My family have been immigrants forever. First, my great grandparents were taken to South Africa from India in 1860 by the British rulers of the time to work the sugar fields there. They hated their lives in South Africa where they were used and abused by the English farmers to whom they were indentured. They were not wanted there by the first invaders of the land, the Afrikaners who thought they were inferior in some way because they were brown and wanted to send them back right from the start. They tried to keep them away from white people and made life for them as difficult as possible. My grandparents and parents were born into that environment and yearned for their motherland. When the Afrikaners took over from the British, they legislated separatism and labelled it apartheid. I was born into that milieu of control and abuse where overt racism became the order of the day.
When our children began to experience the abuse we suffered on account of the colour of our skin, my husband and I made that big decision to leave the country of our birth and, in 1988, took them away to a country where nobody would notice their colour and where they would be allowed to grow up as first class citizens. We took them to egalitarian New Zealand.
You see, it was mostly the poor and downtrodden people of the UK who had settled New Zealand and they were determined to have equality in their new country. This was exactly what we wanted too, so we entered our new country with exhilaration. The curiosity of the locals at meeting brown South Africans who didn’t sound like the Springboks was delightful. For them we were exotic exceptions to the stereotypical Indian and were embraced by most around us. Although a few ignorant fools hurled petty slurs at us from time to time, they were nothing in the greater scheme of things, and we bathed in euphoria.
But then, before long, more brown people began to come to our new home, and something happened to the friendly people of New Zealand. Their demeanour changed and the smiles turned to frowns. First there were whispers, then rumbles and before we knew it, loud cries of an Asian invasion reverberated around the country.
One Friday afternoon I went to the town centre with my children. I parked the car in the parking lot and locked it, as usual, before we left. We stood there for a moment, as usual, and watched in awe as people just got out of their cars and walked away without locking them. After all these months, we could still not get accustomed to this. How could people leave things on their back seats and walk away from their cars without locking them? And how did they still find them there when they returned? This was unheard of in South Africa – why, you were bound to not find your car there, let alone your possessions on your back seat!
Oh well, good for us, I thought as we walked away. The girls hurried off to browse in their favourite gift shop while Kiran and I went to the ATM. We would meet them there when we were done, then go to the supermarket together. Kiran looked around in awe, as usual, as he watched people walk away from their cars without locking them, then turned to me and asked yet again: ‘Why do you still lock your car, Mum?’
‘Well, I’ve always done that, Honey, and I don’t know how to stop.’
‘But nobody’s going to break into it here. They even leave their things in them and nobody steals them.’
‘Yes, I know, but I’m still too nervous about doing that. I’ve done it so long. We’ve had the worst experiences back home, you know – Dad’s car was broken into once and stolen another time, and…’
‘Yes Mum, but you have to forget about that. It’s different here. Nobody’s going to do that to us here. You said you brought us here because it’s safe, remember?’
‘Yes Dear, I remember and I’m going to try not to be nervous anymore… But I think it’s a good idea to lock your car anyway. It’s a good habit and I don’t think I’m going to lose that one.’
‘Ah, come on! Nobody does it. You can see,’ he said as he waved his hand around the parking lot. ‘It’s safe, Mum.’
‘Yes Dear, it’s safe, but it’s safer to be cautious. There might just be a bad egg around.’
‘Ag, Mum… he protested as we walked to the ATM.
The queue at the machine was long. It was in a rather strange place, I thought. It was fixed into the wall of the bank that bordered on the parking lot. The parking space directly in front of the ATM was left free for queues and the spaces on both sides were used for parking. Rather strange! This would never happen in South Africa and there would be a lot of security around, but not here. I couldn’t help observing this each time I went there. We joined the queue and chatted quietly as we slowly edged forward.
I noticed that the car on our left was occupied and glanced in. There was a scruffy young Caucasian man with unkempt, long hair sitting at the wheel. His window was wound right down and he had his right elbow resting on the door and his fingers clutching the edge of the hood. He occasionally tapped his fingers on the metal to the beat of the rock music blaring from the car radio. The car was just as scruffy and dirty as he was and had clearly endured a lot of abuse. He glared hard at me when I glanced his way and I quickly looked away… Mmmm, that wasn’t very nice. His expression wasn’t nice at all. He didn’t seem to like me!
My thoughts were broken by Kiran’s voice. He was saying: ‘Mum, can we?’
‘Can we what?’ I asked.
‘You’re not listening! Can we go to the bakery after this and get a Sally Lunn?’
‘Oh, those horrible things! I told you you can’t have them anymore! They’re just a lump of dough coated in icing. Why would you want to eat that?’
‘They’re yummy! And they have coconut on them. All my friends eat them. Their Mum’s don’t object – they just buy them for them.’
‘We don’t have to do everything they do. We must be selective. We must choose what’s good for us and avoid those things that are not, and those Sally Lunn things are not good for you!’
‘But I want it! I like it!’ he squealed.
