FOSTERING PEACE THROUGH LITERATURE & ART
Tiferet
FICTION
Sing Free the Winds of Change
Ian M. Evans
Roger Shaw was relieved the nightclub was so dark no-one could see him
crying. It wasn’t manly, although if anyone did notice, perhaps they’d think it was
allergies. Roger knew it was no allergy attack, but didn’t know why on earth he was
crying. It’s one of the surprising things about tears, he thought. They’re a tell-tale reflex.
An involuntary reaction of the autonomic nervous system, unfiltered by reason
or social norm. How could the acapella singing of nine black men from South Africa
be making him cry, when he was neither sorrowful nor self-pitying? He was loving
their music.
The group were now rhythmically stamping their feet, legs raised high
over their heads and pounding down to the ground. In white tennis shoes, they
performed this gyration so delicately there was no resounding thud from the small
stage. A hundred and fifty years earlier, their forebears would have stamped in bare
feet, and when five thousand of them of them pounded the earth in unison it would
have made the ground shake and opponents quake.
Why couldn’t he stop crying? He wasn’t musical. But the image of a Zulu
impi with ox hide shields and assegais, trembling the earth, had associations: a flash
bulb memory of childhood–detailed, vivid, retained undisturbed for sixty-one
years.
”Mary, have you seen my takkies?” Roger shouted from his bedroom. There was
no answer.
“Wenzani, Mary?” he shouted again. Mary was Sotho-speaking, but Roger, who
was eleven, preferred Zulu. ‘What are you doing?’ was one of the new phrases he was
practicing.
”Ngiyasebenza, baasie, “came the reply from the enclosed yard behind the
kitchen. Mary must be hanging out the wash.
“Where are my takkies?” Roger’s Zulu was not very advanced.
Mary, whose English was perfect, decided to come inside rather than shouting
through the house.
“They were looking filthy. Where’d you been in them? They were covered in mud.
You didn’t get that from the tennis court. So, I cleaned them off, whitened them, and left
them in the sun to dry. I’ll get them for you. Are you off to play tennis this morning?”
‘Ja, just down the road, with Martin. Thanks Mary. Have you seen my white
socks?”
Mary brought Roger his shoes and his socks, and went back outside. She was
cheerful; the little baasie was so dependent on her. Sadly, she wouldn’t get to see her own
two children back in the township until her afternoon off, next Thursday. Ah well. She
turned on her radio out in the yard They were playing tikkie draai in Afrikaans. Instinc-
tively she adjusted the dial and found another station, playing penny whistle kwela. She
turned up the volume. Roger heard it clearly as he grabbed his racket and headed down
the road to his friend’s house, with the swimming pool and the tennis court.
“Shosholosa (go forward)” the group was singing now, the chorus “Sithwele
Kazama, sithwele kanzima (move fast, move fast)” filling the dark spaces of the
club. The clientele of Salt City Blues was already whistling and clapping. Roger, the
seventy-two-year-old South African ex-pat, wasn’t clapping. He was mesmerized by
the sound, the rhythms, and the harmonies-the cadences of the townships. He
didn’t notice when his wife re-filled his wine glass. But he saw the label on the bottle,
Schoolhouse Red, from the nearby Finger Lakes region.
“Get away from the windows and back to your desks, boys,” Mr. Doyle, the history
master, ordered. “Haven’t you seen jet planes before? Come on. We’ve got a lesson to
get through-the fall of Constantinople … “
“But sir, “Roger asked plaintively, “why were they flying so low over Jo’burg?
1hey were fighter jets, sir, Sabres from the SAAF Where were they going? Were they off to
defend Constantinople from the Ottomans?” Roger fancied himself as the class clown.
“That’s about all that would have saved Constantine the Eleventh, Shaw! But
try to concentrate. I haven’t the faintest idea where they’re flying to, but it’s not part of a
history lesson, that I can tell you. “
Two days later, on the 23rd of March, the truth was known. Sixty black South
Africans had been shot dead in Sharpeville, another 180 seriously wounded 7he government
in panic mode had mobilized the Air Force-a squadron of fighter jets had flown
over Roger’s private boarding school.
