Dora's - Fight For Equal Rights

by Claudia Viana

  Injustices of Dora’s Dream

  Dora

  Racism. It is a peculiar way that stereotypes think, discriminating against others. It is a strong word that divides communities based on their skin colour, race and beliefs. My dear mother, Anesu always told me that all that matters is what is inside us. She led me to believe for the past 16 years that colour does not get to define who I am or the rights that I have. We all have the freedom to be ourselves, yet somehow the Apartheid system controls us. Limits us. Restricts us from expressing ourselves and doing what we want. And so we the Bantu community, are forced to fight back for our lives.

  Dora

  Following the morning ritual, I got ready for school as my mother braided my frizzy long black hair. I sat on the cold kitchen stool as she brushed aggressively through my knotty hair. I looked down at the wooden floor seeing a little bug crawling into a crack. I asked my mother, “Would we still live here, even if dad were alive?” I saw a little wave of a tear blinking in her eye. She replied unsteady “Even if dad were here, he would still be fighting against the system”. She then took a deep breath in, controlling her tears and continued talking to me about how she used to fight for justice and protest but ever since my father, Bongani (meaning to be grateful in Zulu) died when I was one, she has decided to keep her fighting spirit and opinion to her self. This for her is the best way to avoid conflict and to be safe. Safe for her own sake and for mine, because anyone who disobeys a law will be fined, imprisoned, and/or whipped. With my family’s meagre salary, it’s not worth risking the little security we have and get fined, suffering other consequences. My mother has never been much of an aggressive person and I respect her for the decisions that she has made.

  On the other hand my father was much more insistent, as he died in a protest that went out of control in Sharpeville. He fought for his rights and against the passive “Pass Laws”. Him and 5,000 other black Africans went to the police station on the 21st of March 1960. The date keeps re-winding itself in my mind, over and over again. Every time I think of fighting back the date pops up in my head, making me feel devastated thinking about how prejudice and unjust life can be. Sixty-nine black people died that day, when the white policeman decided to open fire. My father happened to be one of the unfortunate deaths that day. Sixteen sad years have passed, that I have grieved over his death and have had to live without a father. In present-day 1976 South Africa, my mother, the Bantu community and I celebrate the 21st of March in memory of my father and honour of the Sharpeville massacre. I dream that one day, the whole of South Africa can honour this day on behalf of the battle for human rights in regards to the pass laws.

  In that aspect I am proud of my mother and what she has accomplished as a single mother raising and providing the best life possible for me. I understand why she doesn’t fight back anymore, because is it really worth risking her life? Like my fathers, and yet nothing has changed since that day. The laws continue to be as harsh and cruel. One of the pass laws, that I feel has had the most significant impact on my families life is the fact that “under no circumstances may any employer pay non-whites the same rates as white people even if they do the same work and work the same hours.” This law is the most discriminating pass law, and has affected my closest family friends the most. Some jobs are glamorous, exciting and fun and others are not, but they still need to be done. I’ve been taught to dream big, to dream of a better future. So as I’m on the road to making my dreams come true, I have to take each job I have as a blessing, it is a part of what you must do.

  Dora

  As my mother and I were walking to school today, we bumped into a colleague of my mother, who also works as a domestic helper. She told us that she had heard the Coetzer family’s children were sick. Immediately, she looked at me and I realised that today I was not going to attend school but instead going to work with her. My mother is the caretaker and domestic helper for the Coetzer family. They are a white middle class family that lives in a conservative white suburb, Boksburg, near Johannesburg. She has taken care of the three Coetzer children in the family for the past fourteen years. Anesu started off first raising the only son, Danie, who is the same age as I am, and then followed by two daughters, an older, Karin that is eight and a three years old baby girl named Melanie. My mother has put her heart and soul into raising these children, and taking care of them and their home. I know how much hard work it has been just by seeing how exhausted my mum is by the time she gets home everyday. Normally when she arrives home, she lays down on the rough brown blankets.

  I have once gone with my mother to help and take care of the children when both girls were sick. I realised how strict and serious their mother is. She has blond curly hair that gets sprayed upwards every morning and dresses very smartly and conservatively. She wears the same serious face expression every time I see her. Although she may seem solemn, I sense that she deep inside cares a lot about her children. Completely the opposite of their tall stern dark haired father, who even when his children are sick, does not seem to have any time or compassion for them. To be honest, even I am afraid of him. Whilst I have been at their house, he has never taken a second out of his busy life to check up on them.

