Unseen

by Reggie Yates

  We climbed a small hill and were suddenly able to see out and into the other side of the park. Beside a stunning lake surrounded by trees was a clearing. A small drive where families could park up and picnic held several parked cars huddled around a barbecue. A group of young guys and girls were having the time of their lives dancing and drinking.

  I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at the assumption I’d made. I admitted to JD that due to his description of the noisemakers as being ‘the rich people’ I was expecting to see young privileged white kids. I was wrong, the group dancing and drinking by the lake were black.

  According to JD, they were getting what they deserved as their parents wouldn’t even have been allowed in the park, let alone been free enough to party in public.

  This was a group of middle-class kids from Soweto. The famous township was once a shadow of its current state, as today, Soweto has gentrified and attracted the upwardly mobile blacks, some of whom I was watching chug beer and booty pop on a car bonnet.

  Cool boxes and food sat outside every car boot as the group of about twenty milled about with drinks and paper plates. It was a party and they were clearly having fun. They were enjoying (as JD put it) their deserved freedom, but what did they think of the residents in Coronation Park? I followed the noise and joined the group.

  Drinks flowed and the music was loud. I asserted myself, cornering the chattiest guy to ask him about the camp. His reaction I didn’t see coming at all. He didn’t even believe it existed, let alone less than a hundred yards away. ‘You won’t get white people here.’ I pushed but he refused to accept the level of poverty I’d literally slept in the middle of.

  Both JD and Hardis had a dream and that was to find work to feed his family. But unlike JD, Hardis wanted desperately to get his family out of South Africa. He felt strongly that, due to laws like AA, there wasn’t a future for his family in the country where he had been born and raised.

  The voice of poor, young white men was loud and clear: they felt the South African system didn’t care. But what did their black equivalent feel about their chances? I took a drive out of town to attend a rally held by a political party known as Economic Freedom Fighters. The EFF were gathering a steady momentum and taking the poor young black contingent by storm.

  My squeaky rental car was waved towards a makeshift car park beside a huge field. Men and women in red T-shirts and berets were everywhere. I hopped out of the embarrassing granny car and made my way towards the music and crowds. I jostled my way to the front, where a long strip of tape working as a barrier held the swelling crowd in place as all eyes were on the empty stage while distorted music played loudly.

  As I’m sure you can imagine, it didn’t take long before the guy with the London accent and the white dude with the camera began to stand out a little. Suspicion swirled from the elders and, as usual, the kids were the first ones to come up and ask about my tattoos. It was a strange set-up as hundreds of people were literally standing around looking at each other and the stage in anticipation, but for what?

  A short sweaty black guy in a red beret took to the mic and in no time had the crowd whipped up and in the palm of his hands. From old women right the way through to their grandchildren, everyone was raising fists while stood side by side screaming ‘Viva EFF viva!’

  The party was growing quickly with support swelling particularly in rural townships. The party believed that affirmative action as a law wasn’t doing enough for young poor blacks. Rising up as an alternative to the in-power and well-loved ANC, EFF believed the current government hadn’t gone far enough to ensure more black people had a route out of poverty.

  The EFF was calling for a total overhaul in societal structure. One of their more controversial policies relates to the sensitive issue of farmland. Intrinsically connected to the wealth of the Boer people, the EFF wanted white-owned farmland to be taken back. Also calling for nationalisation of lucrative natural mineral mines, the party and its leader were ruffling some serious feathers.

  The party had become controversial, as they’d been known to sing a famous Apartheid rebellion song ‘Shoot the Boer, kill the farmer’. Speaking directly to the anger and frustrations of voters who lived in poor townships, the party and their unapologetic attitude to their former oppressors had become national news.

  In the opinion of Gerry, the current government might have served the black South African people better, but poverty for the black majority is still rife. Poor black people were still angry and demanding more to be done.

  People had been staring and sizing me up, and inevitably they began asking me questions. I found myself getting into a conversation with a few red berets from the party. A young father and I got into it and quickly; his version of South Africa stood out as a totally different world to Gerry’s. He referred to the country’s current state as that of so-called independence. ‘I may be free to sit next to a white person on a bus, but I’ve got no income.’

  The similarities were uncanny, these people felt just as marginalised and ignored as Hardis. People at the rally wanted change, and the feeling of militancy was in the air. The excitement reached fever pitch as a silver Mercedes arrived.

  Kids ran towards the car screaming and people started to jump around in song. This was what the stage was for, the commander in chief had arrived and he was a star. A woman screamed ‘I want to touch him with my hands’ as she ran by, and I was confused as I thought we were waiting for a politician. We were, but this guy had more than a constituency. He had fans.

  Red berets surrounded the man linking arms keeping the crowds back. This was Julius Malema, the leader of the EFF. He’d arrived to give a speech, but it felt like a pop star doing community outreach. If the noise was anything to go by, I’m pretty sure people in the next two towns knew about it. As he made his way to the stage, it was chaos and everyone rushed forward, desperate to touch the man.

  He was a hero. The minute Malema touched the mic, the place fell silent. He instructed his followers where to be for the next rally and when he spoke, they listened. As he mused, they cheered. He had his audience in the palm of his hand and had the community galvanised to his cause.

