Voyeur
Title
Voyeur
Description
I am writing this on the morning of our township tour. Townships, the settlements where Blacks and Coloureds were forced to move to as a result of Apartheid’s Group Areas Act, may be rows of inadequate government housing or a winding maze of tin shanties. Though Apartheid ended twenty years ago, some of the townships remain unchanged, unaffected by progress.
Looking at our itinerary, I thought that a township tour was an academic venture, a unique experience we were undertaking to advance our education. (Which is, in itself, still a questionable choice.) But yesterday we ate lunch in our neighborhood, at a restaurant next door to a tourism bureau. “See Table Mountain! Winery Excursions! Tour the townships!”
Township tours are a commodified, consumer experience. Bear in mind that these are not historical sites—though there are memorials commemorating violent atrocities that occurred in the townships; these are neighborhoods, people’s homes and daily lives that we peer into from the perch of our van.
We went to Crossroads, a deeply impoverished shantytown set up outside a township, euphemistically known as an “informal township” or an “informal settlement,” a couple of days ago to visit with the family of a young man who had been killed by the police in the Trojan Horse incident of 1985. Led and introduced by a local activist, we met the young man’s mother, a “Gogo” or grandmother, along with his brother and his brother’s wife and children. They were kind and open people, inviting us into their three-room home. I thought we would talk about the young man’s life and perhaps his brutal murder, but instead our activist guide peppered them with questions about their current situation—how much money they received from the government, how much progress they were making in getting into new government housing, what were the conditions in the new housing, what was safety like in Crossroads.
The family answered each question, stoic and matter-of-fact in their demeanor. Their pain was palpable, though, as this conversation was complicated by the arrest of a family member the day before, an arrest requested by the Gogo because the family member’s drug use made him so violent and abusive. The Gogo, 84 years old, blind from cataracts in one eye, and suffering from debilitating arthritis, told us that she had lived in that shanty since 1975. Nothing had changed for her, except her son murdered and her grandson turned drug addict. Packed into their living room, we sat stunned, listening. They were being interrogated, and we tried to process what we were hearing. Their home had no running water, was exposed to the elements in gaps where the tin roof did not quite meet the wall, and used a thick wallpaper as floor covering.
This family’s story was sad, and their faces were sad, but we were surrounded by happy children, children who were clearly cared for and loved. There was warmth in that home, even if the cold air blew freely.
Our activist guide told us that the family would receive a “gift” out of the money we paid for our day with her. I do not know how much that gift would be, though she would likely be generous—her concern for this family and others like it was clearly deep and genuine. Even so, I feel uncomfortable with the experience. This family receives little money from the government, and the young man’s brother is unable to work due to an accident years ago. They said they enjoyed meeting us and felt grateful that we would take an interest in their story, but they looked miserable as they did so. In their poverty, are they willing to trade an exposition of their pain for money? Did she ask permission to charge admission to their lives? In an economy where a painful past is a commodity, is it wrong for them to capitalize on their experience, or a fair way for them to support their family?
Today we will drive through the townships, watching hundreds of people go about their daily lives though we will not compensate them at all—only our tour guide. We have purchased our tickets, and I will take photos and mourn for these people, enjoying a front-row seat to their pain and my own uselessness.
Looking at our itinerary, I thought that a township tour was an academic venture, a unique experience we were undertaking to advance our education. (Which is, in itself, still a questionable choice.) But yesterday we ate lunch in our neighborhood, at a restaurant next door to a tourism bureau. “See Table Mountain! Winery Excursions! Tour the townships!”
Township tours are a commodified, consumer experience. Bear in mind that these are not historical sites—though there are memorials commemorating violent atrocities that occurred in the townships; these are neighborhoods, people’s homes and daily lives that we peer into from the perch of our van.
We went to Crossroads, a deeply impoverished shantytown set up outside a township, euphemistically known as an “informal township” or an “informal settlement,” a couple of days ago to visit with the family of a young man who had been killed by the police in the Trojan Horse incident of 1985. Led and introduced by a local activist, we met the young man’s mother, a “Gogo” or grandmother, along with his brother and his brother’s wife and children. They were kind and open people, inviting us into their three-room home. I thought we would talk about the young man’s life and perhaps his brutal murder, but instead our activist guide peppered them with questions about their current situation—how much money they received from the government, how much progress they were making in getting into new government housing, what were the conditions in the new housing, what was safety like in Crossroads.
The family answered each question, stoic and matter-of-fact in their demeanor. Their pain was palpable, though, as this conversation was complicated by the arrest of a family member the day before, an arrest requested by the Gogo because the family member’s drug use made him so violent and abusive. The Gogo, 84 years old, blind from cataracts in one eye, and suffering from debilitating arthritis, told us that she had lived in that shanty since 1975. Nothing had changed for her, except her son murdered and her grandson turned drug addict. Packed into their living room, we sat stunned, listening. They were being interrogated, and we tried to process what we were hearing. Their home had no running water, was exposed to the elements in gaps where the tin roof did not quite meet the wall, and used a thick wallpaper as floor covering.
This family’s story was sad, and their faces were sad, but we were surrounded by happy children, children who were clearly cared for and loved. There was warmth in that home, even if the cold air blew freely.
Our activist guide told us that the family would receive a “gift” out of the money we paid for our day with her. I do not know how much that gift would be, though she would likely be generous—her concern for this family and others like it was clearly deep and genuine. Even so, I feel uncomfortable with the experience. This family receives little money from the government, and the young man’s brother is unable to work due to an accident years ago. They said they enjoyed meeting us and felt grateful that we would take an interest in their story, but they looked miserable as they did so. In their poverty, are they willing to trade an exposition of their pain for money? Did she ask permission to charge admission to their lives? In an economy where a painful past is a commodity, is it wrong for them to capitalize on their experience, or a fair way for them to support their family?
Today we will drive through the townships, watching hundreds of people go about their daily lives though we will not compensate them at all—only our tour guide. We have purchased our tickets, and I will take photos and mourn for these people, enjoying a front-row seat to their pain and my own uselessness.
Creator
Jessie
Date
May 24, 2013
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