A Rainbow of Burden

South Africa
June 2019

In structural architecture, the arch evokes timeless simplicity. Without reinforcement, innocently angled stones rest shoulder to shoulder as weight bears down effortlessly, aligned physics with elegance. An intriguing created passage erases the cubic intimidation. Enduring iconic archways herald ancient celebrated castles, support modern infrastructure of wheels and water, and reveal what lies beyond the wall. They are both ornaments and essential elements, support structures without ceremony whose proportion delights the eyes and invented curved throughways coil the soul on a subtle thread. It is no surprise that the rainbow animates us. A natural archway of another magnitude in glorious color, compounding that of intrinsic appeal as rays slice droplets to reveal a brilliant gradient beaming from that already enticing shape. It draws us mesmerized as it fades with the blowing breeze.

When Desmond Tutu first described the "Rainbow Nation" early in South African democracy, I can only imagine he aspired to a future soundly constructed on the broad shoulders of diversity, welcoming all to wander a few steps further in the pluralist passage. Through the arch. Into the rainbow. He hinted at thousands of years and countless peoples drawn to the southern tip of Africa; a nation of nations. First Khoi San hunter-gatherers encountered pleasant climate abundant with game. Then Bantu tribes with more organized agricultural techniques and social groupings usurped their nomadic predecessors. Curious and rapacious Portuguese and Dutch seafarers landed next only to be shunned the tribal inhabitants. And perhaps the land itself as well: hundreds of their ships wrecked on the outcroppings rounding the Cape, warning them of the worthiness of their temptation. Relentless that they stake their banners and build a workforce, they brought another population here by force from colonies peering across the Indian Ocean: the Cape Malay.

Modern South Africa emerges from the haven of this rainbow arch of welcome, this brilliant portal, as newcomers glow in the light, tinted - and tainted - by those who passed before. Yet a white shadow grows long. One could argue it's a result of British conquest of the Dutch Cape Colony; their influence penetrates far deeper than the drab place names: Port Elizabeth, King William's Town, and simply, George. They drove the Dutch Boers inland and instilled resentment that festered as Afrikaner nationalism and oozed as Apartheid just a few short generations later. What already curtailed rights black tribal groups had under the government of the era were further reduced, their land repossessed, their dignity denied. And yet, 25 years beyond, the white puss of Apartheid still oozes. This tepid rainbow sags, a grey slurry in the glow of Mandela's optimism and Tutu’s vision.

Never before have I been shocked by such a plainly divided society. I internalize it instantly with every sense. De jure division is over, yet I waste no imagination. It persists de facto. Whites mirror life in wealthy countries but blacks struggle to see their own reflection; many of their homes have no light. White drivers gawk as I hitchhike at the roadside among black South Africans of all sides of life: students, cooks, farmhands, infants. But they don't stop. Blacks stare at me perusing the aisles of the supermarket naively in a neighborhood where my skin doesn't go. Thumping beats echo from a mobile phone for hours as young guys await a ride in the slanting winter sun. Others selling pirated music discs in the taxivan rank try their skills on me, wanting to converse with the obvious outsider. They're cautiously amused, curious why I'm here - not about my voyage or my story - but why here, where whites don't go. We speak in English. Afrikaans was the language of the oppressor, though it's also the first language for most Coloured people (Apartheid era term for mixed-race people still widely accepted). Few whites here seem inspired to learn Xhosa or Sotho or Zulu or any other of the 11 official languages. I playfully pop my tongue, testing some Xhosa words as I aim for understanding. They laugh, yet somehow I only feel more isolated. Women waiting nearby call me to their side with wide, dark eyes and direct me to the correct taxi, plainly concerned that I'm a target.

Perhaps the only unity is over fear. In South Africa, whites obsess in excess about safety following recent indiscriminate farmer killings, while blacks face the world's highest urban murder rates, primarily just outside city centers in townships where they were assigned to live just a generation ago. And those in between - usually the Coloureds - straddle the emotional, economic, and physical gap where they are most exposed to gang violence as groups jostle in a tight and unequal socioeconomic space. First they weren't white enough. Now they're not black enough.

Rural areas offer little reprieve. Along rural motorways of the Eastern Cape, pastel rondavels and squatty roofed concrete cubes dot the hillsides. From one horizon to another they rise and fall, rolling waves of colorful spices strewn atop a warped verdant table of grassy abandonment. Thousands. And they aren't on the map. Maybe it's easier to deny them running water that way, as what little rain in this arid country drains past to the ocean, irrigating gated beachfront golf course estates en route.

It feels like a place of enormous unrealized potential, where the skeleton of the society is functional and accessible to many, yet simultaneously mocking their lack of broad social uplift: modern banking and roading, industrialized consumerism capturing a narrow middle class at every informal roadside shack, state support for education and health. Four seasons yield varied agriculture which ironically reaches worldwide markets before the hungry mouths of kwaZulu-Natal. And a serenity of bold landscapes whose beauty is perhaps the aspect least stifled by an air of division. I blink to clear the blurred image before my eyes: a starker version of the infallible US. It reminds me that apartheid is ‘segregation’ in Afrikaans.

One day, I'm broken by the discord. Discord doesn’t penetrate the emotional leather of this nation, curing for years baked in the sun and strife. But my privileged sensitivities puncture easily. She brings me a coffee. Black. They all are, working in restaurants and cafes. And I press my lips to smile, my eyes wet and heavy with disgrace. I want to talk to her, or talk at her. Tell her I'm sorry. Her family isn't inferior like the Afrikaners said to me yesterday. The country isn't lacking in oppressive so-called White Intelligence. I'm not like them. Please, believe me. I believe you. I believe in you. I know it's complicated and deeper than my fleeting momentary interactions.

"Might I have some milk?"
"Yes, of course, sir. Cold or warm?"
"Warm, please."
"Sharp."

The rainbow weighs. The arch strains. Through the passage I saunter listless, my eyes and ears attuned for a hopeful revelation. But a white cowardly racist mass looms overhead, the colors crack and bleed, dripping and crumbling. Shards of stone calve away, yet it remains intact, somehow firmly enduring that which crushes my soul, forever weaker than their learned resistance. Maybe this Rainbow persists better than appearance would seem, itself a burdensome enduring imposition on all that came and inspiration on all that remain.