‘Okay, we’ll go to the bakery and see what else we might get, but not those horrible things. You’ve had enough of them already and can’t have them every week.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you do, you’ll soon be looking like one of them – a lump of dough.’ I then bent down and whispered in his ear: ‘Maybe that’s why there are so many fat people around. Just look at them. Do you want to be like that?’
He shook his head as he whispered back: ‘No!’
‘Then we’ll get something else.’
I glanced back at that car as I straightened myself. He was still glaring at me. Oh no, I thought, why is he doing that? Does he want to rob me? That would be so easy to do – he would just have to get out of the car while I was at the machine, grab my money, dash back into his car and drive away. It would all happen so quickly and nobody would be able to do a thing.
Oh dear, what was I going to do? Could he really try something like that? No, he wouldn’t! They don’t do that here… Of course not! Silly woman! You’re just being paranoid. Stop it!
I tried to avoid looking his way again and quietly chatted with my boy, pretending to be relaxed. But I couldn’t help peering his way from time to time as I needed to know whether he was just looking at me that way or whether he was also staring at the others in the queue… He didn’t seem to be looking at them. They were all white people like him and we were the only brown ones. Mmmm, what did that mean?
Nothing Silly, nothing! Stop being stupid!
After a short while, I noticed an equally scruffy young woman approach the car. She went around to the passenger door, opened it and got in. The scruffy young man turned on the ignition, put the car into reverse gear, turned around, stuck his head out the window, looked directly at me and yelled out: ‘Go home, you black bitch! Go home!’ Then he sped out of the parking bay and screeched away.
Kiran grabbed hold of me in terror, saying: ‘Mum, why did he say that? You said that wouldn’t happen here!’ And he burst into tears.
I was shocked and tried to comfort him. ‘It’s okay, Honey, it’s okay,’ I said as I held him close to me. I looked around at the people in the queue, desperately seeking support, but they all looked away. Nobody said a word. I heard myself saying: ‘Did you hear that?’ But nobody heard me. They were intently studying the cars and buildings around them, even the grit on the tarmac on which they were standing. It was as if that horrible thing had not happened at all.
I heard my child sobbing as he buried his head in my chest. I caressed his head and searched for something comforting to say to him, but I couldn’t find the right words. I was too shocked and confused. Why had this happened? I gasped for breath as I heard him repeat between his sobs: ‘You said it wouldn’t happen here, Mummy, you said! You said it wouldn’t happen here, you said. You said that’s why you were bringing us here, because it’s safe here. But it’s not!’
I wanted to walk away from these awful people who wouldn’t do a thing to help, but I needed the money, so I stayed. It took several minutes before I got to the machine. We all stood there in total silence, broken intermittently by the muffled sobs of my child. I glanced around from time to time, hoping to get some response from the people around me, but they were all too busy examining their surroundings to look my way. When I got my money, I turned around and looked at the woman behind me. She quickly looked away, then rushed to the machine where she could hide her face.
I slowly walked to the bakery, holding my son’s hand. I felt heavy and tired and had no desire to go there, but I did. I bought him his Sally Lunn and handed it to him. He smiled with delight as he wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.
‘Can I eat it now, Mummy?’ he asked.
‘Of course, Dear,’ I whispered, and we slowly walked to the gift shop while he dug into his Sally Lunn. Once again, my shoulders felt as if the world was resting on them.
Why had this happened to us? Why? Who was that horrible man? What did I do to him? Those horrible words kept ringing in my mind: ‘Go home you black bitch! Go home you black bitch! Go home you black bitch!’ My body riled at the sound of it – it trembled visibly. Why? Why? Why?
We found the girls in the store and I led them all toward the car.
‘Aren’t we going to the supermarket?’ asked Maya as she looked at me quizzically.
‘No,’ I said, ‘not today.’
‘Why?’ asked Meera. ‘And what about our cakes?’
‘We’ll get them at the bakery,’ I said reluctantly, just wanting to get back to the car.
‘What happened, Mum?’ Maya asked, sensing that something was wrong.
‘Nothing,’ I said as Kiran opened his bun filled mouth to say something. He shut it instantly when he saw the expression on my face that said: ‘Shut up!’ We stopped at the bakery and got the girls their cakes. They chose the largest doughnuts filled with mock cream and jam while looking at me as if to say: ‘He’s got the bad stuff, so we can too.’ I said nothing, paid, then walked away as they giggled at their victory and dug in.
We reached the car, I unlocked it and helped them in. Then I got in, quickly locked my door and just sat there. All I could hear were those terrible words. Then I felt a tugging at my left elbow. I looked to the left and found Kiran looking at me; a frown on his forehead, pink cream on his lips and the last bit of his Sally Lunn poised in his right hand. ‘I’m talking to you, Mummy,’ he was saying, ‘why aren’t we going?’
‘Oh!’ I said, ‘We are in a minute.’ I thought quickly and continued: ‘I’m just waiting for you to finish your cakes.’
He looked at me confused because they always ate while I was driving, then shrugged his shoulders and dived back into his sickly sweet bun while my mind jumped back to that incident.
