Encounters from the Past: A nightly Visit

It is now common knowledge that I am from Rehoboth. A few people left the church. I am sorry about that – but that is their choice. Together we are taking a journey – learning from each other and shaping each other. The unthinkable even happened the other day – I taught them Nama and Afrikaans songs. Our worship is so much richer. In fact a few black families have joined the worship services. It is by no means easy, but I am enjoying myself.

My phone rings. A whisper-like voice asks: “Can I please come and see you tonight?” She is a very prominent member in her community. She says to me: “I cannot hide this any longer! I miss my family.”

You see, my parents told me about this thing – and I thought that it was just a concoction of their imagination. I remember daddy telling me that many Baster and Coloured families have brothers and sisters that have “passed as white” during the Apartheid years. Among others, I was told, they used the “comb test”. This is so ridiculous that it feels silly to repeat it. Anyway, they (I suppose officials from the Apartheid Government) would comb your hair – if the comb got stuck in your hair, you were classified as Baster or Coloured, otherwise you could “pass as white.” This of course “helped” many to gain privileges (schooling, health care) that were only meant for white people. Desperate times!

This meant that many people were separated from their families and could never openly associate with their Baster or Coloured families.

She says to me: “It’s been more than 40 years now. I could not even go to bury my mother and father.” She cries uncontrollably. When she gathers herself again, she says: “I used to visit them in Rehoboth at night times when my husband was out of town. But then one night, my sister was there and told me that I am a traitor and that I should not come again.” She tells me that she’s had children by then and that it was difficult to make choices. Her husband never knew the truth. He was told that she was an orphan. Then she says: “Deep down, I think he knew. Before he died last year, he said: ‘Darling, I understand, it is ok!’ I could never ask him what he meant, but I think he figured it out.”

“All I wanted was a better life for me and for my children … a way out of the misery of Apartheid. I know, I was selfish, but I had so many dreams. Dreams that I could not fulfill if I stayed in Rehoboth or … (she cries) continued to be a Baster.”

All I try to do is to be there for her. She talks for hours, beginning with her “confession”, and then eventually she talks about her childhood memories. It starts with the difficult childhood she had and the poverty she had to face. But when she starts talking about the beautiful memories, the fun they had when fetching water and the games they played, she smiles!

Then she starts asking me about family members. “Do you know this one and that one?” Unfortunately, I am too young – they have all gone.

I ask her: “What do you want to do now?” The smile disappears. She gets up. “I am sorry,” she says, “I have to go. I will talk to you again.” She leaves.

I am so pained by this conversation. I feel so helpless. I know that I cannot act on her behalf. She has to do this herself.

Our conversations after that are not the same again. It is if she pretends that we’ve never had this conversation before. She chose to keep her “secret”. The “consequences” of “coming clean” (as she called it) was too great for her.

At least I was there to listen. I was there to provide a safe space wherein she could feel free to share her pain. As much as it was cathartic for her, it was a mirror for me. A mirror wherein I could see the pain of my home community and the uncomfortable choices (right or wrong – you be the judge of that) that people were “forced” to make, trying to break free from the grips of a terribly dehumanizing system, called Apartheid.

I am so sad!

A life changing encounter!

In my context, we often share a minister to lessen the financial burden on the different churches in a specific geographical area (and of course to encourage the priesthood of all believers). This means that I have to spend a few days at a time in a specific town. More than often, the implication is that I have to stay with the local church leader (steward) for a few nights.

This particular little church meets in a local town hall with only a small number of members. Although there are several Afrikaans speaking people in the congregation, the church is regarded as English. They preach, sing (and even have fellowship after church) in the English language. And so I do the natural thing and “do as the Romans do”.

It is only my second visit to this small community of worshippers. It is Friday night and I arrive at the house of the steward. She welcomes me with so much love and talks non-stop about how much they enjoyed my last visit. She even cleared her own bedroom (because it has its own bathroom). I am happy, she is happy and I am looking forward to a great weekend.

I spend the Saturday morning visiting the members. When I return, the phone rings. It is my dad. He says to me (In Afrikaans): “Your mom is not well. Doctors do not have much hope that she will make it. Don’t rush. But I would recommend that you come home as soon as the weekend is over”. Of course I respond back in Afrikaans and greet my dad.

