In the mid-Eighties, I was on an exchange programme, part of which took me to Nicaragua for a month. It was there that I met Canadians for the first time. Real Canadians. Not family members who had fled the absurdities of apartheid for the virtues of Vancouver or the trivia of Toronto. They didn’t strike me as a particularly patriotic bunch, but their luggage and jackets were plastered with red and white maple leaf Canadian flags. When I enquired about this, they replied that it was to ensure that they were not mistaken for ”why do they hate us so much” Americans. I imagine that, 20 years later, the Canadian flag trade is doing an even brisker trade, not least among American international travellers.
I remember wondering what it would be like to be proud of my country’s flag, and if that would ever happen. For me, the orange, white and blue flag of the time — besides being void of any aesthetic attraction — was associated with buffels (buffalo), ratels (badgers) and other beasts in khaki uniforms, the repressive state apparatus that sustained minority rule.
Then, the interests of the ruling party were considered synonymous with the national interests. Those who opposed the National Party government were deemed to be enemies of the state, traitors, unpatriotic. But who were the patriots? Those who struggled for freedom, some of whom gave their lives in the process, or those who benefited from and defended apartheid? Patriotism is a bit like beauty. It’s in the eye of the beholder.
So who are today’s patriots? Those who hold senior positions in the government, but who preside over the Aids genocide for lack of political will, or those who struggle relentlessly for the human rights of people living with HIV? Those who speak out critically on issues affecting our democracy, or those who wish to suppress critical discourse? Those who blow the whistle on corruption and maladministration, or those who victimise such whistleblowers?
Amid the raging debates, some have suggested that the flag-in-every-school project is a cynical attempt on the part of the government to shift attention from the lack of service delivery. As if the flag can be some kind of opiate of the people. Yet, when people protest against poor delivery, they seldom burn the flag. Tyres, yes. But not the flag. For the flag represents something more than those who happen to be in power in a city, a province or in Pretoria. It’s about a country and a Constitution that are light years beyond our apartheid experience.
It is the flag of all citizens, not of the ruling party, nor of only a section of our population. It is a symbol of our victory over a divided past. It is about a sense of belonging to a particular place. We don’t all have to think the same. We don’t all have to believe the same things, but that’s what the flag represents. Our unity (as opposed to false apartheid divisions) as well as our right to be different and not to be punished for being different. If the flag or democracy or patriotism comes to be synonymous with the ruling party, then it is because we, as citizens, have allowed it to happen. It is for us to take ownership of these, and to give them meaning and content.
Being proud, flag-waving South Africans doesn’t mean that we have to be happy-clappy rainbowists, deliberately blind to anything that shakes our confidence in our country. It is precisely because we are proud and patriotic that we should constantly be seeking to make a difference, to make our country and our democracy — which Pallo Jordan has rightly described as a work in progress — better.
We can be proud of our achievements as a country, and at the same time be deeply ashamed of the intense violence against women and children. That shouldn’t diminish what our flag means to us.
I’m all for having the flag at our schools. It’s new. It’s not a compromise. It’s aesthetically pleasing. And it is imbued with meaning. Now, can anyone do something about our anthem?