They said nothing! They pretended they didn’t hear him! They did not meet my gaze! What did that mean? Were they all like him? Did they agree with what he said to me? Did he say what they would have liked to have said but didn’t have the nerve to? Did they all not want us here? Were they all just as racist as he clearly was? Is that why they could not meet my gaze or come to my assistance?
Go home! The audacity! My shock turned to anger. Well, we should all go home then, shouldn’t we? They should go home to Europe too or wherever else they came from! If this wasn’t my home, it wasn’t theirs either. If they could call it their home, then I could call it mine too. We were all immigrants here!
But it seemed like they didn’t know that. Or if they did, they pretended they didn’t, because then they would have to behave differently, wouldn’t they?
My heart pounded and my head throbbed. I didn’t even know when the migraine had started. I normally got the first signs, but I guess I was too shocked to notice them this time. I could not believe this had happened. Just when we had all settled down and were beginning to feel really happy, my bubble had been burst. Burst by a scruffy young man who probably hadn’t taken a bath in a while, who probably didn’t have a job and was living off the dole – the dole that I was contributing to! He was effectively living off me and he was asking me to go back home. Who in hell did he think he was! I felt the anger rise inside me. Yes, who in hell did he think he was to treat me like that? And what made him think that he could get away with it? Yes, what?
He did get away with it. None of his people had batted an eyelid! Why? They were just like him, just clothed differently. They felt exactly like he did! If they hadn’t, they would have said something, wouldn’t they? At least to me if not to him, surely? But they didn’t. They didn’t because they were just like him!
I felt sick to my stomach at the realisation. I wanted to puke. My heart pounded, my head throbbed and my stomach churned. I needed to go home quickly. I started the car and backed out of my parking. I heard a voice say: ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’
It was Maya. I turned around to look at her. She was sitting on the back seat with Meera. They took turns to sit in front with me. Oh dear, I wasn’t hiding my feelings well enough, was I?
‘Nothing, Honey,’ I replied. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Are you sad about what happened, Mummy?’ asked Kiran.
‘What happened?’ asked Meera as she poked her head between the two front seats.
‘Nothing, Dear…’
‘Yes, something bad happened, Mum,’ insisted Maya. ‘Tell us…’
‘It was just some stupid young man… He was abusive, that’s all.’
‘What! What happened? Tell us!’ shouted both girls.
‘Oh, he just asked me to go back home,’ I explained.
‘What!’ exclaimed Maya. ‘And what did you say?’
‘Nothing. He drove away immediately, so I couldn’t say anything. I was too shocked anyway.’
‘And the people didn’t say anything,’ added Kiran. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. He was just a stupid man… I am sad too, but I’m going to forget about him.’
I was pleasantly surprised at his response. Perhaps Sally Lunn had helped. The thought made me chuckle inside and I turned to him and said: ‘Good boy. That’s the way!’ I then turned around and said to the girls: ‘Don’t worry about it for a moment. It was just a stupid man who doesn’t know any better.’
They just stared at me, stunned.
‘Go on, eat your doughnuts,’ I said trying to sound jovial. ‘Forget about it, like Kiran.’
They probably would be able to forget it, I thought. They hadn’t experienced it like Kiran. But he had, so it was very different for him. It was very real and very ugly. I sincerely hoped that it would not have an adverse effect on him. I would need to work on that. He was a brave little boy to have said what he did. Take a lesson from him, I thought as I drove back home.
But I couldn’t forget that horrible man and his horrible words and the equally horrible people around him. At that moment it felt like that incident had turned my whole world upside down. Just when it was all looking so good!
Before I knew it, I was in my driveway. How I got there, I didn’t know. The realisation frightened me. Gosh! What if I had had an accident? What if I had run someone over? And I had my children in the car! I sucked in a short breath and held it for a moment. I’ve got to be more careful! I can’t let my thoughts distract me like that.
We got out of the car, silently. We walked into the house, slowly. Nobody spoke. Our shock at what had happened to us was evident in every move we made. Normally the kids had to be reminded to get their lunch boxes out of their bags and wash their hands before they sat down at the table for their afternoon tea. That afternoon, they did it without a sound. Normally, Maya helped me in the kitchen, but this time she just sat down.
I tried hard to behave normally and to be jovial, but I couldn’t change the expression on my face. I was aware of Kiran watching me closely as I moved around the kitchen and realised that I had to work hard at pretending. I had to set an example to him and the girls, but especially him. He would emulate me, so I had to be a good role model… What could I do? What could I say to change the heavy atmosphere in the room? Go on, ask about their day as you usually do!
‘So, how was your day?’ I asked as cheerfully as possible.
Nobody answered. I turned around and looked at them. They were just sitting there, staring at me.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
Maya replied with: ‘Why did that happen, Mum?’
How was I to explain that to her? It was so difficult, but I had to do it… Should I just show them how angry I was and let them be angry too or should I continue pretending that it was not an issue?