Her immediate response is: “Oh, I didn’t know that you could speak Afrikaans. Where did you learn to speak that? Where are you from?” I don’t know what to make of this (still confused also about the news surrounding my mom) and I say to her: “I am from Rehoboth. Afrikaans is my mother tongue.” “Oh,” she says, “and when did you settle there? I thought that there were only Baster and Nama people living there.”

By now I am so angry and I say to her: “I am a Baster! And what does that have anything to do with it?” I can see that she is very angry as she turns to walk towards the kitchen. A moment later she returns and says to me: “You have deceived me! I don’t think you can sleep here tonight.” “Excuse me,” I say. “How have I deceived you? What did you make of my accent? And in fact, should I be introducing myself to everyone saying ‘Hi, I’m Romeo. I’m a Baster from Rehoboth.’” “I thought you were Portuguese or Italian,” she says.

I am fuming (not showing it). Then she says: “And what do I do with my bed linen after today?”

I am angry (very angry) as I hurriedly pack my stuff and book into the local hotel. In fact I want to phone my bishop to inform him that I’m quitting. But then, I’m not a quitter. That is not how I was raised. And so I decide to do the service on the Sunday morning.

I arrive early. There are only a very few people there. I suspect that she phoned around. As I start the service, I see her coming in, taking her seat right at the back. I just want this to be finished, so I could go home to support my mother.

At the end of the service I greet people at the door. She is last in the queue. Then she says: “Will you please come and fetch your shoes that you forgot there last night.” I am so angry. I say to her: “Please give it to someone in need.” She responds: “It is not about the shoes. Please. All I ask is for five minutes of your time.”

I arrive at her home. I must admit that I am scared. What is this about? She invites me to sit. I decline. Deep inside, I’m shouting: “I don’t want to contaminate your chair!” Then she says: “I couldn’t sleep last night. I did not want to go to church this morning, but I found myself there.”

What she says then, touches me at the deepest possible place: “I sat there this morning and I thought by myself that I loved you before I knew who you were. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

She admitted to being biased towards others. But then, who isn’t biased? I certainly cannot plead innocence in that regard.

We both took a decision to journey with each other – for her to learn about my culture and for me to do the same about hers. My journey for identity takes a new turn - away from myself – directed toward others. Maybe we are not so different from each other after all.

Who am I?

I am the descendant of several “mixed race” encounters. I am not pretty sure whether these were forced encounters (master-servant) or the result of forbidden love. What I am pretty sure of is that I do not like being called a “Baster”. It was a name given by the Colonial masters to people of mixed descent. It is now a term that is carried with pride by some people of mixed race living in Rehoboth, Namibia. Loosely translated, it means “bastard”. Why would I accept being called a bastard? No! But, who am I then?

Whiteness, being blond, having green eyes – these have always been celebrated in the Baster community. In fact, because of the above, I have been nicknamed “Boere” as a child. “Boere” is a reference to white people. I remember someone recently seeing me after a long time, saying, “Life seems to treat you well. You even look like a white man!” Absurd! Tragic! But it is the truth!

It is nothing strange to find light skinned and dark skinned children in the same “Baster” family. Often the dark skinned ones are referred to as “Kaffertjie”. The latter is a derogatory term referring to black people. Olive skinned children are referred to as “Boesman” This is a reference to Khoi-San people.

Many men and women alike, in "mixed race communities", relax their hair in an effort to “beautify” themselves. I think that it is a denial of who we are and an idolizing of that which is white.

You would often find portraits of white grandfathers and great-grandfathers having honorary places on special walls in the homes of Baster families. These would very often exclude the image of the black maternal ancestor. People in my community would often brag about being of Scottish or Dutch descent. So yes, whiteness was and still is celebrated in my home community – sad as it may sound to you.

“What are you?” “Are you white?” She seems very confused as she blatantly directs these questions to me. I look around and see the bewilderment on the faces of the many people coming out of church. They look bewildered, yet at the same time, it seems like they are eagerly awaiting an answer to her question.

I am their first minister who is not white. But because of my name and surname and physical features, there seems to be some confusion around me.

