The thing about writing this, is that in a perfect world, I’d address the language in isolation, as just a means of expression. But it’s almost impossible without invoking the association with the white nation in South Africa that call themselves “Afrikaners”. We’re made up of all kinds of european and (although few will admit) some eastern and african DNA, put into a melting pot, adding some kitchen dutch.

There’s little common ancestry, just a bunch of people that ended up banding together on the southern tip of Africa after leaving a boat or two.
I guess at that point, the only thing that truly binds the Afrikaner nation, as the name suggests, is the language. Most people feel like they want to belong, and I guess Afrikanerdom is as close as they’ll ever get.

It’s the language that my forebearers chose to shove down the throats of native people and other immigrants during school. I’m sure the other writers will testify to that. Let it just be noted that it’s not the most popular tongue around.

When thinking “Afrikaans”, one can’t help but envision crappy music made by crappy artists. A stiff-upper-lip puritanical culture punctuated by brandy and fistfights. Police beating protesters, and “volksliedjies” that have conveniently lifted music and loosely translated lyrics from europeans. Let us not forget everybody’s favourite K-word.

I guess that’s why the language seems like such a hodge-podge of connotations for me. Seldom original, and totally unique.
Leeching off of other cultures, then adding spice.

Even in the mouths of Afrikaans youth (and myself), the language is often interspersed with english, and seems to lose it’s boundaries and become nondistinct.
I think of the oft repeated joke: “Hey Piet, wat is die engels vir spanner?” (Hey Piet, what is the english for spanner?)

My forefathers would absolutely cringe at the thought. After all, it was the “rooinekke” that put their families into concentration camps and burnt down their farms.

Yet I cannot help but get all mushy when reading Afrikaans poetry, and marvel at the expressive power of the language. It seems so far removed from being forced to read the old Afrikaans standby “Kringe in ‘n bos” in a classroom. Can I think of another great afrikaans book? No. Seriously, I can’t. And it wasn’t all that good either. At best I can describe 99% of Afrikaans culture as a little “weak”.

I stood in Hatfield square two weeks ago to watch a series of Afrikaans rock bands perform. They’ve set out to re-write the rules about “Afrikaans”. I guess they feel shackled by a past they didn’t create. I know I do. But then what IS our identity to become?

I hope they succeed, in something, but the crowd made me uneasy. It was almost like warping back in time 15 years or so.
I hadn’t been to such a pale party in a while, for a moment I lost hope… but then maybe they all just feel as disconnected from the rest of the world as I do.

I guess this piece of writing says it all. It’s confused, it’s all over the place. Not even an Afrikaner can totally make sense of it all. At times it’s a language, it times a culture, at times a nation.
It doesn’t seem to have a place and yet does. It’s speakers ended up being on the receiving end, the pointy end (sometimes both) of a lot of crazy shit. Hopefully those artists will prevail and Afrikaans will become something else.

Maybe they’ll just confuse the matter even further.

Maybe it will always be seen as the language of the oppressor, and the internally repressed.

“Mommy, are we in Cape Town yet?”

“Oh look who’s awake! No dear, we’re almost there. Will we see who can
spot the sea first?”

“Yes! I will!…. Which way is it?”

Mom threw her head back as she laughed and looked over at dad sitting in the driving seat, head still cocked back..

“We’re not there yet, you’ll have to wait a bit.”

He sat silently, observing for the first time how the world outside the car had changed. He saw lush greenery, they were on a mountain pass of some kind, looking down on farmlands as far as the eye could see. Suddenly the world seemed more vast than he had taken in previously. He’d never been to Cape Town, he wondered what it must be like… the other side of this immense country. The other side of the world. A fresh, unknown smell was perceptible.

A long time passed, he spent it playing games with mom and dad, singing, at times being bored and just staring out the window daydreaming. Eventually they did reach the sea, and mom had beaten him to seeing it, but it seemed not to matter, or dampen his enthusiasm for the vast blueish black expanse he saw now for the first time.

“Are we going to the beach now?”
“No honey, we’re going to grandpa’s flat…”
“Oh please! I want to play in the sand!”

He looked at the bright red sandcastle bucket he had received as a gift just the previous day. The yellow handle of a plastic spade sticking out from the top.

“Okay, we’ll stop on the way, but only for a short while, we should be there soon”.

What seemed like an eternity passed until they finally pulled over into a parking lot, the fresh smell of sea salt hanging in the air and the sound of waves…… Oh! What a marvelous new sound!

However, a new apprehension struck him as mom picked him up and placed him outside car. These new surroundings were rough, and bulky. The space around him, beyond the sound and sight of the breaking waves, was immense. Only broken by rough stone-laden pavement pressing into his soft soles. Steel bars suspended in air by concrete pillars, acting as a low fencing to the beach beyond….. and huge inhospitable rocks laying to the sides of the beach. It was cloudy. Another shiver ran through his spine, it hadn’t really warmed up yet, suddenly he wasn’t so sure the beach was a good idea. But dad was already removing his new found toys from the car, and a yellow-brown striped camping chair.

Mom had been applying judicious amounts of sun cream to his face. Not that this stopped him from gaping at the wonders around him. His gaze stopped for a moment on a set of signs just inside the beach area. He squinted against the sun and tried to decipher their meaning…. One stood out from the rest, it wasn’t pictorial, but large. An ominous green sign with bold white lettering…

“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“What does that sign say mommy?”

She looked around, he now held a hand up to shield his eyes, frowning, lifting the corners of his mouth… as if this gesture would increase his concentration and help him tease some meaning from the bold white lettering…

“Oh, that just means black people can’t come here.”
“Mommy? What happens if the black people come to the beach?”
“The policeman comes and takes them away…”
“Are the police going to come take us away mommy?”

A slight tone of fear had entered his voice. Dad let out a chuckle, but mom came closer with a amused smile and a reassuring touch…

“Oh no honey, the beaches are for white people, the police aren’t going to take you away…”

He didn’t feel so sure about that. The railing between him and the beach suddenly looked even more ominous. The beyond was sacred, and he would have to tread on it. Could he get in trouble for it?

Mom and dad walked first, boldly stepping onto the sand, not looking fearful. They had his toys. This is what he’d been waiting for, after all. The sudden safety of the parking lot had to be left.

“Come on!” dad egged him on.

He walked up to the opening in the railings, stopped for a slight moment, then stepped out onto the sand, looking around to see if any police were in the vicinity….. he walked forward. A new sense of belonging was filling up inside of him. He had never felt it before. He’d never known police could take people away from the beach. That simple railing was so powerful, but he could beat it.

The pride swelled inside him: “I’m one of the good people. Not one of the bad people who could get in trouble…”. No, he was special, he belonged here….he could face this obstacle, fear was for the other people, not him.

Now he was walking on air. He didn’t need to worry, He was white, this is what it felt like to be South African…. He ran to catch up with his parents…….