I’ve had the worst case of writer’s block for the past month.
As a writer, I was excited about crafting these blog posts as an internship requirement. I even splurged on a pretty travel journal to keep a record of my thoughts soon after arriving in Johannesburg. Eight weeks into my South African adventure, most of the pages remain blank.
The more time passed and the more I thought about what I wanted to share about my experience, the less I had to say. I definitely had more thoughts. Experienced new culture shocks every other week. The issue, however, is that these constellations of experiences remained anecdotes. I did not know how to formulate an opinion about them, let alone publish thoughts that would be out there floating on the internet for ever and ever. That is, until last week.
South Africa is a country of dichotomies, and my experience here is no exception. For as many breathtaking views, kind and generous people, and mouth-watering braai, there are equal measures of heartbreaking corruption, poverty and human rights violations. The last week of June was a particularly difficult week across the country, and personally my most challenging week in Johannesburg. I cried for the first time since arriving. On the other hand, the following weekend was one of my best in South Africa.
On the 30th of June, xenophobic sentiment in South Africa climaxed to an amalgamation of “peaceful” yet hateful protests, looting, forced evictions, and attacks on foreign nationals’ homes and businesses. From our flat, we’ve heard more gunshots coming from the densely populated and impoverished areas of Hillbrow and Yeoville than before. A week later, the Joburg CBD’s fashion district – a bustling hub of street-facing commercial activity – remains littered with closed shops. An Uber driver explained that their owners were still hiding from vigilantes and constables who profile and detain anyone who doesn’t look or sound South African, sometimes regardless of the validity of their immigration documentation. Fear and anger mingle in the air from both immigrants and protesters. The former, who have spent years or even generations building a life in the City of Gold feel betrayed by the country they have been calling home. The latter have also been betrayed by their politicians fueling corruption rather than meaningful economic opportunities for South Africans. Nevertheless, as populist politics rising all over the world, it’s easier to blame the Other. And its easier for the government to placate their electorate’s misplaced anger rather than address its root cause. It yields better results at the polls, too.
I’ve hesitated to share this side of Joburg with you because who am I to judge a country’s politics when I’ve been its guest for barely two months? I’ve felt uneasy since the first week at work when handed assignments that require me to be critical of the South African government, its democracy, and international policies. It didn’t feel like it was my place to criticize.
Then, in the aftermath of the June 30 deadline, I was sent with a team to monitor the detention conditions of “illegal immigrants”. It was like seeing the stories from the tour guides in Old Prison No. 4, Robben Island and the testimonies on the wall of the Apartheid Museum come to life in front of my very unprepared eyes.
I felt plunged into the Heart of Darkness. “The horror! The horror!” doesn’t begin to capture it and yet I can’t think of how else to put it in to words. I wish it were possible to record a smell.
I wondered how I could ever enjoy filling my lungs with fresh air again with that smell burned into my memory. But somehow, two days later I breathed in deep gulps of sweet mountain air in Blyde River Canyon, Mpumalanga, hiking the most gorgeous trail of my life. 400 km from the metropolis, its problems didn’t feel far away, but they felt worth fighting against.
Jerod – my travelling partner and colleague from McGill – said that seeing elephants on safari in Botswana was a pivotal moment for him in his internship because it reaffirmed his commitment to environment law and protecting conservation efforts. It took me a few more weeks to have a similar moment. Feeling as free as I felt in Mpumalanga should be attainable to everyone, no matter who their parents were or where they were born.
I felt guilty leaving Joburg for the weekend, knowing that my colleagues wouldn’t get the break that the interns were taking. I still feel the guilt, but I also feel an immense gratitude that we took the time to see beauty and not only the darkness of South Africa.
Another intern who came on our road trip said on the drive home that she felt that it had important for us to have this weekend to bring back a positive experience and story to share. It allowed us to not return home with only stories of corruption, pollution and poverty. To me, our weekend getaway showed me how finding balance is a privilege. It’s also necessary.
I slept fitfully for the first few nights after visiting the police station. Despite a dedicated bedtime routine, as I closed my eyes, I would see the faces of the detainees I had interviewed, asking us to be the voices they couldn’t raise over the graffitied walls of the station.
48 hours of hiking and driving through scenic countryside and breathtaking Kruger National Park wasn’t a magic solution, but it was with a clearer mind that I opened my laptop Monday morning. I had more hope and motivation to dive back into offering what resources Lawyers for Human Rights could offer to the hundreds of immigrants still living in fear of arbitrary detention.
I understand why our colleague had recommended this road trip to Mpumalanga and encouraged us to leave early on Friday afternoons to see and experience more than the work week routine. You can’t appreciate the lived reality of South Africans as a people by the beat of its largest metropolis. To truly live abroad and not merely travel, you have to balance the good, the bad and the ugly.