Strong Words

I learned the power of words when I was five years old.

As I eagerly waited to go to school, my carpool van was stopped. Roadblocks were a routine occurrence where I lived and most school days started off this way. In 1985, during the height of the South African struggle, my classmates and I were some of only a few black children privileged enough to attend multi-racial schools in town. Despite apartheid, our parents had visions of bright futures for us. The only chance we had to attain them was through education in the white suburbs.

Everyday, we left Soweto, our desolate township full of poverty, violence, and discouragement, to travel to school. Each of us mustered up courage to interact in a world that seemed so foreign and strange to us — the white world.

And almost everyday, we were stopped on our way to this world. This time, as our carpool driver instructed us all to be quiet and to get out of the van, I began to get angry. I was angry because I was going to be late for school, and there was a penalty for being tardy. But even more so, I was angry because my carpool driver demanded that I be silent — something I was not too good at.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a young soldier who tried to grab my M&M's. I fought to hold on to them because I had planned to share them with my friends at break that day. He scoffed as he took them out of my tiny hands and laughed, remarking "they're even feisty when they're young."

His confiscation of my M&Ms, in addition to his nonchalant attitude, enraged me. I was like the others; I was tired of the indignities black people faced during apartheid. Unlike many of my contemporaries, my parents had not shielded me from the raging struggle against apartheid. Many nights my parents and other politically active South Africans discussed strategies to abolish the system.

So I told the soldier what I knew. I told him that apartheid was wrong and that we should abolish it. I also spoke about how we were all people and we all deserved justice. Despite stern glares from my carpool driver, my words and his reaction encouraged me to continue to speak.

After telling this soldier how I felt, I demanded to talk to the head of the troop. I told him the unfairness of the situation. It was only through God's grace and mercy that I left unharmed.

But I felt empowered. For the rest of the day, I resorted to daydreaming about being a leader in the struggle against apartheid. But my dreams were quickly shattered that night. A young group of comrades — black youth who knew the inner workings of the government — came to my house. They informed my parents that the army had found out who I was and that it was dangerous since both my parents were on the 'Black List,' or a hit list. They even informed my parents that they had planned to kill me.

Though our phone was tapped, my parents made numerous phone calls while I was sleeping. The next day, I fled the country, leaving my family and my friends to fight the struggle for me.

That day in front of the army I learned that my words could be a weapon of intimidation. The soldiers were so frightened by the words I used to confront them that they made plans to kill me.

It was that incident and many others that I am remembering this semester as I write my autobiography. My life in South Africa and my estrangement from my family has inspired me to document, from a child's perspective, what life was like for a child during apartheid.