  It is ironic that us Bantu people are judged and discriminated by the white South Africans as a lesser race. Having helped my mother a couple of times, I’ve remembered that I cant drink from their cups, eat from their plates, use their cutlery and worst of all use the same rest room, mainly stating their toilet. Nevertheless we are employed to clean their houses cook their food and take care of their precious babies raising and educating them for years. Remarkably, there is my mother employed to raise, feed, care, educate and love the Coetzer children, which are supposedly the parents most precious creations; but yet she is not allowed to use the same toilet, cups or plates.

  Danie

  Melanie was sitting lethargically on the white tiled bathroom floor, when I walked in as Anesu was holding Melanie’s gold blond hair back and patting her back saying “Don’t worry my Dodo” as she kept on vomiting. Melanie has really suffered with the flu this time. I am not feeling to great either and I have most probably received it from her after helping her finish eating her dinner last night. I guess she rewarded me back with this. I have been up since the early hours of the morning, vomiting.

  Dora, Anesu’s daughter came to work today and unexpectedly she broke the silence between us and asked, “You look very ill, are you not feeling well either?”

  I looked at her and couldn’t understand why she was speaking to me. My parents always talk about how the “Swartgevaar” people are destroying our country and how we whites need to control black labour and urban social control. The “Swartgevaar” meaning Black Danger is actually quite an ironic word that we use to describe how the black people are willing to risk their lives to fight for their freedom of rights.

  Except for Anesu, I’ve always treated her like my second mother because she has always been there for me. She has made my food, picked me up when I fell off my bike, tending to my bleeding knees and all my wounds, made me tea when I felt sad and helped me fix my toys when they broke. Most importantly she took care of me when I have been sick, on days like today. But Dora, she has only been here a couple of times before when I have been sick. Anyways I never paid any attention as she is black and I have never made any effort to create some form of friendship. Though today was the first time she actually looked me in the eye and had the courage to speak to me. I was a bit shocked actually. Maybe I was overthinking everything or maybe it was just the sickening feeling.

  My dad has always told me that us white people don’t need to make any social contact with the non-whites. Since Dora is Anesu’s daughter, I felt a bit different, I felt a feeling of respect for her and this made me feel confused. Even though I tried to answer her as normal and short as possible, the only thing I could say was “Yes. I feel sick.” It came out brashly and irritable as I turned around and stormed off to the
kitchen.

  I felt a bit bad as a second later, Anesu followed by Dora came walking through the kitchen doors. She looked at me with a certain misperception as she lowered her head and poured the tea into the teacup for me. I felt as if Anesu was looking down on me, disgusted in the way I responded to her daughter. I took a sip of my tea and calmly answered, “I got it eating my sisters dinner last night. You see in this house we have to eat everything that’s on our plate and until there’s nothing left, we have to stay at the dinner table. So I helped her by eating what was left on her plate, as she was not feeling well. I guess I got it from there.” At that moment I noticed a small smile appearing on Dora’s face and I stared deeply into her beautiful hazel coloured eyes. I felt confused, that here was a person being caring and kind to me and why was I being rude and discriminating her just because of the colour of her skin that she was born with. I never understood why I was taught to have such a closed and discriminating mind. This was the first time I made contact with a non-white, other than Anesu. I could never have imagined my life without Anesu, as she has longed on me and made me grow as a person. So why did it feel so different now communicating with Dora?

  Dora

  Shockingly for the first time, without thinking I had properly spoken to a white person. In this case, a white boy. Of course I’ve spoken before to a white person, but that was them ordering me or telling me to do or fetch something disrespectfully. I have never really spoken sentimentally with a white person before, as I did today. His name is Danie Coetzer.

  As soon as I asked him a question, I realised I had made a mistake and overstepped my boundary. I regretted it the moment the words thoughtlessly popped out of my mouth. Why did I make contact with a white person? He answered short and coldly, just as I expected. It was silent for a moment and then he stormed off to the kitchen with my mother and I following in his footsteps. I had my head down, embarrassed from the occurrence. My mother poured him a cup of Roiboos tea and then thankfully Danie broke the silence and responded again, but this time he answered in a more sympathetic way. After that we talked for a while about school and what we do in the afternoons. And I got to know a little more about him as he was more empathetic than I thought he would be. I began to have a better understanding today, of why the system we live under is called the “Apartheid”. The exact translation from Afrikaans to English means apartness. I realised the distinctiveness of that word, and the tension between our two different races. I sensed the aggressive side of the whites, and how they feel superior.

  When Karin arrived from school, she walked in as if I was living under her chin. Not even recognising the fact that I was there, which is hard to believe but definitely how it had seemed. My mother took her bag and she did not even admonish the fact that my mother was there either. My mom had tied the little sick girl onto her back with a silky peach blanket because she was crying and I helped my mother cook the dinner and clean the kitchen. Karin had disappeared to her room whereas Danie stayed and accompanied us. After my mother put little Melanie in her bed, we said goodbye, as “our” workday was over, and on our way home we were. Anesu appreciates and values my help on days like these as I mainly assist her to clean the house quicker, cook and take care of the kids that are sick. With this process my mother seems to guide me and teach me to do things the right way so that I am prepared for the future working areas. I have just turned sixteen, and soon I will need to start working to provide an income for my family.

