And then we got an American “brother” for a year. Our school participated in bi-annual exchange programs via the American Field Service, and as luck would have it, our family got to host Keith Burbage for my matric year. This was in 1970, and apartheid was in full swing, with no outside media coverage permitted, no TV, and thus a blanket on information available to us budding young about-to-be conscripts. At 16 we were forced to register for Military Service, which usually commenced immediately after matric.

In the predominantly Nationalist culture of Port Natal, the whole National Service issue had become elevated into what amounted to a mandatory rite of passage, and the prevailing belief was that one was not a man until one had “been in the army”. My own ideas were just starting to form, as I became exposed to the anti-Vietnam issues governing much of the music emanating from the states, but it hadn’t developed a South African bush war flavour yet, as quite frankly I didn’t have the foggiest idea of what shit was actually going down in Namibia, Angola (where until 1994 no-one officially even admitted to a South African presence) Zimbabwe and Mocambique. Absolutely no idea. Total conscription was still new, as until a year or so earlier a percentage of young men were still exempted – seemingly on an arbitrary basis. John had miraculously been one of those not called up, although he actually volunteered some ten years later – something which is still a complete mystery to me, but it is his life – so I was not primed by older siblings, as many of my “friends” at school were. I still shudder at the memory of how many of my schoolmates actually looked forward to going off to “skiet terries” (shoot terrorists) or “slot floppies” as the then popular “Rhodesian” T-shirt loudly proclaimed. With this memory eternally firmly planted, I never cease to me amazed at how few people there are around today that admit to having supported the Nationalist regime. But then lies and smokescreening have become so much part of contemporary South African existence that I suppose I should not be surprised. Our political dishonesty today, in 2008, leaves me quite breathless, but that by the way.

And then Keith arrived, laden with newspapers, magazines and of course loads of “banned” records. And the information blackout started to come apart. I was confronted with glaring evidence of an inhumanity I would never be able to accept, never mind go out and fight for. Fuck that. And Keith’s tales of returning zombies after the extremes of Vietnam, coupled with a very obvious fear of going over there himself ( he was to be shipped out within weeks of his return from SA) brought my previously unformed, but I believe present, ideas, regarding the complete unacceptability of militant behaviour and the use of weapons into sharp focus. There was no way I was going to be forced to point a gun at another human being. Ever.

But there was the rub. I love my country. Not in any patriotic sense as one tends to define patriotism today, but simply because it was my homeland. It was where my parents had grown up, dreamed dreams of a “good” life, and had children. It was the centre of my very being. The place where I wanted my children to grow up good and happy one day. But the options for a white male weren’t all that many. You either went to the army, or you went to jail. Simple. Or you could uproot yourself entirely, and go off to some freezing Euro climes to sit it out. Well that was not for me. Firstly I had no intention of allowing some immoral politician force me to leave my homeland, and secondly, I simply couldn’t afford to up and run.

My tactics were eventually forced on me.

Till 1970, my matric year, life had basically been a fair facsimile of average adolescent schoolboy life. Obviously there were the little personal refinements and rebellions, but I was basically your average, well behaved, good schoolboy from what appeared to be an average middle-class white suburban home.

The plan had always been to get a good matric, with maths and science and the necessary creds to get into Stellenbosch, and by June everything seemed to be heading swimmingly in that direction. Field Service exchange boet Keith had made for interesting but not fatal diversions and the end game was coming into play with mock matric still showing B’s in my maths and sciences and D’s in the languages, as had been the pattern for years, with my traditional dragging F in History. No star student I didn’t work myself to death, ‘cause I knew I was bright and would have as much chance of failing as the Titanic had once the ball had begun. I was going to pass well enough to go to med school and be a GP just like we’d all planned for years.

Then one night during the few weeks of study break for the finals, I was up in my room studying Van Wyk Louw when I started getting a headache – wrote it off as eye-fatigue and closed my eyes for a few minutes….. or so I thought.

