School experience: The author says she learned early that collective values matter and could be cultivated through collective cultural works, such as plays and music. Photo: Per Anders Pettersson/Getty Images
Once upon a time, the state held some potential for young people. At least for me, it did. I grew up with prospects, not because I was born into a wealthy family, but because I came of age in the mid-1990s and early 2000s, when state institutions were growing.
My peers and I could dream of becoming chartered accountants, doctors, actuaries and lawyers and we knew we could find resources for these opportunities. It was not a matter of whether we would go to university but rather which university. I am a product of this twilight moment which has slowly disappeared over the past 15 years.
I spent 12 years in the public school system. Granted, it was the kind of public school that masqueraded as a private school, yet it held some of the possibilities for what we continue to struggle with in South Africa, especially in terms of race relations.
The school play in 1994 was The Land of Smiles, a celebration of diversity. Two years later, another, more obvious, title: Rainbow (an excessively kitsch expression of diversity). In high school, the play was A Bit of Ubuntu — need I say more!
These sorts of expressions plagued the rest of my time at school as they were an effort at nation-building in a country crawling out of apartheid.
Reflection and time mean I can be more critical of this experience, even disdainful, however, that would be dishonest because I lived through the efforts of making the white enclave that was my school a place where, children, white children in particular, could learn what it meant to be part of the new South Africa.
As black children, we were straddling multiple worlds (urban, rural, township, working class, middle class) and we understood that we were a means to an end: humanising our white peers. But we also learned very early that collective values mattered and they were cultivated through collective cultural works, such as plays and music.
Sometimes the experiment worked. Sometimes it failed. Dismally. When the experiment was successful, it meant our school could hold the whole world — in the choir, we sang Dubula Mfana Ndini, accompanied by marimbas (a struggle song made benign by our youthful naivety), followed by Hava Nagila (a Jewish folk song), followed by Mozart’s Ave Verum.
My peers were from homes where Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism and different strands of Christianity were practised (even while no one spoke about African spirituality, which was greeted with derision when mentioned).
When a Muslim girl came of age, she wore a white scarf and long pants to school because there was room for some differences.
My school experience was no utopia; beneath all these efforts of appreciating difference, white supremacy was in the air we breathed. But we inhaled and exhaled and kept alive.
After 12 years, I moved on to a university which had an intimate relationship with the country’s violent past, an institution in frontier country. The joke among students was that if the university had been tasked with running apartheid, it would have never ended.
I experienced this efficiency from day one of applying. The letters were regular. The endless follow-up phone calls were answered and attended to. I applied for the National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS). After a few glitches, which required an affidavit explaining the nature of my household poverty, I was given the security I needed to study for three years.
The office always seemed to be open. The money was reflected in my account timeously. I was able to buy books within a few weeks of the term starting. Everything seemed to work. For the courses I passed, I received a discount, which was offset against the money I owed. Later, the debt was deducted from my salary and, eventually, I paid NFSAS what I owed.
At the end of my undergraduate studies, there was a partnership between the department of arts and culture and the African languages department at my university. There was an opportunity to study further. I had initially planned to apply for the Funza Lushaka bursary, in order to become a teacher, but I chose to study further.
I had the choice between two state-funded initiatives which would support my education. I joined a cohort of master’s and PhD students alongside another project that was funded by the Norwegians. African language development was funded and flourishing. At the end of that year, I applied for a scholarship for a master’s. Private money associated with Madiba’s dream and complicity with capital. I completed the master’s in time and became a teacher.
My first teaching job was at a public high school where I taught for three years. It was an efficient system, albeit plagued by the problems of geopolitics and education inequality — a new school for black and coloured children in the southern suburbs of Cape Town.
When I left, I joined a private school which had better pay and rich-white-people problems. I left after two years. Throughout this experience, I witnessed the growing chasm of inequality in South Africa, which is most glaring in the education system.
I joined the New Generation of Academics Programme recruiting young black professionals into academia, an initiative of the department of higher education and training. It is a policy that has borne much fruit. It was a six-year programme that covered PhD tuition, mentorship, financial support and teaching experience with a lighter load.
It was a package I couldn’t refuse although it paid less than a private school. I had ample time to study for a PhD. I had the money for conferences. I was gaining teaching experience. I could take time off when I needed to. I worked from home. When I finished my PhD, my path was set with three more years in the programme. However, I discontinued it and moved on to another institution.
Why am I telling this story? I could have told the story about my sister’s first job at the parcel counter at a Shoprite when she matriculated in 2003. This was followed by an opportunity when SAA started recruiting new cabin crew members, and she got a job, which had a direct impact on our family and the course of our lives.
I could have written about the care I received when I paid R20 to get a pair of glasses through the public healthcare system. This had material consequences for my school achievements. The fact that I stayed in school, and got funding for university, has generational consequences and this was made possible through government policy.
I could share the story of my mother’s experience with the public healthcare system after she experienced a stroke. I could share about the role of the church as an alternative institution in buffering systemic violence.
I also have stories about the failure of the state and the implications it had on my personal life. I also know many people have stories of state failure which left them in grinding poverty.
At the risk of being redundant — the failure of state institutions has direct consequences for the livelihoods of everyday people. The success of state institutions means everyday people get out of poverty. This has generational implications. Without strong state institutions, everyday people will remain in a cycle of poverty. It’s that simple.
It’s possible to read this story as a privileged person bragging about their upward mobility. This is to miss the point. Perhaps I am naive and this story has more to do with luck and serendipity than state institutions and policies in the everyday.
I could offer more detailed descriptions of the levels of poverty my family has experienced to convince you about the ways in which systems can operate against ordinary people but most know that story all too well.
Perhaps implied is another story about how state institutions have only served the privileged few who already find access to institutions which work by virtue of being in urban spaces. Location matters.
Perhaps the question I am asking myself is: “How do we find ways of restoring state institutions so they can do the work of ending poverty in our unequal global economy?”
Athambile Masola is a writer, researcher, lecturer and award-winning poet. She lives in Cape Town.The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the Mail & Guardian.