“Well, I was wrong, “Mr. Doyle admitted sullenly, “it was a historical event
after all. There were only about 300 scared policemen facing a crowd of 5000 or more
angry protesters. They were asking for trouble. “
Defiantly, one of Roger’s friends, whose father was an Anglican priest, butted
in: “None of the protesters were armed and my dad says that the victims were shot in the
back as they tried to run after the first volley. “
‘1 just don’t think we know all the details yet. “Mr. Doyle liked to show balance.
“We must wait for the facts. The PAC stirred the crowd up, I read 7hey’re terrorists. We
can’t tolerate violence, that won’t solve the apartheid issue, boys. I don’t support the Nats,
believe me, but the PAC and the ANC are agitators. Mandela’s telling other natives to
burn their passbooks. “
The choir are singing another favorite. Had they just said it was a tribute
to Nelson Mandela and the long walk to freedom? Roger wasn’t sure. He’d only
heard some of their words. The sound system for the music was excellent at Salt City
Blues, but not so good for speaking into the mike. Their harmony was perfect. Their
voices were musical instruments. Their talent was breathtaking. Did Paul Simon
discover them or did they authenticate Paul Simon? Did they need the famous white
singer-song writer to get a Grammy? Perhaps, but not really. All they needed was for
America to listen to their music-that’s the only way you can win a Grammy, or,
frankly, even a gig at a fashionable nightclub in Syracuse.
The crowd was happy. Two middle-aged women were dancing at the back; they must be feeling confident they
had the moves. One white guy near the front shouted “Yebo” when the group leader
mentioned they were from Durban. Roger wondered if the man had left Durban
during the era of white flight, after the ANC won the first free election. Not like
him, who’d left years before.
Roger was sitting on the street, blocking traffic. His eyes were stinging. He hadn’t
received a direct hit, but tear-gas was in the air. Hundreds of Wits students were protesting
the closing of their university to black students and the attacks by white youths against
the Black Sash, standing vigil every day in silent protest. A police dog was barking at him
furiously, and its handler was snarling and showing his teeth as well.
“Op staan, kaffir-boetie. I won ‘task you politely again. “He was swinging his
baton menacingly.
“This is a legal protest, “someone in the crowd shouted.
‘Tl! tell you blerrie commies what’s legal and what’s not, “the policeman replied.
His dog’s furiously barking muzzle was inches from Roger’s face. He had a lingering fear
of dogs ever since years ago at family friends their usually placid Rhodesian Ridgeback
had bitten him during a rough and tumble game. He got up off the ground and retreated,
along with his fellow students.
“We’ve got to leave this godforsaken country, Rog, “Martin muttered. ‘It’s getting
worse and worse. I’ve got tickets for Bobby Kennedy’s address in the university Great Hall
next month. That’s if they don’t ban him along with everyone else. “
In the darkness of the club Roger thought about how, six months later, he’d
enrolled in a doctoral program in counseling psychology at SUNY-Albany. He’d
received a scholarship from Anglo-American, the massive mining conglomeratediamonds,
platinum, nickel, you name it-for Witwatersrand University graduates
to study in the USA and to come back to South Africa with advanced qualifications
and new expertise. He hadn’t gone back to South Africa. He’d accepted an academic
job after his internship, applied for US citizenship, and was now living in Syracuse,
listening to this group singing “Diamonds on the soles of her shoes.”
Johannesburg in 1976 looked very different after ten years away. Roger had an
urgent call from his father. There had been another round of township riots, in Soweto.
His parents begged him to come back and help them move back to England where his
father still had connections. They were convinced that the revolution was about to begin.
An entire planeload of doctors had left for Texas before the rules regarding reciprocity of
medical qualifications were changed. Many more were heading for Canada, with gold
Kruger rands stuffed into money belts to avoid currency restrictions.
