A midlife crisis

I think I am a self-loathing middle aged white male.

I was educated a very conservative dual medium primary school in the early to mid 1980s, where the virtues of the apartheid National Party government were extolled at every opportunity, the states brainwashing project in full swing trying desperately to cling on to power as the walls closed in.

In 1989 there was a momentous shift in sentiment and political will as the collapse of communism in Central and Eastern Europe meant that the massive international inflows of money towards defending the African continent against the Red Army dried up, and the Apartheid state could no longer be sustained as sanctions quickly took their toll.

I was privileged enough to go to a very liberal English speaking co-ed high school, during a time when the entire world was emerging from a dark age of oppression and cold war. We began to openly discuss the virtues and iniquities of socialism, communism, capitalism, colonialism, religion, racism, sexuality and many other subjects that were often regarded as too risque or even taboo in ultra conservative apartheid era South Africa.

Scope magazine even removed their redaction of lady parts from their magazines. Nipples were pinky to dark purple and round, not white and star shaped. Who would have thought?

The strength of Apartheid was to dehumanize non-whites by ensuring that stereotypes were aggressively maintained and perpetuated by doing exactly what the word meant, keeping people apart.

The school was incredibly brave when in the days before the release of Nelson Mandela and the un-banning of the ANC, they allowed a series of debates with “black” and “coloured” township schools to take place in our school hall. The debates took place on the stage, but the real blow to apartheid was done in the audience, where children of all races sat side by side listening, talking, laughing and crying. In that hall we were all the same, regardless of what PW Botha and his cabal might have said.

Leaving the debates, I was filled with anger, pain and sadness. Feeling helpless I wanted to do something, anything. In my angst filled teenage mind, the immense unfairness of life weighed me down. I was mad.

I imagined then that I carried my broadsword of progress in the conversations I had with my peers, my enthusiasm to elicit change would hopefully be the catalyst for a thousand new voices of hope, raging against the machine in unison, initiated by a thousand hushed but heated debates about the cruelty of the state apparatus and its devastating consequences.

I cannot be sure I ever had any effect on anybody. I think I was branded an eccentric kook at best, but most likely an insane liberal terrorist loving asshole or worse.

I don’t regret anything.

Today we once again find ourselves in a similar situation that we did way back during those debates of 1990 that took place in our school hall.

Sure, the devil is in the detail, and whilst the political situation is very different today, with several free and fair democratic elections having taken place since the fall of apartheid, the same psychological, social, philosophical and economic scars still exist and have even been exacerbated in recent years in South Africa.

State capture was initiated during an era of prosperity and reconciliation in South Africa, but as the details emerged and public outrage grew, the go-to tool for the perpetrators was to retreat back to rhetoric of the apartheid state, emphasizing differences, stoking racial tensions and creating an atmosphere of fear and distrust.

It worked.

The true cost of state capture is not the money that was stolen, but the social and racial discord that was a vehicle and by-product of those bastards who chose to sell their souls to the devil.

The spirit of reconciliation feels long gone. The Rainbow Nation is a forgotten relic, relegated to a footnote in the history books of South Africa. The soul of Mandela is channeled for evil instead of good, the antithesis of all his core beliefs.

The advent of democratized social media has given a platform to everyone. Anyone with an opinion can be heard around the world, instantly and without guard rails.

And in this terrifying environment I find myself once again retreating back into that hall in Standard 7, listening to my fellow debaters and audience members trying often for literal life-or-death to find a middle ground and common understanding to make a better future for all.

For every racist post written, tagged or shared I find it more and more difficult to ignore it, needing to comment on the verbose undertone of bigotry or ignorance. I am compelled to share my truth. I cannot help myself. I feel 15 again.

There is something succinctly perverse and cruel when standing by and watching the haves beat down on the have-nothings, seeing the educated spewing factual untruths in an effort to throw shade on the uneducated, the inevitable kicking somebody who is down.

Bullies become cowards when they are called out or challenged to a fight. Illogical arguments crumble and indefensible standpoints are abandoned for cries of “fake news” and ill-thought out reasoning encompassing the worst examples of circular reasoning.

I struggle to be subtle in my outrage.

I cannot be sure I will ever have any effect on anybody. I think I am branded an eccentric kook at best, but most likely an insane liberal terrorist loving asshole at worst.

But I don’t really care. Its medicine to the soul to think that maybe, just maybe, one person will read something I wrote and change for the better. To stop hating on others and once again aspire to the values of Nelson Mandela, who had every reason to hate but instead showed love.

I would love to be proud of who I am, my heritage and my culture, but right now, in this time and this place, I am finding that harder and harder. I think I am a middle aged self-loathing white male.

Maybe I should just delete Facebook.

Or buy a convertible....