Tell Me Your Story, Give Me Some Hope
My heart hurts. That’s the thought that keeps rolling through my mind as I try to figure out how to put my feelings about Kaffir Boy, Mark Mathabane’s autobiography, down on paper. It hurts because Mathabane’s description of coming of age in South Africa’s apartheid once again shines a light on just how cruel human beings can be to each other. It hurts because the recurring theme in Mathabane’s story is his belief in America as the land of freedom. It hurts because white people and black people believed the lies told by settlers and missionaries claiming that black people had been cursed and white people tried to save them.
Kaffir Boy is an incredible story of hope in the direst circumstances. Mathabane’s meticulous recounting of what he faced in the first 18 years of his life are beyond anything my imagination has the capacity to absorb. It was a life where police raids, starvation, physical abuse, and government sponsored degradation were daily events. Mathabane tells his story with a tightly controlled mixture of rage and hope. Despite the in depth detail with which he describes his hunger, humiliation, and the dangers he faced, there is a sense of distance to the telling which gives the impression that the story, sordid as it is, has been sanitized for the readers.
I don’t even know how to capture the emotions that have taken over as I read this book. I wish I could say that the hope and pleasant ending to the book were enough to leave me in a place of hopefulness as well. Instead I find myself wondering what life was like for Mathabane when he arrived in America in the Fall of 1979 to attend college. Did he indeed feel as if he had walked into a utopian society where black and white people were given equal freedoms, equal legal standing, and valued each other as equal human beings? Or did he quickly sense the fact that, while there are laws in place to perpetuate equality, systemic racism exists on many levels? Was he free from racial epithets such as “kaffir boy” or were they simply replaced with those somewhat unique to American society? And was he as frustrated by the gender hierarchies that exist in the “land of the free” as he was by those patriarchal systems which kept his mother tied to a man who freely abused her because he had “paid” for her?
If I was asked to share the one lesson I received from Kaffir Boy, it would not be that there is always hope. It also would not be that, in the end, human decency will win. And it would most certainly not be that good things come to those who wait. Instead, the one lesson I take from this book is that there can be no reconciliation or even understanding until we risk ourselves enough to hear the stories of those we fear, despise, misunderstand, or distrust. When asked by white tennis players, “How can we live with you people (blacks) when you hate us so much,” Mathabane replied that, “for as long as meaningful contact between the races was forbidden by law, the stereotypes each race had of the other would persist…Apartheid thrived on the enmity and fear between black and white.” (327) What the white players wanted to know was why they should give up power and risk being trampled on the way they had trampled on black citizens of South Africa. Why risk giving up privilege and power to people who are not on the same level as they?
In order to achieve even tentative reconciliation, those with privilege and power must choose to set it aside and hear the stories, complaints, and charges of the oppressed. It isn’t enough to pass laws saying that people will be treated equally if those who belong to the privileged group can’t acknowledge the ways they flourish under a system of inequality. Some white people in South Africa were saddened and angered by the things black people endured, but they were not moved enough to lay aside privilege or leverage power to force a change. It’s hard to give those things up! It’s even harder when you haven’t taken the time to hear stories of the people who do not have the same privilege and power. As we read in Welsh’s The Rise and Fall of Apartheid, it wasn’t until De Klerk was willing to hear Mandela’s complaints and charges and to acknowledge the sin of apartheid that the steps could be taken to reconciliation. In return, Mandela had to swallow the bitterness that years of pain had bred, and try to trust.
In September our DMin cohort will travel to South Africa where we will hear the stories of people whose lives were impacted by apartheid. I’m eager to hear what has changed as well as what hasn’t. Is there, as there is in America, still an underlying thread of racism, or has the work of reconciliation diminished that threat? The cynic in me says it is still there, while the optimist wants to hope.
About the Author
Kristin Hamilton
12 responses to “Tell Me Your Story, Give Me Some Hope”
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Kristen, your statement ‘Kaffir Boy is an incredible story of hope in the direst circumstances.’ was a good one.
As you read this story, it was hard to realize that there was hope. I am glad that he shared his success. You feel better that he survives but the truth is, how do you help others to succeed?
I think him telling his story is one of the keys to helping others succeed, Lynda. Education gave him hope, just as the love and sacrifice of his mother and grandmother gave him hope. What important lessons those are to all of us! Maybe we can’t end systemic injustice, but we can offer building blocks to that end by supporting education for those who otherwise have not opportunities, and by sacrificially loving our families, our neighbors, and our enemies.