“When you leave, you need to give Mary a pension, ” Roger reminded his father.
“We plan to, Rog, but you know how the natives are with money. I’m going to
put some funds in a savings account, but give withdrawal authority only to Betty–you
know, Betty Tyrrell next door. She’s good with the blacks; she’s a member of the Progressive
Party.”
Roger rolled his eyes. People in America would never say a thought like that,
not out loud. When he said goodbye to Mary he slipped her a thousand rands, cash. But
she wanted to deposit it in an account she had at Barclays Bank, so he drove her to her
branch in Rosebank.
“I don’t want to take the bus, master Roger, there are too many tsotsis. “Roger
turned on the car radio.
“Any good music, these days, Mary?”
“Europeans seem to still like Miriam Makeba records. “
‘Tm glad to hear it. Her popularity in the States has gone down since she married
Stokely Carmichael. We’re all scared of the Black Panthers. How about your favorite
penny whistle music?”
Roger fiddled with the radio until the unmistakable sounds of kwela filled the
car.
“There Mary, how about that?”
Music must be an auditory flashbulb for such detail. The choir with their
white sneakers were once again doing their Zulu war dance moves, like the miners
used to do in the Sunday afternoon mine dances. He was still wiping away the
occasional tear, but slowly opening the doors to his consciousness. Was it guilt or
regret or remorse that was sneaking inside? He concentrated on the faces of the singers,
savoring them. Most were young, probably born free-one had said something
about being born after the first democratic election, and the Salt City Blues crowd
had cheered and whistled.
But one or two of the men were much older. One said he’d joined the group
in ’69 at the age of twenty. He could have been an eleven-year old in Sharpeville,
holding his mother’s hand when she was shot in the back. He could have been a
young man in Soweto cheering on the high school kids protesting compulsory
teaching of Afrikaans. He could have joined the ANC and fled to Botswana to plan
the bombing of industrial and military targets. Or more likely he could have stayed
home and written music and jammed with the group in the hall of a sympathetic
Anglican church. Only whites had the garages for aspiring teenage musicians fantasizing
their talent and future fame.
Roger thought of his days as a graduate student, going down to the city
and meeting other young liberal white South Africans in Greenwich Village, talking
excitedly about how they were going to go back any day now, and support the revolution.
None of them did. There was no revolution, and complacent white South
Africans, who’d despised the Nats but enjoyed apartheid, should have been down on
bended knee every day thanking God for Nelson Mandela, the only genuine saint
since Francis of Assisi, instead of grumbling about corruption and the steady depreciation
of the rand.
Roger looked at the enthusiastic, smiling faces of the choral group and their
on-stage antics that they knew would get a good laugh from the audience. Their
music was beautiful, their songs strong, their rhythm uniquely African. There was
no venom in the songs. Yet might not these talented men at one time or another all
have been victims of disrespect and earned the right to be angry?
Roger kept trying to analyze their expressions, but they were singing, not protesting,
entertaining, not preaching. And he realized whatever they might have once endured,
tables had now turned for these black South Africans. In their lack of anger,
if they were preaching at all, it was to him alone. Then he knew why he couldn’t stop
crying.
Roger was seventeen. He opened the book one of his high school teachers, Mr. de
Klerk, had lent him. When his father glanced over at him, he snorted.
“Huh! I see you’re reading Alan Paton, son. What a trouble maker he is. Leader
of the Liberal Party. You know I’m a liberal thinker Rog, but they’re just asking to be
banned They’re giving the natives ideas. The blacks need more time to be able to become
citizens and be responsible. Some are fine. Mary’s like a member of this family, you know
that. But could she vote sensibly in an election? I doubt it. “
Roger ignored him. Everyone in his dad’s social circle who thought they were
enlightened because they hated the Afrikaners had similar attitudes about race. So he
devoured Alan Paton’s novel, Cry The Beloved Country, and felt ashamed He gave the
book back to his teacher after the school holidays.