But pretending wasn’t good – it was a dysfunctional way of coping. Did I want to lead them there? No, there were too many consequences. They would lose their self-confidence, their self-esteem would plummet and they could become depressed. Gosh no! Who knows what that would lead to! Poor mental health often manifests physically and I don’t want my children to be sick, mentally or physically. That’s not what I brought them here for! No. I am going to have to use that awful word again.
‘Well… I think… Unfortunately, it seems like there is racism here too,’ I said quietly.
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Maya, ‘not more of that!’
I carried the last two cups of hot chocolate to the table and sat down with them.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ I said reluctantly. ‘It seems like there’s no getting away from racism.’
‘Yes, Mum, he was just racist, wasn’t he?’ Kiran was suddenly alert again. He seemed all fired up and flung his arms around as he continued: ‘The dirty pig! I don’t think he ever takes a bath. I wish I could punch him in the face!’
‘Me too!’ shouted Meera. ‘I would have given him a karate chop if I were there!’
‘I would have kicked him where the sun don’t shine,’ added Maya composedly, but clearly a little embarrassed at having said something so rude in my presence. I ignored what I would normally have censured.
‘Well, he was in his car, so you couldn’t,’ explained Kiran. ‘He was too chicken to get out and then say that horrible thing. He said it when he was leaving and then drove off. Whimp! And you’re not black, Mummy, and you’re not that horrible thing,’ he added as he looked at me with the most comforting look that he could find.
‘Thank you, Sweetheart,’ I responded gently as I leant over and gave him a peck on his cheek.
‘What horrible thing?’ enquired Maya as her little forehead creased into a huge frown.
‘Yes, what horrible thing?’ insisted Meera as Kiran shied away from repeating what he had heard. ‘Tell me, tell me.’
‘No, I can’t. It’s a bad word; we don’t say that.’
‘What word?’
‘I told you I can’t say it!’
‘That’s okay,’ I intervened, ‘It’s not important. We don’t need to repeat it. Besides, we don’t speak like that. Only crude people with no manners speak like that, and that’s what he is – a crude low-life who has no place in our lives.’
‘But I want to know what he said,’ demanded Meera. ‘How can I tell my friends if I don’t know what he said? Tell me another word for it then.’
‘Enough of that,’ interjected Maya.
She then looked hard at Meera, followed by a quick glance at Kiran and their fleeting body language told me that that word was going to be revealed later when I was out of earshot. Oh well, they have to know, I guess, so let them. There are things that they are going to have to learn, as unsavoury as they might be, and better that they learn them from their older sister who will hopefully guide them along the right path.
And who would she learn them from? Hopefully from the right sort of people. And who were they? Her peers? Damn! Shouldn’t I be teaching them? But am I supposed to be teaching them unsavoury stuff too? Gosh, how far does one go?
My thoughts were disrupted by the animated discussion of my children around what they would do to that young man if they were ever to encounter him again. They were convinced that their limited knowledge of judo and karate would help them inflict the worst damage possible. They were going to train even harder now and ask their instructor to show them better moves that they might use on that man. I never knew that they were capable of such violent thoughts! Gosh!
Does living in a violent environment teach one to be violent? Living in South Africa certainly exposed the kids to all sorts of violence, but I was hoping that they were too young then to have absorbed any of it. But even babies can absorb subliminal messages, can’t they? And does being a victim of violence awaken a need to retaliate? What would happen if they were continually exposed to acts of violence here, physical or psychological?
I wondered whether I should stop them right there and advise them against violence as violence begets more violence and we should kill people with kindness instead. That is what my parents taught me. But does that actually work? If you continually try to kill people with kindness, will that not eventually have you killed?
That’s a tricky one. You don’t want your children to be violent, but you do want them to be safe. I would have to find the right balance for them. They can’t just sit around being kind when people are being cruel to them. They’ll have to know how to defend themselves when required – only in self-defence. They learn that in karate anyway, so it shouldn’t be difficult to practice. There’s no point in asking them to stop now. They’ll simply bottle up their feelings and explode later – in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It would be a lot better to allow them to vent their feelings of anger right here, under my nose, so that they’re in a better state of mind when they venture out again.
By the time their father had come home from work, they were all calmer and happier and were able to relate the incident to him with more laughter than anger. When they were all asleep that night, I was able to fill him in on the unpleasant details. He was just as shocked and disappointed and angry as we all were. His bubble had been burst, like mine was. The consternation was visible on his face as he asked: ‘How are the children coping with this?’
‘Well, they seem to be okay now. They were very angry at first, but they’re laughing at it now.’
‘What about Kiran? He witnessed it.’
‘Yes, he was distraught at the time, but he seems to be handling it pretty well now. He’s even tried to comfort me.’
‘But that may just be superficial. There could be deeper and lasting effects, you know. He’s just a baby and that’s a terrible thing to have happened to him. How can his little mind process such a thing?’
‘Yes, I know. That is what I’m worried about too. I’ll have to talk to them about these things more, especially Kiran. I’ll have to walk him through this. It’s such a worry!’