  Sitting on the workers bus for the two-hour journey back to our black township, I began pondering, about what it would be like to have a brother or sister or even what it would feel like to be white. Just like the relationship that the Coetzer family children have. To be honest, I wish I had a sibling, whom I could fight with, protect and care for. Although I am an only child, I’ve created great bonds with some school friends of mine that I consider to almost be my siblings. I am lucky to have two best friends, both calm caring and positive people. Although Kimone, my girl best friend normally manages to stay calm in protests whereas Hector is hot-headed and has much more difficulties in keeping things to himself and under control. This usually gets him in trouble with the white community. Our schools are separated, so the school we go to in Soweto is an all Bantu Education school. Basically meaning a non-white school, of course whites would not ever consider going to the same school as a black person or spending the day in the same room as us.

  Danie

  Dora and Anesu spent the whole day at our house. I was really feeling fairly sick, but somehow Dora made me feel better. I have grown up believing in what the government has led me to believe. Upon 16 years of my life, I have grown up being told by my parent’s, the white priest and white government what’s right and wrong. Mixed feelings swell up inside me as there are feelings inside that are telling me one way to believe but after today there is new uncomfortable feelings surfacing, which is the opposite of my parents voice sinking into my head telling me the policies of racial segregation. I was sitting by the windowsill in my bedroom, staring out at the other houses of white families with their beautiful neat gardens and cosy lifestyles. I could hardly see anything through the bars protecting the window but what I could see was white families in their warm houses, sitting enjoying their life. It was a cold winters day and now a freezing winters night. Outside the wind blows against the windowpane, howling as loudly as the next-door neighbours dogs. Living in Boksburg is nothing fancy, we are all middle class working families and not of high wealth, but I guess to Anesu and Dora it must seem of a very high level. They don’t even have toilets in their home nor bathrooms, Dora was explaining to me today. They bath with a bucket and warm water they boil on the primus stove. They don’t even have electricity, so they make a fire every night to cook and stay warm.

  At night in Johannesburg, there is always a cold mist, that frosts up my windows, to an extent that I cannot see the neighbour’s houses anymore. All I can think about is the small navy blue jacket Dora was wearing today, thinking how freezing she must be tonight. I can’t even begin to imagine life in the shacks. No matter how little they seem to have, Anesu always comes to work with a smile on her face. I get a feeling of empathy for her and Dora, for creating their own happiness. Sometimes I feel that making and having money is the only thing that matters to my father. I look at families like Anesu and Dora, who have lost almost everything because of the Apartheid system, yet they create their own happiness.

  Dora

  Working with my mother today was entertaining. After spending a whole day there, I realised how fortunate this white Boer family is. My mother and I took the bus home tonight. We had to walk from their house all the way to the Bus station. The sun was beginning to set and all we hoped for was to get to the station before dark. We were pacing it out, I could hear my sandals slapping against my feet, if only I had my closed shoes on today to walk quicker. They got all dirty from the mud yesterday, and I thought it were best to use the sandals.

  As we were reaching our non-white bus stop, a policeman came up to us and asked for our passbook. This passbook is issued only to us black people to approve that we work in a certain white area. Supposedly by demand of a white Police Officer, all Africans over the age of sixteen must have and produce a passbook. It was this night, that I have never been so frightened in my life. He asked for our passbook and my mother explained to him that I have just recently turned sixteen so I do not have one yet. She handed him her passbook and we silently waited as he checked the information. I was shaking nervously, not knowing what he was going to do to me. It is only over the age of sixteen that I need one, but does that mean I need one already? So many thoughts were passing through my mind, he asked “Birth date?” and I was completely startled that I blanked out. I hadn’t been paying attention to him. After not even a second that had passed he suddenly took out his whip and whipped me across skinny bare legs. At the sound of the crack of the whip, my mother put her hand in front of me, in order to protec
t me but she got just as hurt. Tears were running down my cheek and I quickly mumbled “19th March ‘59”. Terrified that he would beat me again, he responded, “You’re lucky this time. Next time have a passbook or something worse happen to you!” My mother grabbed hold of me tightly; I could feel her body shaking out of shock. This triggered all the same old feelings we felt when my father was killed. The Sharpeville massacre occurred because of these passbooks, the protestors including my father showed up at the police station without their passbooks and that’s when the riot broke out. But my attention was no longer on the massacre as I felt a stinging pain on my legs, and realised it was the whip mark burning.