I woke up in a metal bed in a strange dim room with filtered light. Very confused. Head very sore. Vision sort of blurry. Hmmm. Hospital. IV tubes and machines and pretty soon a nun?

Turned out that I was in Marianhill Hospital, where I’d had my appendix out years before, and that I was very sick. Apparently I was lucky to be among the living, having been unconscious for several days under treatment from a bunch of neuro-surgeons who had saved me after a serious bout of encephalitis unfortunately not detected until I was in a rather bad way. Dr Mauritius Joubert, I think it was… in the company of our much-loved family GP, Dr Von Thomann whom I trusted implicitly.

So matric finals that year were out of the question and I had a reprieve till the exams in March. I was on total bedrest for a month or so, then had to avoid stress and stuff that really goes hand in hand with final exams, until the dreaded “hereksamen”. A very weird situation. Preparing for my exams without being allowed to work too hard! But not only because of that. I felt completely alien to the person I had been. My world remained unchanged but within a few weeks the way I processed it seemed to have changed beyond understanding and beyond redemption. Although I was still good at numbers and formuli and things, I no longer found them inspiring. The had become downgraded to tools at which I had become sufficiently proficient to accomplish the sort of things I thought I needed, and so warranted no further interest, really. Whereas my undoubted “skill” with language and “creative writing” (for want of a better notion) had previously been a source of fun, a means of flexing intelligent wit and definitely impressing people. Suddenly I found myself enthralled by poets, completely entranced by The Waste Land and Beckett Opperman and Pound. Suddenly I knew what I was supposed to do. I seemed to have no choice. I was to write poetry in Afrikaans. All the rest was preparation. The boyhood idyll, the strange alienation of living in a snobby English suburb while attending a conservative Afrikaans school in perpetually colonial Natal, the flirtations with religion in various forms, the menial vacation jobs, and then the revelatory convalesence, all of that was simply sketching in the background. From here on it was training for a different kind of job – one that would never feed one or pay rent, but one I simply had to follow. A different ballpark altogether. An undefinable curriculum for someone hitherto culturally blind. So in those months I had to think. All that was really clear was that I was determined to avoid going to the army, that I knew that med school was no longer a good option, and that I needed to figure out a way of earning a living from something other than writing. The folks were both teachers. I knew the ethos and was well connected in that area. So the next choice was also obvious in retrospect. Teaching. In the Arts. Makes sense. So I got a loan and enrolled at Natal University pending passing my exams. Which of course I did, this time with B’s in all the languages, and D’s in the other set, and history still way back there in F. By the time I’d finished the exams I was already attending classes at the University up the hill and growing my hair, much to the disgust of the school principal who felt obliged to warn me of the communists at an “Ingelse the kids from liberal, wealthy English-school backgrounds – I had led a very cloistered life. Sexually I was utterly naïve. All the girls in my life thus far had been friends – one of the guys. Few that these guys actually were, given my small circle of friends. My political world, though I suppose liberal in its nature, had not been formed by any rhetoric or focused discourse, but had evolved through the peculiar blend of association throughout my childhood and adolescence. I found myself outside the circle of politicos (Charlie Nupen and the like) because I simply found the blithe acceptance of an ideology at obvious odds with their priviledged upbringing (Michealhouse, Kearsney, Hilton, DHS) completely absurd. I remember one NUSAS firstyear “recruitment” gathering, in which we were treated to this impassioned speech full of “comrade” and “struggle” and all the in vogue catchphrases by an absurd young man in spotless designer clothes that even looked ironed, and remember being fiercely aware of the obvious fact that this young devotee had never been anywhere near a washing machine or iron in his entire mapped out life. No that was not for me. But at least the discourse was available, and one could sit an the sidelines and sneer to one’s heart’s content. That sort of became an unconscious modus operandum. The sidelines of the “scene” SEEMED TO FIT ME PERFECTLY. And that was nice. New to me and very comforting. And of course the peripheries have their own populations. Other observers. Fellow riders of the boundary-lines. I liked it there and think I’ve stuck to that dimension ever since. An ever-shifting haven of interest. Nice. I’m home.