It took us both a very long time to fall off to sleep that night. Our minds were too full of conflicting thoughts and emotions about what had happened to us – shock, anger, disappointment, even fear… Mostly fear! Fear that the one thing we never expected to encounter here was as alive and kicking as it was in South Africa. Fear of the potential consequences for our children. Fear that all our efforts for them could come to naught.
You see, it was mostly the poor and downtrodden people of the UK who had settled New Zealand and they were determined to have equality in their new country. This was exactly what we wanted too, so we entered our new country with exhilaration. The curiosity of the locals at meeting brown South Africans who didn’t sound like the Springboks was delightful. For them we were exotic exceptions to the stereotypical Indian and were embraced by most around us. Although a few ignorant fools hurled petty slurs at us from time to time, they were nothing in the greater scheme of things, and we bathed in euphoria.
But then, before long, more brown people began to come to our new home, and something happened to the friendly people of New Zealand. Their demeanour changed and the smiles turned to frowns. First there were whispers, then rumbles and before we knew it, loud cries of an Asian invasion reverberated around the country.
One Friday afternoon I went to the town centre with my children. I parked the car in the parking lot and locked it, as usual, before we left. We stood there for a moment, as usual, and watched in awe as people just got out of their cars and walked away without locking them. After all these months, we could still not get accustomed to this. How could people leave things on their back seats and walk away from their cars without locking them? And how did they still find them there when they returned? This was unheard of in South Africa – why, you were bound to not find your car there, let alone your possessions on your back seat!
Oh well, good for us, I thought as we walked away. The girls hurried off to browse in their favourite gift shop while Kiran and I went to the ATM. We would meet them there when we were done, then go to the supermarket together. Kiran looked around in awe, as usual, as he watched people walk away from their cars without locking them, then turned to me and asked yet again: ‘Why do you still lock your car, Mum?’
‘Well, I’ve always done that, Honey, and I don’t know how to stop.’
‘But nobody’s going to break into it here. They even leave their things in them and nobody steals them.’
‘Yes, I know, but I’m still too nervous about doing that. I’ve done it so long. We’ve had the worst experiences back home, you know – Dad’s car was broken into once and stolen another time, and…’
‘Yes Mum, but you have to forget about that. It’s different here. Nobody’s going to do that to us here. You said you brought us here because it’s safe, remember?’
‘Yes Dear, I remember and I’m going to try not to be nervous anymore… But I think it’s a good idea to lock your car anyway. It’s a good habit and I don’t think I’m going to lose that one.’
‘Ah, come on! Nobody does it. You can see,’ he said as he waved his hand around the parking lot. ‘It’s safe, Mum.’
‘Yes Dear, it’s safe, but it’s safer to be cautious. There might just be a bad egg around.’
‘Ag, Mum… he protested as we walked to the ATM.
The queue at the machine was long. It was in a rather strange place, I thought. It was fixed into the wall of the bank that bordered on the parking lot. The parking space directly in front of the ATM was left free for queues and the spaces on both sides were used for parking. Rather strange! This would never happen in South Africa and there would be a lot of security around, but not here. I couldn’t help observing this each time I went there. We joined the queue and chatted quietly as we slowly edged forward.
I noticed that the car on our left was occupied and glanced in. There was a scruffy young Caucasian man with unkempt, long hair sitting at the wheel. His window was wound right down and he had his right elbow resting on the door and his fingers clutching the edge of the hood. He occasionally tapped his fingers on the metal to the beat of the rock music blaring from the car radio. The car was just as scruffy and dirty as he was and had clearly endured a lot of abuse. He glared hard at me when I glanced his way and I quickly looked away… Mmmm, that wasn’t very nice. His expression wasn’t nice at all. He didn’t seem to like me!
My thoughts were broken by Kiran’s voice. He was saying: ‘Mum, can we?’
‘Can we what?’ I asked.
‘You’re not listening! Can we go to the bakery after this and get a Sally Lunn?’
‘Oh, those horrible things! I told you you can’t have them anymore! They’re just a lump of dough coated in icing. Why would you want to eat that?’
‘They’re yummy! And they have coconut on them. All my friends eat them. Their Mum’s don’t object – they just buy them for them.’
‘We don’t have to do everything they do. We must be selective. We must choose what’s good for us and avoid those things that are not, and those Sally Lunn things are not good for you!’
‘But I want it! I like it!’ he squealed.
‘Okay, we’ll go to the bakery and see what else we might get, but not those horrible things. You’ve had enough of them already and can’t have them every week.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you do, you’ll soon be looking like one of them – a lump of dough.’ I then bent down and whispered in his ear: ‘Maybe that’s why there are so many fat people around. Just look at them. Do you want to be like that?’
He shook his head as he whispered back: ‘No!’
‘Then we’ll get something else.’
I glanced back at that car as I straightened myself. He was still glaring at me. Oh no, I thought, why is he doing that? Does he want to rob me? That would be so easy to do – he would just have to get out of the car while I was at the machine, grab my money, dash back into his car and drive away. It would all happen so quickly and nobody would be able to do a thing.
