There comes a point in life when it is possible to own up to things you once believed in but no longer do. It is risky doing this publicly, but it is a gamble worth taking because it could, possibly, help others unlock some interesting secrets. Metaphorically speaking, this has nothing to do with any need to confess past sins. Entering a confessional involves owning up to something bad or coming clean about evil deeds. There is little in the closet of my past that requires penance. There are embarrassing things, maybe, but they are not damnable.
To the first: I was once a Marxist. Not a very good one, it must be said. To this day I remain fuzzy on dialectical materialism; I am also not that strong on democratic centralism. I could not do an “elevator pitch” on either. This could be blamed on the fact that the South African Communist Party member assigned to be my teacher in London was pedagogically weak. (He obviously had other things going for him. He enjoyed a meteoric rise in the government, then an equally spectacular fall after the ANC’s last regime change. Naming him would be unkind so I am not going to.) But it may have been that I was a useless pupil, preoccupied with earning a living working night shifts at the Financial Times.
I made up for my lack of intellectual depth with passionate activism. Aside from the fact that we were all working tirelessly to topple the mother of all pariah states of the time, Thatcher’s Britain was awash with opportunities to be an activist. As a warrior of the working class, one was spoilt for choice in Britain of the 1980s — picket lines at Rupert Murdoch’s union-busting Wapping operation; picket lines in Yorkshire mining villages. Both strikes were lost; they also proved to be watershed moments in British politics. I have no regrets about which side I was on. The sensibilities learned during that decade have remained with me. Ideologically I have moved on.
To the second: I once believed that the ANC was the embodiment of all that was progressive and good — it was different to all other liberation movements and once it was in power it would stay that way. In my late teens, through my 20s and 30s and, yes, I am ashamed to admit, even into my 40s I believed this to be true.
I am not particularly proud of my unquestioning loyalty and have often reflected on why it took me so long to wake up and smell the coffee. Partly it was because the enemy we were lined up against was unspeakably iniquitous and the effects of its rule lived on beyond its days in power. Partly, it is because there were — and still are — noble and virtuous men and women who sing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrica with a lump in their throats. Mostly, though, it was because I wanted to believe that the ideals of non-racialism, non-sexism, freedom, equity and justice were all housed safely and neatly in the organisation to which I had hitched my fortunes. And that, having been given the chance to govern, it would stick by its lofty ideals.
But life is never that simple. The ANC, in a relatively short period of time, has become like any other political party. Its old moral compass — never perfect but at least a presence — is gathering dust in some dingy government closet. Expediency trumps honour; avarice eclipses generosity. The songs of struggle now have lyrics of triumphalism.
Setting myself free has had unexpected benefits. It is like being an activist all over again. I am energised, ready for new and fresh mobilisation for the realisation of those admirable ideals.
I have been left bereft in one area: which box to tick on election day. Working on the assumption that another vote would simply compound the arrogance that has come from comfortable majorities, I have had to find alternatives. Voting for the Democratic Alliance sticks in the craw (its leader’s economic views remind me of Margaret Thatcher. Been there, done that.) For the national poll I have sought refuge in Bantu Holomisa’s United Democratic Movement. For local elections choices I have ticked the least offensive box.
To the third: I was a racist. Or put in another way, I was brought up to believe that white people were superior to black people. My parents believed this and did all they could to pass on what they held dear and believed to be true. For some reason the logic did not hold for me. This seems to have manifested itself at an early age. The first open revolt was at the dinner table when I threw down the gauntlet to an uncle. I demanded that he apologise for using a racist term. If he did not, I declared, I would leave the table. I was eight. The adults thought my threat was hilarious. I was not amused and stomped out.
This early defiance turned into open rebellion. For a period I swung to the other extreme, believing that all white people were bad and all black people good. I am now more nuanced. I have often wondered why I turned on the beliefs of my tribe so early and so emphatically, but have never come up with a sensible explanation. If I believed in reincarnation I would speculate that in a previous life I had had experiences that taught me that classifications such as class, colour and sex did not define me as a lesser being. But I do not, so I have to put it down to a mutinous personality.
There is merit in letting go of what is outdated and, in some cases, plainly indefensible. But for all the flaws of my various peregrinations, the person I am today has been defined by them. Each taught me a little bit more about the kind of person I want to be, as well as the kind of person I do not want to be. It has made for an interesting, if unorthodox, life.