But of course, recognizing the homestead doesn’t mean you know much about it. Before I could safely use it as safe-house – a place from which I could launch sorties and recces into the grey world of suit-design, and then return and dissolve into the landscape like a latter-day guerrilla – I had to learn its secrets. Had to get a handle on some kind of blueprint through which to embrace some definition of a comfort zone. And that too becomes an excavation of apprenticeship for the aspiring ‘writer” I was beginning to see emerging through the mist of new friendships, new senses waking, all of that.

One can’t realistically embark on any journey, particularly not one with some visualized destination, unless one has a fair idea of one’s port of origin and departure. No maps can be drawn. No sensible weathercasts noted. No matter how laterally one wishes to think things should be, history will always be linear. This does not imply that notions of cause and effect apply. Not at all. Simply that no matter what causes what, events will nevertheless occur in chronological sequences. So no matter how ad-hoc one wishes to be with one’s life, even THAT decision is the result of a choice. And choices are made in order to make things conform to some desired strategy. So whether one is conscious of these processes or not, it is glaringly obvious that each and every action is the outcome of a strategic decision. Ergo strategy is essential. Ergo also then that understanding of oneself (ultimately the point of departure for any thought or action) is a prerequisite to any viable statement, whether that be aesthetic, political or otherwise. So point one of my apprenticeship had to be to define a personal take on the human beast. Simple. And this is what I set out to do.

I think I must make it clear that this is all supposition in retrospect. No way was I sophisticated enough to formulate this stuff at the time and then act accordingly. I was just a lost kid finally finding that the shifting grounds were actually quite comfortable, despite the effort of staying upright required. It all just followed a particular course, because it’s perfectly logical, once one pieces together the jigsaw of how it all happened.

In concrete terms, I became quite extreme. Never quite getting into the whole peace/love ethos, I embraced the explosion of colour and individuality that hippy culture offered. Grew the hair. Super long. With beard. Without beard. Eyebrows. Shaven eyebrows. And loads of colour. And moved through that very quickly when I discovered that there was a lot more stuff even further out that was really really interesting. Iggy Pop had a lot to do with it, I think, and the far side of The Kink, Pink Fairies, Can. Floyd and so on were really just the visible surface of a much more interesting hinterland. Again the peripheries.

And from this point I think it would probably be wiser to use pseudonyms for people. Things started moving beyond the boundaries of laws and certain social norms, and so I think it would be fairer on the characters that peopled my life that they remain unnamed. For the sake of openness, bizarre as that may sound.

Facts also have many faces. We all know there’s no such thing as one immutable history. Every telling is inevitably coloured by the lens of the camera. Who’s holding it. Depth of focus. Choice of frame. Filters. Exposure. Available light. And then always the all important editing, whether conscious or no. All these things define the flavour of a tale, so one will always have but one chef’s offering laid out to taste. Judgement lies in the gourmet, if there is to be such a thing at all. You decide. I will simply place the pieces as I feel they should fall. You make the calls.

It’s relevant to pose these issues at this point, ‘cause this is when Robin, the person, actively started participating in the formation of his collage that was to become a life. I have to hand it to my parents for allowing the leash to stretch to my requirements while remaining there as an invisible unstated safety net for decades to come, without ever actively putting any spanners in my works. They advised, when asked. They showed disapproval, sure. But never judged. I was allowed to judge myself, but somehow there had been instilled some moral baselines that remained firm throughout my adult life, give or take the odd bounce. My decisions were always mine. And this is when that really all kicked off.

I have never seen South African patriotism, other than in beer commercials, and lets be honest who doesn’t love everyone after knocking back a couple of drinks. Or the odd government commercial telling us all to love each other or love our country but I find these are more for tourists, attracting holidaymakers.