Oh dear, what was I going to do? Could he really try something like that? No, he wouldn’t! They don’t do that here… Of course not! Silly woman! You’re just being paranoid. Stop it!
I tried to avoid looking his way again and quietly chatted with my boy, pretending to be relaxed. But I couldn’t help peering his way from time to time as I needed to know whether he was just looking at me that way or whether he was also staring at the others in the queue… He didn’t seem to be looking at them. They were all white people like him and we were the only brown ones. Mmmm, what did that mean?
Nothing Silly, nothing! Stop being stupid!
After a short while, I noticed an equally scruffy young woman approach the car. She went around to the passenger door, opened it and got in. The scruffy young man turned on the ignition, put the car into reverse gear, turned around, stuck his head out the window, looked directly at me and yelled out: ‘Go home, you black bitch! Go home!’ Then he sped out of the parking bay and screeched away.
Kiran grabbed hold of me in terror, saying: ‘Mum, why did he say that? You said that wouldn’t happen here!’ And he burst into tears.
I was shocked and tried to comfort him. ‘It’s okay, Honey, it’s okay,’ I said as I held him close to me. I looked around at the people in the queue, desperately seeking support, but they all looked away. Nobody said a word. I heard myself saying: ‘Did you hear that?’ But nobody heard me. They were intently studying the cars and buildings around them, even the grit on the tarmac on which they were standing. It was as if that horrible thing had not happened at all.
I heard my child sobbing as he buried his head in my chest. I caressed his head and searched for something comforting to say to him, but I couldn’t find the right words. I was too shocked and confused. Why had this happened? I gasped for breath as I heard him repeat between his sobs: ‘You said it wouldn’t happen here, Mummy, you said! You said it wouldn’t happen here, you said. You said that’s why you were bringing us here, because it’s safe here. But it’s not!’
I wanted to walk away from these awful people who wouldn’t do a thing to help, but I needed the money, so I stayed. It took several minutes before I got to the machine. We all stood there in total silence, broken intermittently by the muffled sobs of my child. I glanced around from time to time, hoping to get some response from the people around me, but they were all too busy examining their surroundings to look my way. When I got my money, I turned around and looked at the woman behind me. She quickly looked away, then rushed to the machine where she could hide her face.
I slowly walked to the bakery, holding my son’s hand. I felt heavy and tired and had no desire to go there, but I did. I bought him his Sally Lunn and handed it to him. He smiled with delight as he wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.
‘Can I eat it now, Mummy?’ he asked.
‘Of course, Dear,’ I whispered, and we slowly walked to the gift shop while he dug into his Sally Lunn. Once again, my shoulders felt as if the world was resting on them.
Why had this happened to us? Why? Who was that horrible man? What did I do to him? Those horrible words kept ringing in my mind: ‘Go home you black bitch! Go home you black bitch! Go home you black bitch!’ My body riled at the sound of it – it trembled visibly. Why? Why? Why?
We found the girls in the store and I led them all toward the car.
‘Aren’t we going to the supermarket?’ asked Maya as she looked at me quizzically.
‘No,’ I said, ‘not today.’
‘Why?’ asked Meera. ‘And what about our cakes?’
‘We’ll get them at the bakery,’ I said reluctantly, just wanting to get back to the car.
‘What happened, Mum?’ Maya asked, sensing that something was wrong.
‘Nothing,’ I said as Kiran opened his bun filled mouth to say something. He shut it instantly when he saw the expression on my face that said: ‘Shut up!’ We stopped at the bakery and got the girls their cakes. They chose the largest doughnuts filled with mock cream and jam while looking at me as if to say: ‘He’s got the bad stuff, so we can too.’ I said nothing, paid, then walked away as they giggled at their victory and dug in.
We reached the car, I unlocked it and helped them in. Then I got in, quickly locked my door and just sat there. All I could hear were those terrible words. Then I felt a tugging at my left elbow. I looked to the left and found Kiran looking at me; a frown on his forehead, pink cream on his lips and the last bit of his Sally Lunn poised in his right hand. ‘I’m talking to you, Mummy,’ he was saying, ‘why aren’t we going?’
‘Oh!’ I said, ‘We are in a minute.’ I thought quickly and continued: ‘I’m just waiting for you to finish your cakes.’
He looked at me confused because they always ate while I was driving, then shrugged his shoulders and dived back into his sickly sweet bun while my mind jumped back to that incident.
They said nothing! They pretended they didn’t hear him! They did not meet my gaze! What did that mean? Were they all like him? Did they agree with what he said to me? Did he say what they would have liked to have said but didn’t have the nerve to? Did they all not want us here? Were they all just as racist as he clearly was? Is that why they could not meet my gaze or come to my assistance?
Go home! The audacity! My shock turned to anger. Well, we should all go home then, shouldn’t we? They should go home to Europe too or wherever else they came from! If this wasn’t my home, it wasn’t theirs either. If they could call it their home, then I could call it mine too. We were all immigrants here!
