Re: "My Traitor's Heart"

I have to give you page numbers, because Rian Malan's book, My Traitor's Heart, does have chapters, but they are not numbered. The book is reflections on apartheid by a native South African whose last name is synonymous with that dreaded word, thanks to his grandfather who helped develop the policy. The author, a Baby Boomer, does his part to play the role of the "liberal, socially-conscious" teenager by growing his hair long and by spray-painting "Say it loud, I'm Black and I'm proud" on a wall in his neighborhood, totally ignorant of the fact that his gesture of racial solidarity is lost on the few Blacks who would actually see it, because they are illiterate. As the Seventies inch toward the Eighties, he flees his homeland, ostensibly because he can no longer stand to watch the oppression. Or is it guilt over his family connection and the inherent complicity?

A letter from a former Black domestic in his old home brings him back to South Africa to face the reality that is his country. And all the time, the undercurrent of the book breaks the surface and asks, "Why?" The Why that is apartheid; the Why that is simply the color of our skin.
One of the many "Whys?" begins on page 148 and it tells the story of Simon Mpungose, better known to history as "The Hammerman". On November 29, 1985, he was executed for a series of
crimes, culminating in murder, where he would break into the homes of white South Africans and bludgeon them with a hammer. He never harmed the children. In response to the question, "Why?", he replied, "Because I want to die."
Was it because of racism? Poverty? Yes, but mostly No.

Malan discovered that the source of this disaster began in the days of the great Shaka Zulu over one hundred years earlier. Tracing Simon's lineage, Malan examines the role of ancestry and family ties in the determination of one's life. According to Simon's relatives, who laughed when they heard that he was executed, he was cursed from the moment he was born. Through no fault of his own, Simon was an outcast from the moment of his birth; he was shunned, dismissed. Early in life, he was pawned off to relatives who felt nothing but contempt for him. He was smart enough to know that there is no peace where there is no welcome. So, he left his homeland, not knowing that he was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, the world of apartheid. Of course, there is no kindness in this world. One thing leads to another, and a kind-hearted, intelligent doomed man finds himself on trial for murder. After his poorly-translated testimony is given to the judge, he breaks down on the stand. On page 184, he says, "I saw there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I would start a life of damaging things and others, knowing it was a path of no return."
The "it" he's referring to is the weight of the Past and its insistence that It has Its way.

Let's be honest; we don't like the concept of Determinism in our modern world; it takes away from the power we feel when we seek out and find new avenues of Freedom. We can take some comfort in Malan's portrayal of Determinism in that he couches it in the terminology of the "native": shades, or ancestral spirits that are always there, always watching, nodding assent, or demonstrating their anger. Spirits who must be pleased so that one's life will go well. How primeval! How antiquated! But the great Southern writers paid homage to the past by emphasizing the importance of Place in personal development and understanding. Place was just as important as family for Faulkner and Welty and O'Connor. Ultimately, their stories were about stories, the stories of where we come from and the influence that this will have on where we go.
Zoom to the present, and think about those few times when we gather as families. The best times are those when we re-live (re-live!) history, and share stories about our favorite moments. That used to be all that we had, all that we needed. But then came the photograph. We no longer needed our imaginations to summon up pictures to correspond to the stories we would hear. But as we modern people teach ourselves to see little value in the past, the family photo album ceases being a starting point for remembrances and, instead, becomes merely iconic images of something irretrievable. Pictures that bring tears to our eyes do so not because of the memories they engender, but because of the emptiness they expose in our hearts.

Malan's book is a quest for THE answer to racial reconciliation. Whether your heart leaps in joy or sags in sorrow at the death of "The Hammerman" is not the focus of Simon's story. Rather, it is his discovery that it is in the human heart, in its anguish and loneliness, that a common bond among all humans is found.


But how does that awareness translate into political action? Ah, there's the rub!