Apartheid, yes the dreaded regime has left an echo resounding “so to speak”, even today. Apartheid,f or those who don’t know was all about separation. Think of it as a school playground, everyone had their own clique and everyone was supposed to know their place in the hierarchy.

Now there is a good reason for my small documentary. This kind of “each to their own” mentality has lingered on.

Now a couple of weeks ago my friend Greg, also a Greek like myself was invited to go to an Afrikaans nightclub. As per standard operating procedure I was called upon to fulfil my duty as wing-man for the evening. I figure he called me because he knew I was the only one adventurous (read stupid) enough to say yes.

Still recovering from a cold or a flu or swine flu or bird flu or mad cow disease or SARS or whatever is the “in” disease right now, and therefore being house bound for a few days, I decided to bite the bullet and head out.

The club is situated in Boksburg west of Johannesburg. A mostly Afrikaans speaking area. It took us a while to find parking apparently unbeknown to us a famous Afrikaans singer was doing his thing that night so it was packed we finally found a space between two cars. Serious heaps without tyres that must have been there for years judging buy the rust and decay on them.

When we got to the door a giant bouncer asked, “cash or freebar” as if we should understand this. After asking for an explanation freebar turned out to be VIP, you get a wristband for a slightly more hefty entryfee and get to drink all the drinks you want. We opted for the normal garden variety entry.

Once we got in… well the best way I can describe it is that it was so much fail it was win. The seediest joint I ever walked into. It was as if we had stepped back into 1985. Mullets were everywhere. We decided to get a couple of drinks before infiltrating the crowd.

We approached the bar, flagged down a bartender and ordered two beers, which they insisted on pouring into plastic cups, turns out the locals often used bottles in fights. At least they were cheap.

The people in this area are the equivalent of hillbillies, and even the music was similar to American country music.

Sitting in the place, which reeked of vomit and listening to songs called “Speedos And Crocs” and the Afrikaans version of “Eye Of The Tiger”. Yes you read right, it was some sad stuff. But the locals were loving it. There were even some emo looking Afrikaners rocking to the music. Imagine emos in the States partying to that kind of music as well as country music. Unheard of man. In fact downright against nature. But these people were truly enjoying themselves. Happy emos? What is going on!

It got me thinking. Each little group has their own unique idea of what it means to be South African, which means there is no real definition.

There is no real South African identity, in my opinion at any rate. I have never particularly felt South African. Don’t get me wrong I like South Africa, an awesome country, but the feeling has just never come. I doubt anyone else has the feeling either. It shows too, by the fact that people seem to leave the country in droves every time things go awry. People are too centralised in their own groups.

It is a reason to be jealous of Americans who somehow, even though a state of immigrants, manage to gain some kind of patriotism that causes them to hang flags outside of their homes.

Or maybe that’s just it. The diversity is the South African identity, and what makes South Africans unique is the fact that each group has its own culture. Maybe I’ve been mistaken about doubting the existence of a South African identity all along. Who knows.

After that whole campaign it’s when I actually realised or even took notice at the fact that I was South African, but I had to ask myself questions first into what made me a south African. At first it seems like a daunting task (or rather it is one), because I was born here, and actually never lived in any other country and have no intentions to do so – but that’s the patriot in me talking.

Getting back to the point of what makes me exactly a South African.

I looked at different sporting codes, which ones we were good or bad at, and whether if stuck in a conversation with someone of a non resident origin, what I would say and if attacked how would I defend my country and find a best attacking tool.

Yes some we really are terrible at and some really good at but we will find someone to blame for that, we always do.

Then there was “where I’ve stayed” in terms of the atmosphere of the residents and the economy part as well (haves and have nots). Mind you I’ve stayed almost everywhere in the Gauteng province, and that exposed me to all kinds of living (or lifestyle if you prefer) on how people lived in that particular neighbourhood.