But it seemed like they didn’t know that. Or if they did, they pretended they didn’t, because then they would have to behave differently, wouldn’t they?
My heart pounded and my head throbbed. I didn’t even know when the migraine had started. I normally got the first signs, but I guess I was too shocked to notice them this time. I could not believe this had happened. Just when we had all settled down and were beginning to feel really happy, my bubble had been burst. Burst by a scruffy young man who probably hadn’t taken a bath in a while, who probably didn’t have a job and was living off the dole – the dole that I was contributing to! He was effectively living off me and he was asking me to go back home. Who in hell did he think he was! I felt the anger rise inside me. Yes, who in hell did he think he was to treat me like that? And what made him think that he could get away with it? Yes, what?
He did get away with it. None of his people had batted an eyelid! Why? They were just like him, just clothed differently. They felt exactly like he did! If they hadn’t, they would have said something, wouldn’t they? At least to me if not to him, surely? But they didn’t. They didn’t because they were just like him!
I felt sick to my stomach at the realisation. I wanted to puke. My heart pounded, my head throbbed and my stomach churned. I needed to go home quickly. I started the car and backed out of my parking. I heard a voice say: ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’
It was Maya. I turned around to look at her. She was sitting on the back seat with Meera. They took turns to sit in front with me. Oh dear, I wasn’t hiding my feelings well enough, was I?
‘Nothing, Honey,’ I replied. ‘Nothing important.’
‘Are you sad about what happened, Mummy?’ asked Kiran.
‘What happened?’ asked Meera as she poked her head between the two front seats.
‘Nothing, Dear…’
‘Yes, something bad happened, Mum,’ insisted Maya. ‘Tell us…’
‘It was just some stupid young man… He was abusive, that’s all.’
‘What! What happened? Tell us!’ shouted both girls.
‘Oh, he just asked me to go back home,’ I explained.
‘What!’ exclaimed Maya. ‘And what did you say?’
‘Nothing. He drove away immediately, so I couldn’t say anything. I was too shocked anyway.’
‘And the people didn’t say anything,’ added Kiran. Then he turned to me and said: ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. He was just a stupid man… I am sad too, but I’m going to forget about him.’
I was pleasantly surprised at his response. Perhaps Sally Lunn had helped. The thought made me chuckle inside and I turned to him and said: ‘Good boy. That’s the way!’ I then turned around and said to the girls: ‘Don’t worry about it for a moment. It was just a stupid man who doesn’t know any better.’
They just stared at me, stunned.
‘Go on, eat your doughnuts,’ I said trying to sound jovial. ‘Forget about it, like Kiran.’
They probably would be able to forget it, I thought. They hadn’t experienced it like Kiran. But he had, so it was very different for him. It was very real and very ugly. I sincerely hoped that it would not have an adverse effect on him. I would need to work on that. He was a brave little boy to have said what he did. Take a lesson from him, I thought as I drove back home.
But I couldn’t forget that horrible man and his horrible words and the equally horrible people around him. At that moment it felt like that incident had turned my whole world upside down. Just when it was all looking so good!
Before I knew it, I was in my driveway. How I got there, I didn’t know. The realisation frightened me. Gosh! What if I had had an accident? What if I had run someone over? And I had my children in the car! I sucked in a short breath and held it for a moment. I’ve got to be more careful! I can’t let my thoughts distract me like that.
We got out of the car, silently. We walked into the house, slowly. Nobody spoke. Our shock at what had happened to us was evident in every move we made. Normally the kids had to be reminded to get their lunch boxes out of their bags and wash their hands before they sat down at the table for their afternoon tea. That afternoon, they did it without a sound. Normally, Maya helped me in the kitchen, but this time she just sat down.
I tried hard to behave normally and to be jovial, but I couldn’t change the expression on my face. I was aware of Kiran watching me closely as I moved around the kitchen and realised that I had to work hard at pretending. I had to set an example to him and the girls, but especially him. He would emulate me, so I had to be a good role model… What could I do? What could I say to change the heavy atmosphere in the room? Go on, ask about their day as you usually do!
‘So, how was your day?’ I asked as cheerfully as possible.
Nobody answered. I turned around and looked at them. They were just sitting there, staring at me.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
Maya replied with: ‘Why did that happen, Mum?’
How was I to explain that to her? It was so difficult, but I had to do it… Should I just show them how angry I was and let them be angry too or should I continue pretending that it was not an issue?
But pretending wasn’t good – it was a dysfunctional way of coping. Did I want to lead them there? No, there were too many consequences. They would lose their self-confidence, their self-esteem would plummet and they could become depressed. Gosh no! Who knows what that would lead to! Poor mental health often manifests physically and I don’t want my children to be sick, mentally or physically. That’s not what I brought them here for! No. I am going to have to use that awful word again.
‘Well… I think… Unfortunately, it seems like there is racism here too,’ I said quietly.
‘Oh no,’ exclaimed Maya, ‘not more of that!’
I carried the last two cups of hot chocolate to the table and sat down with them.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ I said reluctantly. ‘It seems like there’s no getting away from racism.’
