Lessons from South Africa
by Gillian Slovo
When my father, Joe Slovo, died in South Africa in 1995 he was given a hero’s burial. The ceremony, held in a football stadium so as to accommodate the huge crowd of mourners, included many tributes to Joe. They came not only from men like Nelson Mandela, but also from members of the Communist Party and representatives (and this for a life-long and confirmed atheist) of the main religions practised in South Africa. Amongst these was a tribute by then Chief Rabbi Cyril Harris.
Rabbi Harris' words have stayed with me more than most. For what he chose to do was to address himself to his own constituency. He turned a critical eye on those within the Jewish community who had thought that the atheist (and communist ) Joe had never been a proper Jew. On the contrary, Rabbi Harris said, Joe’s political commitment that : “ it was not enough to avoid harming others .. (but ) one had to strive to ameliorate widespread poverty and hardship, to build a society based on harmony and equality, in which every single individual would be respected," was at the very centre of what being a Jew is all about.
Certainly if you look at the handful of whites who, during country’s most difficult days, refused to close their eyes to apartheid’s injustices, you will find that the great majority of them were Jews. They were emigrants like my father who knew first-hand what it was to be the hated outsider, deprived of rights merely because of the families into which they had been born. But they continued to hold dear to ideas of equality and of justice that had always sustained them. Despite the tremendous privileges a white skin could buy during the apartheid years, they threw in their lot with the black majority. Their contribution, and their sacrifices, helped ensure the miracle of South Africa’s peaceful transition.
But, later, many South African Jews would involve themselves in acrimonious debate with people like Cabinet Minister Ronnie Kasrils about the actions of the state of Israel. They attacked Kasril’s “not in my name” statement which, although it acknowledged Israel’s right to exist, drew parallels between Israel’s treatment of Palestinians and apartheid’s treatment of black South Africans. Those who opposed the statement (and they included the same Rabbi Harris who had so praised my father’s life) denied this: Israel, they said , unlike apartheid South Africa, was only defending itself from hostile neighbours.
But just go ask the old henchman of apartheid South Africa why they were involved in for example, kidnappings and assassinations, and you will get a similar answer: that they thought what they were doing was protecting their society from dissolution by hostile elements (or if they were in the front line state – by hostile neighbours).
The tradition of Judaism in which I was brought up says that it is not enough for you, and the people you love, to be safe and comfortable. It says that you must not close your eyes to the pain of others just because they do not have the same colour of skin, or the same religion, or the same ethnic background as you. It says that to point out the injustice of Palestinians being walled into enclaves, or the way the circumstances of your birth can dictate which roads (literally) can be travelled and which passes carried, is reminiscent of apartheid - that to say any of this is not knee jerk anti-Semitism (or self hating). Rather it is the responsibility we all have to make an effort to ensure equality and justice for everybody. It is for this reason that I am happy to be part of the Independent Jewish Voices initiative
Gillian Slovo is a novelist whose published works include Red Dust, the Orange prize short-listed, Ice Road and her family memoir Every Secret Thing. She is also, with Victoria Brittain, co-author of the play, Guantanamo – Honor Bound to Defend Freedom.