Today a friend tried to share something important, and I – caught up in my world – didn’t stop to listen. The point is that the friend was telling me something culturally significant for her: in this instance the first arrival of Indians in South Africa.
It was historically interesting for me – but after a couple of comments I moved on – and she become initially disappointed at my disinterest, then upset that this reflected on my insensitivity to her culture.
At first I brushed it aside – until she said: you don’t know what it is like to be Indian in South Africa. And she’s right – I don’t. Any more than I know what it means to be black, Coloured, Chinese, Malay – or any of the other groups that make up this diverse country. I don’t know because I can’t know – my personal history has exposed me to one sliver of culture, jealously guarded for the first 30 years of my life. I don’t know because my formative learnings disrespected other cultures.
I have often said that non-racialism is not a state of mind, it is a journey. Each time that I become arrogant enough to believe that I have progressed sufficiently far on this journey I have pause for thought: my unconscious actions continue to cause both offense and pain. And I realize how easy it is to continue to assume cultural superiority – even unconsciously.
The irony, of course, is that so many of my personal heroes are outside of my cultural context: Mandela, Tutu, King – their names roll off my tongue, I refer to them as if I understand their journeys – and I find myself failing to emulate their humanity so easily.
This is a journey, then – but it continues to be uncharted with a long road ahead. And it is not one that I can travel alone.
