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.