  His speech came to a close and, rather than leaving the stage, Malema began to march on the spot. Surrounded by red T-shirts and berets, his team and security did the same. Then it happened, Malema began to sing the song.

  This was the first time I’d heard anyone sing the ‘Shoot the Boer, kill the farmer’ song but this wasn’t the version I’d expected. Malema sarcastically sang ‘kiss the farmer’ not kill. The song in its original form had been banned, so it was being sung but not with its original lyrics. But it might as well have been.

  Everyone there had joined in singing the song, but I didn’t leave thinking his followers all wanted to kill people they hadn’t met, far from it. One supporter I talked to spoke about wanting to win the battle using knowledge not violence, but with such a divisive song still being sung, what message was that sending to detractors? For a political leader to knowingly sing a hate song couldn’t be good for his cause, regardless of the new words.

  As a former member of the ANC, Julius Malema was once tipped to lead the party but ended up forming a new organisation in his own image. Malema and that song have become famous as a point of contention for his opposition as well as for white South Africans, who see the song not only as hate speech but a direct threat.

  Back at Coronation Park, Irene explained to me that she believed all EFF supporters wanted to kill Boer people just like her. Failing to understand why the anger in the townships might be as fresh in the present, Irene was resolute. Reminding her that Apartheid was a long time ago but not a lifetime ago, I urged her to understand how many people still alive lived under segregation laws. That level of hate is hard to forget, but forgetting is exactly what Irene expected black South Africans to do.

  ‘Forgive and forget’ was what she kept repeating, expecting the horrors of the black existence under segrega
tion to be forgotten. I was totally confused by her total disregard for what was hell for millions of black South Africans. What was a seemingly conversational back and forth quickly escalated into a loud dressing down.

  Irene had stopped listening and decided I was a ‘stupid man’. She said so several times. ‘That’s why the world is how it is, because they can’t forgive and forget.’ I knew I’d get nowhere so I let her rant. Knowing we’d never agree, I let Irene leave in a huff. To forget the pain of Apartheid would be nothing short of irresponsible as there can only be lessons learned from history. As far as I’m concerned you must never forget, because if you forget, what the hell are you going to learn?

  It was time for me to leave the camp for the last time. As I left I gave JD and his mother a hug. As I walked away she called after me and said, ‘Always look to the trees and to the sky, remember us there.’ I’m not the most sentimental person, I have no idea what she meant, but the surreal, sudden and heartfelt request couldn’t have been more perfect.

  On this trip to South Africa I didn’t see the rainbow nation I’d hoped to find. Essentially, both black and white people had become victims of Apartheid but in very different ways. JD believed his generation was paying a price for the mistakes of their forefathers, while Irene just wanted everyone to move on. Who am I to say who was right, but one thing I did agree with was one of the last things JD said to me: ‘Change takes time.’

  Surrounded by squalor in a slum populated solely by white South Africans, I was confronted by the results of the political and systemic rebalancing of power and opportunity in the country in the most real world, first-hand way. My initial shock at seeing white faces living in abject poverty made me reassess my own preconceptions.

  The poor whites were paying a price after decades of oppressing black people. With hangovers of Apartheid still continuing to affect race relations, my personal hang-ups and desire for equality forced me to confront the question, what do I believe to be fair? Fairness for me will always begin with balance. Unfortunately, with some of the most painful years in the country’s history still so recent, that idealistic desire looks a long way off.

  Power in South Africa has changed hands from the minority oppressor to the oppressed majority. Ask yourself this question. If you’d watched your family oppressed for generations because of the colour of their skin and suddenly you were in power, what would you do?

  CHAPTER 5

  NO LOVE LEGISLATION

  In the early days of my career, I treated every day at work as a social education. I was surrounded by middle-class, white men and women who were from a whole other planet culturally. Their interests, the way they spoke, even what they ate was new to me. No one cared about football, but everyone understood wine. This wasn’t just about the authoritarian African value system I’d been raised in. This was about class.

  I was a kid who only knew one type of adult and that was the men and women in my family. The gumbo of working-class grit, mixed with African values and culture made for a financially scrupulous and insular existence. At home, respect, rules and money mattered. We were pinching pennies, shopping at Dalston market in Hackney for our meat and vegetables and Chapel market in Angel for our toiletries. At work, runners were sent out to Sainsbury or Waitrose solely to purchase bags and bags of treats for us, the cast of kids.

  Let me put this into context. At home, I’d carefully pick my moment to ask for a biscuit and was never allowed more than two custard creams with my tea. At work, I was encouraged to take huge bags of party-sized chocolate bars that I’d obliterate during the cab ride home.

  The bizarre nature of being a working-class kid growing up in a polar opposite world of professional and personal conditions is only really dawning on me as I type. I have to laugh, as the gangly twelve-year-old version of me was about to have the shock of his life.

  Working on the ITV Saturday morning kids show The Disney Club was the dream. I was cast in a show I’d watched every weekend, and overnight I became one of the kids on the colourful set getting covered in gunge and introducing cartoons. Once the buzz of access to that endless stream of sweets and sugary drinks had died down, I actually started to pay attention to the team that were now my co-workers.

