A Hate that Parts
by Johan Hyman

My teenage years hit me well after 1994, something I am not always very grateful for. It is in this time that we, as teenagers, become aware of the reality that surrounds us. We move away from the protective shield our parents created for us. We finally open our eyes to the real world. It was in this time that I began to experience my country, South Africa. However I started to see it as it is now, a beautiful, scenic and immensely diverse country. A nation where everyone is equal. Everyone is someone. I was oblivious to what all the generations behind us went through in order to create the peace I was living in. The only taste I had of the past was caught in pictures, video footage, but I had no hands-on experience.

The only racial hatred that I, a white kid, experienced came from my friend Mandhla Thulani, a black kid. I cannot call him a non-white kid, seeing as he would kill me if he found out. Mandhla was more than a friend he was my best friend. We where inseparable since the age of four, which was when he, together with his mother and three sisters, came to live with us. This was illegal at the time of course, seeing as only your maid that held a valid pass may live with you. We remained best friends, when I went to an Afrikaans school and he to an English one. Ok, it wasn’t very difficult, as the school were right next to each other. And we still remain friends today, even though I am in study 1433km (+/- 950 miles) away from him. He studies at an Afrikaans/English university and me in an all-English university. And it was with him that I experienced my first glimpse of what it was to be hated for my colour.

The summer of ’99 was the summer Mandhla’s oldest sister, Thandi was getting married, and I was invited to attend the ceremony. What made this special was that it was a traditional Zulu wedding, something I had, at the time, never experienced. So I was overflowing with excitement. Arriving at his grandparents’ house, deep in the heart of the Natal midlands, I was greeted by his father Sipho, who arrived to days earlier with a handshake and a loud: “Sawubona. Unjani?” I replied with a warm and loud hello, saying that I am fine. Looking at this scene, some people would have thought that we where deaf. But it is Zulu tradition to talk out loud, otherwise in might be suspected that you are speaking about someone. After greeting the whole and very large family, I caught sight of Mandhla’s grandfather, whom I have never met.

His face seemed as though it was made out of paper, soft and thin. It was riddled with wrinkles. Each wrinkle, capturing a memory of his everlasting life. His eyes, filled with wisdom, gazed through you, completely neglecting the outside. His bright white hair, gave him the air of authority that only come with age. However, there seemed to be no soul behind this wooden carving of a man. I walked over to him, smiled and extended my hand. But I received nothing in return, not a hand, not a movement or even a breath. It was then that I saw in his eyes the hatred he has built up over the years. His hatred for the ‘white people’ that oppressed him and his family, taking away his God-given freedom. Every second that passed, while I was standing there felt like bees. Each second stung as it went passed. With each sting, I saw what we, what I, have done to him. The laws, the beatings, the senseless killings of his fellow man. I just stood there. I couldn’t move, I was transfixed. I have never seen such hate in one man. But I did not, and still do not blame him. How could I? Me, a 14-year-old child, never seeing in my lifetime, what he has in one year. I had no right to be mad at him for blaming me for something I had no part of. I was treated like this based on my skin colour. It was racism, but it was understandable.

The moment was broken up by Mandhla’s mother, who told me where to put my bags, where to sleep and where everyone can wash up for dinner. And like sheep we all moved away. This was always her way of doing things, ever since she made my bed, by making me do it. You do not ask questions, you just nod and followed instructions.

Late in the afternoon I went with Mandhla to go see the ‘lebola’ his father received for his daughter’s hand in marriage. As we walked around the ‘kraal’, which held the cows, I asked him in a whisper why his grandfather was so hostile towards me. It turned out that his two sons where killed in the Soweto riots. They where killed by the unauthorized use of gunfire. To him it was a senseless killing. They only protested their right to be educated in their mother tongue. But the “white man” saw it as disobedience. So now you see why I could not blame him.

The next day kicked off with the vibrant rhythmic, dancing and ‘toi-toing’. As one person we all moved. Singing and dancing. The earth moved beneath us. Dust rose from the ground as if it was summoned by our chanting. We did this all the way to the church. The church was bursting at the seams. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the bride. Everyone wanted to go home to tell people that they saw it. The problem was that no one was back home, they where all there. The ceremony was beautiful, just like every wedding should be. After that we moved to the marquee next to the church, where we had a feast that could only have been bettered by the inhabitants of Olympus.

As night time descended on us, the crowd did not disappear, they only became silent, splitting into smaller, intimate groups. I was sitting on a log with Mandhla and his cousin, enjoying my own bowl of home made beer. A reflection captured my eye. I knew where it came from, for only one man possessed white hair that can create a silver glow. It was the same man whose eyes pierced through me on numerous occasions during the day. At that moment, under the stars, the moon giving light to the world, I got up and walked to him. I stopped in front of him, looked him in the eye and said ‘Sorry’. Then, with out any warning to myself; as if my words where spirited on by the Zulu generations of the past I broke in to a flood of word, they streamed from my mouth like wine did at the wedding in Canaan. I apologised for everything I have learned in history class. Things I did not know the meaning of. Things that I have never seen but only heard of. When I finished I had tears in my eyes. Why I apologised I do not know. It was not to receive his approval or forgiveness. I did it not because I felt obligated. It was just something I had to do. I looked up into his eyes, awaiting a reply, but again I was received with negligence. He just looked at me with the same eyes. It was as if he did not hear a single word, as if the night air consumed it all. Nothing could penetrate his hate. The man inside died years ago, alongside his sons. What was left was a mere shell that once held a fun, loving-person. Nothing could save him, nothing. I saw it as defeat. He saw it as an eye for an eye.

As the world was waking up the next morning, I got ready to leave. My bags where packed, I said my farewells to everyone. Past friends and future ones. My bag over my shoulder, my life experience extended, I left the house. Outside I turned around one last time to see the house and its surroundings. But I was met with familiar eyes. Something was different; they seemed more alive, more human. Then on the inside of the left eye, grew a tear and it slowly rolled down the left cheek. It had a rippling effect, more tears followed, until it filled the shell of a man with a new spirit. He gently placed his papery hand on my shoulder. Leaning forward he placed his lips as close to my ear without touching it. Then in faintest of whispers, as soft as a mother's touch on her baby, he spoke a winged word. Only one word. A word that meant more to me that a whole book could. For it was not in Zulu. Not in English. But in my language, Afrikaans. He pulled away, revealing a smile that graced a new face, a new life.

It is that one word that made me love what I do today - write. That one word gave me the respect one needs for words, when working with them. It showed me the value they are to our lives, that they can indeed break bones, but they can also mend them.

Johan Hyman will be a junior at the University of KwazuluNatal in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa.  He is a double major in Writing and Acting and took a sophomore year abroad at Pitzer College.