male. South African colonial history in a nutshell.
As we settle down in the grass, an oddly shaped cloud hovering over Table Mountain catches my eye. Wrapping my cardigan tighter around me, I vaguely recall reading that certain types of clouds foreshadow stormy weather. I wonder if there is a storm upon us, in more ways than one.
‘One of my favorite films is about the struggle against apartheid in South Africa. It’s based on a book called The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay. It’s a family favorite,’ Tom tells me. Before I’ve had a chance to respond, a beggar appears. After he illustrates his hunger and misery, Tom reaches into his bag and hands him a prickly pear. The act is so effortless and spontaneous that I classify it as genuine kindness, not as a play to impress me. I frown, filled with distaste at how judgmental I’m being. What does it matter? Am I not scrambling to put on my best act too?
While I’m battling my thoughts, Tom pulls a folded piece of paper out of his bag. ‘Can I read something to you?’
‘Please do.’
He clears his throat and starts reading a chapter from a book that argues how masculine stereotypes have made it harder for men to embrace things like humility, sincerity, and forgiveness throughout the years. His hands tremble slightly, and although nothing in the text comes as a surprise, I’m still moved by his effort. A warm certainty is born in my soul. There’s no play going on, just well-intentioned sincerity.
‘Thanks for sharing,’ I say when he looks up from the paper.
‘Thanks for listening,’ he replies, flushed. The sun is about to set, and the shadows stretch their long, cool fingers across the lawn.
‘I need to tell you something,’ I say when we’re seated in a sushi-train place, walking distance from Sea Point. The last rays of sunlight draw Tom’s outline in shimmering motes of dust as the wind shakes the palm trees across the street.
‘What’s that?’ he asks, grabbing a piece of avocado maki off the conveyor belt.
‘I’ve been working on a play about forgiveness for four years now.’
He raises his brows and I add: ‘The reason I didn’t tell you before is that I didn’t want you to think that I was using you as some sort of guinea pig for my theatre experiments. I’m done writing the play and it is in no way about us.’
He nods. ‘Geez … four years is a long time. You’ve certainly gone deep into looking at forgiveness.’
‘I discovered so many things. You know, people are always apologizing without even noticing. We bump into someone at the supermarket — we’re sorry. We step on someone’s toes in the elevator — we’re sorry.’
‘Yes, but “sorry” and “forgive me” aren’t really the same thing, are they? I’d say that “sorry” carries a lot less weight.’
‘I agree. “Sorry” is the diet version. “Forgive me” is reserved for when you’ve really hurt someone.’
He nods and takes a sip from his beer.
‘I think I had this rosy idea of forgiveness before I learned more about how it really works. One day, I interviewed an 84-year-old woman who radically changed my outlook when she claimed that people only forgive when they have to.’
He looks me in the eye. ‘How …?’
I put down my chopsticks. ‘Imagine that you stop at a gas station, only to get shitty service from a rude clerk. What would you do the next time you need to take gas?’
He gives it some thought before answering: ‘Go to a different gas station, I suppose.’
‘Exactly, because you have a choice. When people have a choice, most of them choose not to forgive. However, if it were the only gas station in town, you’d be forced to find a way to deal with this incident in order to keep getting gas, right?’
‘Right.’
‘If a family member hurts you and you hold onto the anger, the atmosphere at home gradually becomes unbearable. That’s why people usually find a way to forgive their loved ones, because the alternative comes at too high a cost. It’s not as easy to change families as it is to change gas stations. Sometimes, the pivotal factor is not the proximity to the offender; it’s the gravity of the hurt. If it cuts deep enough, life can slowly become unbearable despite the offender being miles away, or even dead. Which, in turn, can make forgiveness seem like the only way out.’
‘That would explain why people can forgive some heavy stuff while still holding a grudge over small, petty things,’ he says thoughtfully.
I feel my face light up: he understands what I am trying to say. ‘Precisely. For example, I’m still pissed off at that asshole classmate of mine who accused me of cheating in a game of bingo in sixth grade, while I’ve already forgiven …’
Tom watches me closely as I search for the right example to finish my thought. Suddenly, I realize he might be nurturing a false hope.
‘… other things that cut much deeper,’ I quickly add, and lower my stare into my wine glass.
He nods and reaches for another piece of sushi. I don’t know if I’m imagining the disappointment on his face or not. Suddenly, the moment is paper thin, much like the translucent shreds of salmon the cook is slicing in front of us.
‘Speaking of meaningful experiences, where were you in your life story?’ I ask, relieved to change the subject.
‘Let’s see …’ He puts down his chopsticks and gives it some thought. ‘We had moved and I was in high school. I was fifteen when I had my first taste of romance. She had curly hair and an incredible talent as a singer and dancer. We all knew she’d quit school sooner or later to go professional, that’s how good she was. We kissed and made out, but that’s as far as it went. Around the same time, I started experimenting with booze. For one party, a few of my friends and I planned to either steal liquor from our parents or get our older brothers to buy it. We then went down to a secluded spot on the beach and started a fire. Shortly after that the drinking began … and then it turned into somewhat of an … orgy.’
I choke on my wine. ‘An orgy?!’ I splutter.
‘It’s difficult to explain, but relationship or not, people were just making out with anyone. Some went down on others … it was a mess.’
‘What about you?’
‘No, I didn’t go that far. Well actually, I made out with a girl who wasn’t my girlfriend. But that was OK, because my girl made out with someone else too, or at least that’s what I remember.’
‘Wow, what a strange case of mob men
tality.’
‘Yes, it was a freaky night, to say the least. The consequences for the guys and the girls were very different. We boys had a disgusting brag circle about who had gone the furthest that night, received the most head, and so on. The girls were given horrible nicknames that stuck with them for a long time. But the boys boasted about it, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I mutter. ‘I can’t tell you how sick I am of the notion that sex turns girls into sluts and boys into men.’
‘Couldn’t agree with you more. I still hadn’t had sex though, not until I met the girl I lost my virginity with. She was slender, loved running, and had a bit of a reckless streak like me. We were together for around eighteen months, but it was something of a distant relationship. We spent time together but didn’t develop a … closeness. I wish I could say that our first time was romantic and beautiful, but it wasn’t. Frankly, it was … well, awkward. There had been drinking, and we were at a friend’s parents’ place. In the dark, we fumbled about, neither of us took off our clothes completely, she just lifted up her dress and I pulled my pants down. I didn’t know what to do with the condom and somehow got it on inside out. The experience was, I think for both of us, terrible,’ he says with a grimace.
Listening to his story, I wonder if I feel he’s allowed to use a word like ‘terrible’ to describe an incident that took place with both parties’ full consent. I wonder if he’s ever experienced real terror in sex — would he then phrase things differently?
Tom takes a sip from his drink before continuing. ‘I was fortunate enough to be offered to do an exchange overseas the last year of high school. I applied for an exchange program and was offered Jamaica. My friends were green with envy, and I was over the moon myself. But then I was told that I was too old for the Jamaican educational system. I was offered the chance to go to Russia instead, but my parents, as well as the headmaster, said it was too much of a risk, as I’d be part of the first ever group to go. Eventually, I was sent a brochure with pictures of snowy mountains and stocky horses and told that Iceland was the only option left.’