  This group of grown-ups were young, smart and liberal. They were unlike my family as for a start they were all white, but also because they all saw the world in such a different way. Yes, they encouraged me to take advantage of what seemed to be an endless budget. Food, cabs and gifts kept coming. But beyond that, their attitude towards sexuality quickly normalised what was an absolute taboo in the world I came from.

  We the cast of presenters were all children and were definitely annoying a solid 80 to 90 per cent of the time I’m sure, but at the time I felt supported and included. I was obsessed by one member of the crew in particular who happened to run the art department; his name was Ant. To this day I can’t remember his full name and I’d prefer to never know it as he was this cool, crazy-haired creative, given free rein to build and design the most incredible props.

  Ant was the complete and total embodiment of cool to me. He had one name like Prince, Madonna and Seal, and he also signed my birthday card with a drawing of a cartoon Ant not his name. What a dude! To my twelve-year-old self, this guy was the man. That shock of my life I referred to earlier came when things got busy on the show and Ant brought in some support to bolster his department.

  A few days in, I remember meeting the new French guy who was helping out with props. The dude had an accent and could paint! I was in awe. I’ll never forget the moment I was introduced to Claude, as his name was quickly followed by ‘This is Ant’s husband.’ I’d never knowingly met a gay man in my twelve years. Furthermore, I’d never had to hide shock and confusion before and I’m pretty sure I did a terrible job in that moment.

  At the time, gay marriage in the UK wasn’t legal so in hindsight, their rings and titles were both a showing of unity and defiance.

  Looking back, there’s a few bachelor uncles of mine who definitely had an ‘alternative lifestyle’ the family never spoke about, but that’s another book entirely. Who Ant and Claude were wasn’t a secret; they were an openly gay couple, married and clearly in love. They were just another two members of the team who weren’t treated any differently and that was mind-blowing to me as attitudes towards homosexuality at home, at school and on my estate weren’t as accepting.

  It was the 1990s and my mother worked for the health authority in HIV and AIDS awareness. Through her work and connection to AIDS, I learnt that the gay community was intrinsically linked to this sad and scary disease. Acceptance and understanding was essential while she was at work, yet culturally and off the clock gay men and women were people you simply didn’t mix with.

  Thanks to Ant and Claude, my understanding of same-sex relationships was thankfully not influenced by the playground or my uncle George and his laddy beer-swigging mates down the pub. To me, they quickly became just another couple who loved each other and after a few hours, their sexuality wasn’t something I’d even think about again.

  My life has constantly been coloured with conflict. The things I’d been taught versus the first-hand experiences I’d had since childhood forced me to form my own opinions on so many things from a young age. Working in TV throughout my formative years, I grew up constantly butting against the world view I’d been presented with by my home life. Who Ant and Claude were as people made twelve-year-old me reject what I’d been taught at home.

  The documentaries I went on to make have put me in places and with people I’d never have met in my own life. Who I am today is massively informed by that understanding I started to gain as a child, and extends to the way I carry myself both on and off screen. That same understanding would go on to be challenged every day while shooting Gay and Under Attack, the second film in the Extreme Russia series.

  By now I’d spent a decent chunk of time in Russia. No, I hadn’t got used to the cold as yet, it still felt blood
y freezing but I’d got used to the ‘fifteen layers and two pairs of socks’ life. That being said, I’d yet to best the constant and relentless draining of energy I’d encounter wherever I went. This film would prove to be a difficult one to make due to the nature of the subject matter and, unfortunately, the kind of people I’d have to engage with to truly get to the core of the issues at hand.

  It was 2013 and in Russia it had just become illegal to tell anyone under the age of eighteen that being homosexual was in any way normal. I was in St Petersburg for the first time and the beautiful city totally threw me. The place looked like Venice, with central blocks of the city built around the water, and it felt like Europe with so many people eating and drinking coffee outside.

  I was in the city to attend Queer Fest, a festival organised by and for the LGBTQ community. I was collected from the airport by the city’s only gay taxi service. The Rainbow Taxi service’s driver Alena was behind the wheel and ferried me into the city along with my guide Sergei.

  Providing small clues as to who the car service was aimed at, the rainbow radio knob and steering wheel were conservative by British standards but walking a dangerous line for Russian eyes. Alena explained the reason for the service was ‘So we’ll be safe and protected.’ But how unsafe was it to be Russian and gay?

  Getting into the city, the beauty of the water and architecture made the final leg feel like a European getaway. Driving in at golden hour didn’t hurt either as the sun was staining everything yellow and pink. Bringing me right back down to earth, Sergei reminded me not to be fooled by appearances.

  The further we drove the more I noticed the country’s history was clearly a big a part of its present. Statues dedicated to Lenin, the leader of the country during the Communist years, were huge and they were everywhere. Up until as recently as 1993, being exposed as gay in Russia would see you behind bars with hard labour for up to five years. Today, to be gay is no longer illegal, but the attitudes that supported such laws have proven harder to abolish.