Then there was the issue of our entertaiment industry – “if we have one”, and how it’s being handled or advocated, and no I’m not talking SAB, as it’s apparent that we consume more beer or alcohol than most of europe (something somewhat troubling to me or exciting if you are my nephew).

Finally, there are a whole lot of aspects, factors and non factors as well that we can view, but I realised that on all the subjects I touched on, nothing is more eminent to me than that of the residents of this country.

How we carry on with our love hate relationship but as soon as the Spaniards blast for being too noisy and downright African when we are at football matches, we turn around and defend our country with passion seen only in Rugby matches in Pretoria.

And even though every second individual in their youth (and some elderly residents as well) want to migrate to the UK or Australia, and as soon as they get there they realise that this it’s not home and immediately want to come back – at least more than half of them anyway.

Therefore those are the reasons on what makes me South African and will continue being one and inspired by our no nonsense attitude towards everything South African and not.

I was born in 1988. I was not even two years of when Mandela walked out of prison. I have no recollection of the CODESA negotiations, nor the riots of 1993, nor even of the 1994 elections. For me, that pivotal year was only so in the sense that it was my first year at school. The earliest recollection of a major event that I have is that of the death of Princess Diana. I have no familiarity with the events that continue to define us as a country. And yes – I too have been guilty of apathy when it comes to our history and heritage, like so many of my generation.

At the same time, the sense of belonging to South Africa is very strong. I sing as loudly as anyone when the national anthem is sung, and my chest swells with as much pride as anybody’s when the Springbokke, Proteas and Bafana Bafana are victorious in sport. I engage in raucous debates with foreigners about the virtues of South Africa. I look down upon at Chinese products, and beam happily when biltong is served. But is that what being South African is all about?

The truth is, I have yet to fully appreciate what being a citizen of this amazing country means. I have only recently been introduced to the writings of South Africans, having grown up on a stiff diet of British literature. South African film is another aspect that I have only recently encountered. I have never been to places like Limpopo Province and the Garden Route. There is still so much to see, hear and talk about! I am young and in love with this land! To those who have gone before me, teach me what it is to be a South African. Give me that sense of familiarity and belonging. Tell me what happened in Soweto, Sharpeville and all the other townships where blood was spilled in the name of freedom. Cry as you recount the horrors of political imprisonment. Let us laugh together as you describe your first pair of school shoes. Break open that six-pack and remind me of how we won the 1995 rugby world cup. Describe for me the back breaking labours that your fathers faced as they crossed the mighty Drakensberg in ox wagons. Paint for me a picture of old Johannesburg – I want to feel the excitement of that place, when it was still a true mining town. Teach me how to make pap en vleis. What goes into a potjiekos, I want to know?! How does one sing the praises of mighty Zulu kings of yore? I want to know all these things. It is no longer enough for me to be a citizen of a bygone era.

I want to know and fully belong to this country.

I should probably level with you and admit that at that point in time I had not experienced a “moment of realisation” , as such, with regard to my South African identity. However, I had so many reasons why I felt I was South African, I was smugness itself.

I typed furiously all evening and laid down all sorts of heartfelt, passionate claims. It was a great article, sure to render the cynics weak with emotion. Heck, upon rereading I even made my callous self cry.
Until I realised it was all bollocks.

That moment came when, article finished, I had collapsed on the couch to contemplate my genius. It occurred to me that the things I had so energetically listed as South African-flavoured, and thus the making of who I am today, are actually not unique to South Africa at all.

I had talked, complete with grand poetic gestures, about being part of a nation that is capable of developing tolerance and understanding between different cultures. How we, modern South Africans, have had the good fortune to witness the power and grace of a peaceful transformation from an oppressive regime to democracy. How we should be (and often are) world leaders in dealing with peaceful change.

I had rambled on about a nation so accustomed to violent crime that we have evolved and now project a supreme confidence in dealing with the effects of hi-jacking and armed robbery. Your average Joburger is so tough these days, we make the famously hardened New Yorkers look positively tame. Having had my jewellery (and my sanity) unceremoniously removed from my person at gunpoint qualifies me to write this bit. The jewellery was gone forever; the sanity eventually crawled back home.