“Thanks, sir, it’s a good book. “
“That’s not a very thoughtful critique, Shaw. How did it make you feel? Did it
make you cry?”
“No sir.”
“Hmm, pity. It made me cry. “
Roger felt ashamed again; lying about his tears seemed even less manly than having
them. But his teacher was also the rugby coach. If a rugby coach could admit crying
over a book, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing to acknowledge.
“Well yes, sir, true. It’s sad. Is life that hard for the natives, sir? I’ve never really
talked to any, except for our maid, Mary and her boyfriend who hangs around our back
yard They both seem happy and cheerful and my folks are pretty good to Mary and give
her Lots of stuff for her children, things my sister and I have outgrown . . . “
Roger stopped He could see that the expression on his teacher’s face was one of
disdain. He didn’t say anything, but Roger knew what he was thinking: hand-me-down,
second-hand clothes as the mark of decency didn’t really make up for an entire system of
injustice. Mr. de Klerk took out a pen, wrote something, and handed the book back to
Roger.
”Here, Shaw, keep it. Read it again sometime. I’ve got a paperback edition at
home.”
“Thank you, sir. Are you interested in politics, sir?”
“Not exactly. I’m interested in this country’s fate. My ancestors were Huguenots
escaping persecution. Now the whites in this country are perpetrating it. Tm interested in
justice, and fairness, and respect. Alan Paton sees all that is wrong. His novel should have
been a wake-up call to white South Africa. One day, Shaw, because I think you’re basically
a decent boy, this book will make you cry. “
The group were belting out their last number. The lights would soon come
back on. He wiped his eyes. There were so many reasons that he’d never gone back except
for the occasional trip to the few family members still in Johannesburg, and
one or two old school friends who’d stayed on. He couldn’t have done anything
practical, he’d reassured himself. His rugby coach, Mr. de Klerk, had a cousin, F.
W de Klerk. He’d done something. He’d been forced to. But everything else was
up to the enlightened leadership of the ANC.
He’d been crying because of lost opportunity, lost courage to speak out,
naively thinking a street protest by privileged white university students was going
to threaten apartheid. Sure, he hadn’t illegally smuggled Kruger rands out of the
country. But he’d taken the scholarship money and he hadn’t returned.
The lights came on. The group received a standing ovation. Well deserved.
People were being encouraged to buy their latest CD. Roger’s wife looked over at
him.
“Have you been crying, honey?”
“No, just my allergies. I think this place is a bit dusty or moldy. Come on,
let’s go home. There’s something I need to read.”
Back in their large Victorian house in Syracuse he took down Alan Paton’s
novel. Mr. de Klerk had written on the title page: For Roger Shaw, one of my pupils,
who shouldn’t be afraid to cry for the beloved country. Read page 25, paragraph 2.
Please come back without fear and make a difference.
How did Mr. de Klerk know he would never come back to make a difference?
Roger turned to the page and read the paragraph:
“Cry the beloved country for the unborn child that’s the inheritor of our fear.
Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water
runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld
with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing. Nor give
too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him if he gives too
much.”
Roger wiped his eyes and blew his nose. The choral group had sung some
wonderful music. The voices of Africa, mainstreamed by Paul Simon. The choral
group knew no fear. That’s the way it was now in the beloved country. Roger felt
no more guilt. Well, maybe a little. He’d bought five of their CDs, two of which
he already had. He smiled ruefully. His substitute for hand-me down clothes.
IAN EVANS
Ian was born in England and grew up in South Africa. He completed a PhD
in psychology at King’s College, London, and has taught clinical psychology at
universities in Hawaii, upstate New York, and New Zealand. His second novel, 7he
Eye of Kuruman (Pegasus, 2017) is a cultural romance set in southern Africa. Now
retired, he lives in Honolulu, a favored location for the grandchildren’ s visits.