A Call To Stories In Soweto, South Africa
Burning. Burning coal, garbage, vegetation. Inhale smoke, exhale exhaustion. This is Johannesburg. The tangy smell reminds me of the violence during apartheid that had once destroyed parts of Soweto. The smoky greyness of the skies adds an aura of gloom to a busy day.
Downtown Johannesburg is an ordered chaos. While walking downtown through the racing streets with a couple friends, a young man pulled his head out of taxi stopped at a cluttered intersection and yelled, “China! Go back to China!” at me. As a half-Filipino, I was angered at how this young man would categorize me under one group without understanding my own story. While exotic stares jabbed from all around, I unconsciously stood taller, broadened my shoulders, enlarged my chest, and stared at him with clenched fists. The boy’s eyelids widened as he looked in fear. He quickly hid back inside the taxi as it pulled away from the intersection, escaping my anger.
After cooling off in the brisk Johannesburg breeze, I realized that while this young boy had overlooked my story, I had also overlooked his and portrayed violence as a reaction to this misunderstanding. Seeing the terror that I induced in his eyes made me realize the power that I carry in my own identity and privilege.
Upon returning home to my residence at St. Martin de Porres in Soweto, South Africa, I told Fr. Bruce, my host, about my story. In response, he said, “I’m sorry and yet I’m glad you experienced that.” He went on to tell me how being a white priest in a predominantly black church has led to a ministry of “myth busting” in order to prove “that it is possible to live with, work with and love people of different skin colors, languages and cultures.” Fr. Bruce then told me that the St. Martin community strives to foster inclusion through education and pastoral ministry in a black township that had once been a source of exclusion during apartheid.
As I sat in bed that evening, I thought of how easy it is to shorten someone’s life into a simple story. As a place that is often despised and disposed, Soweto is frequently reduced to the story of a “ghetto.” I think it is much more. Dreaming of a world of equality and ultimate freedom, I thought of a time where I had lunch with several of my Soweto friends. During a lunch gathering, my friend Dumisani poured Sprite equally in all of our glasses throughout the entire meal, making sure that as soon as someone took the last sip of liquid from their glass, he was there to refill it back up. South African and American, white and black did not create a barrier for friends to enjoy a delicious meal.
Neither did the barrier between cook and guest. As two women prepared the kota, a Soweto specialty dish, Dumisani and I began smiling and jumping out of excitement for our first taste of kasi food. As we waited in anticipation, we kept peeking through the kitchen window to witness the craft of kota cooking, and we eventually made eye-contact with the two women assembling our kota and smiled. Seeing our excitement, they smiled back at us and gave us a thumbs-up as they put the final touches on our afternoon delight. Even though I didn’t get to listen to the cooks’ stories, I shared a single experience that celebrated identity rather than emphasizing differences. In doing so, maker of food became creator of joy, and purchaser of kota became celebrator of friendship.
My time in Soweto has taught me that shortening someone’s identity can prevent them from living the life they are invited to live. As with my incident in Johannesburg, I learned that this act can lead to violence and other oppressive acts, but this is why I came to Soweto. In actively seeking out the stories of others, I’ve learned that before I judge and before I even act against others, I should listen first. Taking one last full breadth of the musky Soweto air, I depart my home – my kasi – polluted by the sounds and sights of corruption and oppression but filled with the life of stories and kinship. Who else am I refusing to get to know and to understand their story?