“It isn’t enough to pass laws saying that people will be treated equally if those who belong to the privileged group can’t acknowledge the ways they flourish under a system of inequality.”
Kristin, as usual you have hit the nail on the head. I think we got rid of our “Jim Crow” laws here about 30 years before the “end” of apartheid in So. Africa. Perhaps we have changed as bit as a society. I hope so. I’ve been told that it’s not quite so good in So. Africa yet. We will see when we get to Cape Town.
Related to your insight – my denomination finally decided it was ok to ordain women about 20 years ago, but very few congregations are calling women to the pastorate. You can make the law, but people still need to change their hearts.
It makes me sad that the decision to ordain women in your denomination (and many others) has not resulted in change toward having more women in the pulpit, Mary. I think this is what is happening in all areas of injustice in this country (and in others). We think it is enough to create laws and policies, but we don’t educate people and help them toward heart changes. I love my country and I love the Church, so much so that I am willing to speak prophetically against the continuing injustices and oppressions. Sadly, many see this as a betrayal of those spaces I love.
Kristin! YES! YES! YES! to this post!!! WOW! Well said! I, too, found this book hard to read for very similar reasons you stated above! One of many powerful statements you made was this ” Instead, the one lesson I take from this book is that there can be no reconciliation or even understanding until we risk ourselves enough to hear the stories of those we fear, despise, misunderstand, or distrust. ” This is more than just a true statement. It is something that MUST happen! Very powerful and needed reflections and post!
It must, Christal. My challenge to myself and to anyone willing to take it on is to be vulnerable enough to listen to the stories without offering solutions or opinions – just listen and learn.
Kristin, you’ll have to read his follow-up book where he tells you what happened when he arrived in America! I might read it myself.
There is no doubt continued racism in South Africa, as there is in America and everywhere else in the world. I did feel that this book was infused with hope, however, and it is amazing how far South Africa, and Northern Ireland, and America have come. We must, in the words of Jim Collins, confront the brutal facts, but maintain a vital sense of optimism…
I really want to read it, Geoff. I need more of the story.
You are right that we have come a long way and that brings hope. I do think, though, that having come so far makes us complacent. We battled slavery with such fervor, but found ourselves relaxing and letting African Americans fend for themselves in much of the Civil Rights era and today when black men, women, and children are being killed by law enforcement. To make it worse, our silence is not because we are apathetic to the terror, but because we are afraid to offend our white brothers and sisters. I don’t know what to do with that.
But stories like Mark’s give me hope that one person can stand against oppression, even when it makes them unpopular with their own family, friends, and community.
“Instead I find myself wondering what life was like for Mathabane when he arrived in America in the Fall of 1979 to attend college.”
Fortunately, he wrote a follow up book about that topic. In it he talks about the racism in America that he observed, and other struggles.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/83170.Kaffir_Boy_in_America
A side note, according to Wikipedia, Mathabane lives in Portland.
I’m looking forward to reading it, Stu! I also just ordered one of Mathabane’s novels to read this summer.
“There can be no reconciliation or even understanding until we risk ourselves enough to hear the stories of those we fear, despise, misunderstand, or distrust.”
Kristin, this is such a powerful post. I think of Jesus’ kenosis (Philippians 2), his willingness to give up the privilege of sitting at the right hand of God, to dwell among us, fully human. Privilege is such a nice place to sit, safe and comfortable. “But God so loved…” You are spot on, “those with privilege and power must choose to set it aside and hear the stories, complaints, and charges of the oppressed.” I need to do a better job of listening.
‘Instead, the one lesson I take from this book is that there can be no reconciliation or even understanding until we risk ourselves enough to hear the stories of those we fear, despise, misunderstand, or distrust.’ —YES!!!!
I really believe that change almost only ever happens in and through relationships.
People change their views on issues – be it race or religion or sexuality, whatever it is – not because they were presented with a convincing argument or overwhelming facts (current research actually seems to show we tend to shut down and ‘dig in’ in response to that type of argument) – but rather through a relationship that challenges and contradicts our our currently held beliefs.
Several years ago in this midst of a denominational discussion over ordination and sexuality, it was highlighted that all of the denominational leaders that had changed their position on the issue had personal relationships with someone in the LGBTQ community (child, close friend, colleague, etc.) And those that hadn’t, while there were exceptions, often didn’t have those relationships.
I don’t think this coincidental.