Naturally, my article had covered the notion that South Africans are so partial to warm climates that we miserably wither and fade in colder climes. Or freeze solid, as was my experience in -25 degrees Celsius during the unforgiving Norwegian winter. Do you know that at that temperature your nostril hairs freeze instantly? For a South African, this is an entirely bizarre experience. Shove a spoonful of beach sand up your nose and walk around like that for the day: that’s roughly how it feels.

Having expressed all that and more, my smugness turned to biting disappointment as my couch-time-reflection suggested that while all these attributes are certainly a feature of South African life, they are also a feature of the lives of other nations. Thus, they are not the ingredients that make me uniquely South African. It was a rather sorry moment of un-realisation, if you like.

Before the fierce patriots among you start loading your weapons, let me explain. My travels of the last few years have taken me all over the world. In each place I have tested my sense of identity against the cultures I encountered, trying to see where I might fit in (a luxury afforded to self-aware, spoiled brats like me). I harbored a great deal of misplaced anger towards South Africa at the time and I wanted to see whether I felt more at home amongst other nations.

What I learned was that there are other countries in the world that also have a history of peaceful political transformation; that crime is certainly not unique to South Africa; and that there are many other nations who have, and appreciate, a warm climate. So, pertinent as these points are to my overall identity, they do not provide me with a sense of South African distinctiveness.

Needless to say, this sudden awareness of the dangerously thin ice on which my identity as a South African rested, made me feel decidedly uneasy. For a few long moments, still lying prostrate on the couch, I reasoned that perhaps I was just a citizen of the world. A nomad of sorts who did not need a nationality to feel okay about myself. What a bummer. I had so badly wanted to write something noble and brilliant about being South African, but I was determined to stick to the brief of writing “the truth”. In that vein, my integrity would not allow me to fabricate something just for the sake of an article.

I spent the next few days going about my business, rather sullenly mulling over the fact that I didn’t feel especially South African. The lack of identity made me quite grumpy, actually. And then, as life often has it, something tiny happened that changed everything…

At a social gathering on a warm summer day, while surrounded mostly by French and Norwegian friends, I discovered (with laugh-out-loud delight) what it really is that makes me South African. It is a minute thing that is so unique to South Africans, it’s undeniable: no matter where I travel to or who I happen to be with, I am completely and utterly incapable of saying the word barbeque. My brain cannot process it, nor can my mouth form the word.

Enter my magical moment of realisation! The joys and sorrows of daily life in South Africa are mirrored in many countries of the world, but our language is unique. Nowhere else on the planet will people understand me when I call something makulu or refer to the boerewors as lekker. South African language runs only in the blood of its people, regardless of colour, creed or geographical location. That is arguably the most refreshing, comforting thought I’ve had in a moerse long time.

Who would have thought that the 5 simple letters in the word braai could make the difference between identity crisis and a sense of complete belonging?

Ja well no fine.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Up until that point in my life, I had never been a fan of rugby, as I much preferred the drama of WWF. Even the Springboks did not capture much of my attention for that matter but today was different. Today was more than just a game of rugby. I felt compelled by curiosity to switch on the TV, as I had heard the media hype and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I must be blatantly honest and admit that I was on the edge of my seat from the moment the whistle blew. Each time the Bokke scored, I erupted from my seat like Mount Etna during a volcanic splurge. This was so unlike me I thought.

South Africa was leading 9-6 by half time. The stadium was buzzing with excitement as everyone clung to the hope that today would be the turning point in rugby history. The buzz was soon drowned out by the mighty All Blacks who levelled the score with a penalty goal in the second half. The crowd fell silent, fixated on the celebration unfolding in front of them as the team in ominous black celebrated their comeback. They had levelled the playing field. What would the Bokke do now? I rose from my seat only to be brought crashing down as Andrew Mehrtens failed to kick a late drop goal. The score remained unchanged forcing the game into extra time.