‘Yes, Mum, he was just racist, wasn’t he?’ Kiran was suddenly alert again. He seemed all fired up and flung his arms around as he continued: ‘The dirty pig! I don’t think he ever takes a bath. I wish I could punch him in the face!’
‘Me too!’ shouted Meera. ‘I would have given him a karate chop if I were there!’
‘I would have kicked him where the sun don’t shine,’ added Maya composedly, but clearly a little embarrassed at having said something so rude in my presence. I ignored what I would normally have censured.
‘Well, he was in his car, so you couldn’t,’ explained Kiran. ‘He was too chicken to get out and then say that horrible thing. He said it when he was leaving and then drove off. Whimp! And you’re not black, Mummy, and you’re not that horrible thing,’ he added as he looked at me with the most comforting look that he could find.
‘Thank you, Sweetheart,’ I responded gently as I leant over and gave him a peck on his cheek.
‘What horrible thing?’ enquired Maya as her little forehead creased into a huge frown.
‘Yes, what horrible thing?’ insisted Meera as Kiran shied away from repeating what he had heard. ‘Tell me, tell me.’
‘No, I can’t. It’s a bad word; we don’t say that.’
‘What word?’
‘I told you I can’t say it!’
‘That’s okay,’ I intervened, ‘It’s not important. We don’t need to repeat it. Besides, we don’t speak like that. Only crude people with no manners speak like that, and that’s what he is – a crude low-life who has no place in our lives.’
‘But I want to know what he said,’ demanded Meera. ‘How can I tell my friends if I don’t know what he said? Tell me another word for it then.’
‘Enough of that,’ interjected Maya.
She then looked hard at Meera, followed by a quick glance at Kiran and their fleeting body language told me that that word was going to be revealed later when I was out of earshot. Oh well, they have to know, I guess, so let them. There are things that they are going to have to learn, as unsavoury as they might be, and better that they learn them from their older sister who will hopefully guide them along the right path.
And who would she learn them from? Hopefully from the right sort of people. And who were they? Her peers? Damn! Shouldn’t I be teaching them? But am I supposed to be teaching them unsavoury stuff too? Gosh, how far does one go?
My thoughts were disrupted by the animated discussion of my children around what they would do to that young man if they were ever to encounter him again. They were convinced that their limited knowledge of judo and karate would help them inflict the worst damage possible. They were going to train even harder now and ask their instructor to show them better moves that they might use on that man. I never knew that they were capable of such violent thoughts! Gosh!
Does living in a violent environment teach one to be violent? Living in South Africa certainly exposed the kids to all sorts of violence, but I was hoping that they were too young then to have absorbed any of it. But even babies can absorb subliminal messages, can’t they? And does being a victim of violence awaken a need to retaliate? What would happen if they were continually exposed to acts of violence here, physical or psychological?
I wondered whether I should stop them right there and advise them against violence as violence begets more violence and we should kill people with kindness instead. That is what my parents taught me. But does that actually work? If you continually try to kill people with kindness, will that not eventually have you killed?
That’s a tricky one. You don’t want your children to be violent, but you do want them to be safe. I would have to find the right balance for them. They can’t just sit around being kind when people are being cruel to them. They’ll have to know how to defend themselves when required – only in self-defence. They learn that in karate anyway, so it shouldn’t be difficult to practice. There’s no point in asking them to stop now. They’ll simply bottle up their feelings and explode later – in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It would be a lot better to allow them to vent their feelings of anger right here, under my nose, so that they’re in a better state of mind when they venture out again.
By the time their father had come home from work, they were all calmer and happier and were able to relate the incident to him with more laughter than anger. When they were all asleep that night, I was able to fill him in on the unpleasant details. He was just as shocked and disappointed and angry as we all were. His bubble had been burst, like mine was. The consternation was visible on his face as he asked: ‘How are the children coping with this?’
‘Well, they seem to be okay now. They were very angry at first, but they’re laughing at it now.’
‘What about Kiran? He witnessed it.’
‘Yes, he was distraught at the time, but he seems to be handling it pretty well now. He’s even tried to comfort me.’
‘But that may just be superficial. There could be deeper and lasting effects, you know. He’s just a baby and that’s a terrible thing to have happened to him. How can his little mind process such a thing?’
‘Yes, I know. That is what I’m worried about too. I’ll have to talk to them about these things more, especially Kiran. I’ll have to walk him through this. It’s such a worry!’
It took us both a very long time to fall off to sleep that night. Our minds were too full of conflicting thoughts and emotions about what had happened to us – shock, anger, disappointment, even fear… Mostly fear! Fear that the one thing we never expected to encounter here was as alive and kicking as it was in South Africa. Fear of the potential consequences for our children. Fear that all our efforts for them could come to naught.
Amritha Sobrun-Maharaj is an Indian South African who was born in apartheid South Africa and emigrated to New Zealand. She is a social and health psychologist who has conducted research on the impact of the social environment on mental health and its physical manifestations and has published academic reports and articles in international journals.
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