I think quickly and then I respond: “I am what you want me to be.” I am angry – very angry. All I want to do is to get out of here. I am angry at my ancestors, angry at the Apartheid Government and angry at the Church for placing me with these people.

To make matters worse – I am part of a “team”, but management is left to the senior white minister. I am given the social projects and the outreaches to the street people and the dumping sites. I am angry!

So patronizing! “Where did you learn to speak such good English?” I am angry! Why do I have to go through this?

This anger will consume me. I cannot think clearly. I cannot make clear arguments – emotion wells up in me in meetings, so much so that I cannot articulate intelligently or debate coherently.  I have to deal with this anger! It will destroy me and the people I have to serve.

Where do I begin? I come to the conclusion that it must start with me. I will not be able to change “them” if I am not at peace with who I am. Who am I then?

I walk into the little church in rural Kwazulu-Natal and I hear the people singing. It feels like my inner being agrees with what they are singing. I do not understand the language, but the beating of the drum connects with my soul. I have come home – I have connected.

I refuse to be “Boere”. I am black. I am African.

Every time since that encounter, I listen to Australian or American music, I struggle to connect. But when the CD player starts blaring, “Nomakanjani” my body instinctively moves to the beat of the music. I think that music (certainly for me) tells us something about who we are.

Encounters from the past (2)

I am an energetic, young, visionary minister of the gospel, having just finished my training and being appointed to my first pastoral assignment. I am running late, having had car trouble. So, I step into the phone booth, take out the little note book and nervously dial the number. A heavy German accent on the other side of the line says, “Hello, who is speaking?” My stomach turns as I respond: “Good afternoon, it is Reverend Romeo Pedro speaking. I am just phoning to say that I am running a bit late!” “Very typical of you people,” she says. To my greatest shock, she says: “Why are you coming? Have you not heard that we do not want a minister who is not white?”

I say: “Good Bye ma’am” and put the phone back on the receiver. I stand still for a moment – for what feels like a very long time.

Then someone taps on the door of the phone booth. “What’s wrong? You look pale.” It is my dad. I open the door and relate the story to my parents. They both look at me as if they are not surprised. You see – they grew up and lived under the brutal Apartheid regime. They look like they have expected this type of reaction.

Then this wise African woman, that I call mom, says: “Son, if you keep your nose to the stone, soon it will be just you, your nose and that stone. You cannot allow this distraction to consume you. Keep your eyes on the greater goal.” As she hugs me, I feel her tears on my shoulder.

What is the greater goal? Then I remember why I am here: I want to share the love of Jesus with God’s people, irrespective of who they are. And yes, I want to share His love even with that heavy German accent on the other side of the telephone line.

Dad puts his hand on my shoulder and says: “Come son, it’s getting late. We’ve got to get you there.”

We get into the car. And as we drive westward, I watch the sun set and say to myself. As sure as the sun sets it will rise again tomorrow. And I am reminded of the old African proverb: “No matter how long the night, the day is sure to come.” It’ll be ok. Emmanuel is with me.

Encounters from the past

Serving Holy Communion is one of the greatest of privileges for me as a minister. I deal with this part of ministry with great reverence and a sense of great humility. I have noticed since my arrival here that he does not put the communion bread into his mouth. In fact, when I place the bread into his hand, saying: “this is the body of Christ”, his hand make an automatic movement towards his pocket. After a few such encounters, thinking that he must have some kind of gluten intolerance, I ask him: “Why do you put the bread in your pocket?” It feels like cold water in my face, when he responds: “Because your black hand touched it!”

It is now about four years after my encounter with him regarding the communion bread. He is in hospital, busy dying. His wife calls me and requests that I give him communion. I rush to the hospital and find him and his wife there. I go through the liturgy with great care and compassion, give him the wine and then turn to his wife, requesting her to give him the bread. Then I feel his hand on my arm and he says with tears rolling down his face, “No, you put it in my mouth. I am so sorry. Forgive me.”

My natural tendency is to retaliate, and to refuse granting him this last wish. But great compassion rises up within me. Tears roll down my face as I speak words of forgiveness to him and place the bread in his mouth.

Moments later he dies. He is free – I am free.