How much more could I take? How much more could any of us take? We were all united by one dream, one passion, and one lingering glimmer of hope that; today South Africa would show the world we could be victorious in the face of darkness, or in this case the towering shadow of Jonah Lomu.

As time whittled away, both teams gave it their all, scoring penalty goals in the first half of extra time. Would this never end? Were the rugby gods toying with us? Finally…breakthrough! Victory presented itself in the form of Joel Stransky who sealed the deal and landed a drop goal to win the final.

The crowd roared and cheered as the siren went. I danced around my living room energetically. We had won the Rugby World Cup! South Africa had done it! I sat on my couch and watched the festivities unfold and felt overcome with emotion and a sense of pride. The same pride and emotion you feel when your child or niece/nephew walks for the first time. Yesterday our team had crawled and today they were walking before my very eyes. It was extraordinary.

Nelson Mandela, wearing a Springbok Rugby shirt and cap presented the trophy to South African captain Francois Pienaar to the delight of the capacity crowd. We all shared in the glory of what it meant to be victorious. We shared in what it meant to be South African on a new dawn of democracy for all. In that defining moment years of bitterness, racial divide and strife suddenly seemed petty and insignificant. People of all colour celebrated the monumentous occasion and for the first time in my life I cried as our new National Anthem “Nkosi Sikelela” ran out around the grounds and echoed through the speakers of my television.

That day marked the first day that I realised I was a South African and would always be South African. Our country had become united and I had forged a bond that will never be broken.

I started packing the night before I left. Textbooks and trinkets disappeared into deep cardboard boxes. The packing tape strained and squawked, their fates sealed. Wiping my hair from my eyes I turned to my backpack gaping hungrily on the floor. I pushed up my sleeves, again, and studied the checklist stuck to my cupboard door. Rolling and folding became squashing and squeezing and within minutes I’d reduced my life to 75 litres. The night-time hours crept.

In the morning I was left with a quiet house and time to soak up the familiar. I wandered from room to room, to smell, touch and remember. By the afternoon I fidgeted, held captive by my departure time.

One by one, my parents arrived home and I teetered downstairs, blood racing, stomach churning, careful not to crush anything with my load. As we waited for my brother, I passed a South African flag to my mom to sew onto my pack—to be attached. My passport secretly tucked, it declared to the world that I belonged. My mom stitched, my dad paced. I sat.

The telephone’s rings pierced the waiting room. My brother’s car had been stolen from campus! South Africa: your legacy, my heritage. Dad made plans to fetch Roger from UCT and meet us at the airport. Mom cut the thread. Good-bye dog-log, good-bye house, good-bye street.

I stood in the SAA check-in queue, fumbling and staggering under the weight of my bag. Eyes wide, voice small I asked for a window seat. My family huddled on the other side of the stanchions, smiling encouragements, waiting patiently. We sat at a coffee shop until it was time to go. Time to go. And the tears came thick and fast, hot on my already-flushed cheeks, tumbling into crumbled tissues. A girl divided, I wiped my nose on my sleeve.

I bear-hugged them, shaking in my Docs. Good-bye mom, dad, Rog. I slung my daypack onto my shoulder and shuffled forward with a syncopated heart. I wanted to go but I wanted to stay for just a little longer. The guard, cloaked in indifference, thumbed my passport. I smiled bravely and sniffed, and wondered whether he’d ever left home, his country.

I looked back one last time. There they were, waving, grinning and blowing kisses. I returned them all, smiled and turned the corner. Good-bye Cape Town. Good-bye South Africa.

At school things were fine as we were all in the same boat of being at the only English school in the town. There was a real conglomeration of people in that little school, we came from all over the world especially Europe, there were Italians, Portuguese, Greeks, Dutch and English folk besides the regular South African English kids. There was also a substantial community of Jewish people – we loved the Jewish holidays as the school was half empty and we couldn’t do any work so it was essentially a free day.

The strange thing was that we all kept out nationalities, almost like badges of honour. We used to share out lunches as there was always something different on offer. We had pretty cosmopolitan palates for little kids, tzadziki, lasagna, matzo and cheese sandwiches got traded with relish. So we never seemed to consider ourselves as South African even though we all grew up in this little Highveld town we had our own little United Nations.

As I got older I still considered myself to be an English immigrant, and this was entrenched when directly after Matric I went back to the UK to visit my Grandparents. When I came back home to South Africa I had picked up a long buried English accent which has stayed with me to this day.

The first time I really felt truly South African was probably when I went to my first Johnny Clegg concert held at the Market Theatre in about 1983. A group of us piled into my old skedonk of a car, I vividly remember one very tall chap was behind the back seats in the boot area as it was the only place we could fit him. Anyway, off we drove to JHB, with a good supply of red wine and beer of course. The vibe at the concert was absolutely mind blowing and Johnny and Juluka had us dancing like maniacs. We danced and drank and danced some more, we sang along to every single song at the tops of our voices, we acted like people possessed and in a way I suppose we were. The times were troubled and this was a celebration of being young adults in an uncertain world.

It was a moment to savour, I did not go to many concerts and I relished the occasion. It was the music that spoke to me, it screamed to me that this is South Africa and I understood every beat of it. At that moment I knew, I WAS a South African, it didn’t matter where I was born, or where I had grown up. This was what I was and nothing could change that or take it away from me. South Africa had gotten into my very bones and I was a child of this land no matter what happened in the future.

“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…….

I don’t have a good memory. By my reckoning, I remember roughly half of my life. That’s not to say I don’t have a timeline fixed in my head – it’s just that the memories are more of a thin veneer and kind of like those infomercial products that look so good but really don’t stand up to close scrutiny.

There are two vivid memories that fit this category and coincidentally are the two events that proved to me, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was a South African.

The first took place in front of a small TV set in 1990 in a small Eastern Cape town.

I remember seeing an old but vital man walking at the head of a crowd of people. Dressed in a quite plain gray suit, he carried himself with a strange dignity. Even so, there are many dignified people in the world and surely it takes more than that to get on TV? I’m a naturally curious person so of course I asked and I distinctly remember having the whole thing explained to me. I knew to some degree about Apartheid and the tragedies that had beset the country but it had always seemed so distant to me, almost unreal. The last thing I remember about that day was the small, quiet feeling of pride I had, an inclusion in something so much bigger than myself, and the fading lyrics of a song.

Time passed and South Africans went to the polls to give democracy a chance. I grew up a little and learned more about the country and how we got to where we were. By the time my second memory was being made wherever it is that memories are created, Nelson had moved quite far from his plain gray suit. As President of a country that seemed to have no limit, he had risen into the world spotlight and broken open a stillness that had encased South Africa for far too long.

The world had finally recognized us as a sports playing nation and boy, we were glad. I’ve never been a sports fan but this impressed even me. Five years after Nelson had been freed, I sat with millions of South Africans as the world took our measure. We waited, eyes fixed on the television, barely breathing, to see if we’d be found worthy.

I think it’s quite possible that the collective concentration of South Africa has never been as galvanised, so centred as it was on that day. I often wonder what would have happened if the ball had gone the other way. If New Zealand had scored one more time or if Joel Stransky’s foot had slipped on his approach. Would South Africa be as collected as it is now? Would we be in the same position, would so much have been expected of us? Would I and countless others feel like we were part of something bigger – even just for a day?

Because man, when Joel Stransky’s magic foot landed that final drop goal, I all but exploded with pride. I’m sure millions of South Africans agree that on that day, in that hour we were untouchable. South Africa’s future spread out bright and golden into the horizon and for the first time ever, I really felt like I belonged here.

I may not have a good memory and I may be missing half my life but I’ll be damned if I ever forget that.