North Star

Chapter 3: Rainbow Nation Love Story

My father - a Durban Indian - met and fell in love with my mother - a white Capetonian - near the end of a*******d in the mid 90s when they were in the same politics class at UCT (The University of Cape Town). At that time, it was literally illegal in South Africa for people of different races to marry or become romantically involved in any way. Anyone found guilty of crossing the racial divides would be thrown into prison for years, or might even disappear into a ditch, or worse.

What my parents did was extremely dangerous. To most people I’m sure it must sound like bad science fiction, or something from a dystopian action movie, but it really happened. 

The a*******d regime segregated the country’s ethnic groups into a strict racial hierarchy, which dictated where one could live, what one could do for a living, and even whom one could love.

So my parents had to keep their relationship secret at first, not knowing who they could trust. When Pappa eventually told his parents about his plans to marry my mom, to say that they were horrified would have been an understatement.

They had everything to lose. Pappa’s family was, and still is, one of the oldest and most respected merchant families in Durban - the largest Indian city outside of India. Like so many other “non-whites”, as the government labelled them, the majority of Durban Indians are descended from slaves who were brought to Africa from South Asia hundreds of years ago to work the sugarcane plantations.

Pappa’s family worked hard for everything thing they had, and even within the brutal confines of a*******d society they’d managed to build up an empire of sorts. Fabrics, homewares, spices, clothing - if it could be sold, they sold it. 

His parents tried to discourage him from the risky marriage, and probably would have disowned him had he not been the eldest son and basically a genius.

My mom’s parents on the other hand, both of them liberal anti-a*******d artsy types with very little to lose, adored my Pappa and supported the idea. 

The fact that my mom’s parents were free-spirited “hippies” was yet another bone of contention. I’ve often heard Dadi say that she can’t understand why in the world, if her son insisted on merging them with a WHITE family, why oh why couldn’t he at least have chosen a wealthy bunch, like one of those powerful old Dutch winemaker families in Constantia or a diamond mining dynasty from up North? Sensible people who at least put their white privilege to good use. 

And so despite ruffling some familial feathers, my parents were unofficially married in a clandestine ceremony at a secluded church just outside of Cape Town, with only some close friends and my Gran and Grampy in attendance. Two years later, once the a*******d government had fallen and South Africa was reborn as the democratic “Rainbow Nation”, they held a much bigger, much more public Indian wedding in Durban. 

It took a long time for my Dadi and Dada and my aunts and uncles to accept my pappa marrying outside of their community. For him to choose a white girl, a daughter of the race of the oppressors no less, was just too much at first. I think that’s partly why my parents decided to settle in a leafy suburb in Cape Town, close to my mom’s parents. My dad got his PhD in Political Studies, becoming first a lecturer and then a Professor. My mom ended up majoring in political investigative journalism, and she made a name for herself as a fearless reporter with a zeal for uncovering the truth, no matter the risk. 

Then they had me. Their first, and only, child.

In time, and largely due to the determination of my mother, the two sides of the family were on good terms. My mom was always adamant that the families would come to love each other. And if there’s one word to describe my mother, it is determined. She is so utterly steadfast and unwavering in her beliefs that once she has set her mind on something, nothing will sway her. 

I, on the other hand, am the polar opposite. I struggle to make up my mind a lot of the time, and I find myself easily getting disillusioned with things and giving up half-way through. It’s the story of my life - in eighth grade I dropped hockey to play netball, then switched to soccer after that, then went back to hockey before giving up sports altogether. I’ve always found it difficult to just pick a lane and stay in it. It’s not that I’m flakey, or lazy, exactly - more like I lack the confidence in myself to give anything a really good go and risk failing. Or at least, that’s how I think of it.

Maybe I don’t believe in myself because I don’t really know myself. 

I’ve always felt like a freak, an oddity, like I don’t really belong anywhere. Even in this Rainbow Nation, I’ve often felt like I don’t quite fit. Both in looks and culture... I’m not quite white enough for white people, and I’m not quite Indian enough for Indian people. I just can’t win. I’m outside both groups, looking in at a sense of community and belonging that I worry I will never experience for myself. I don’t feel like I can even identify as desi - an Indian person living outside of India - because I’m half.

There are, however, some benefits to having a foot in both worlds. I get Diwali gifts in November and Christmas gifts in December, and I’ve inherited a very unique mix of both my parents’ features. I’m slim and average height like they both are, with my mom’s relatively fair complexion and my Pappa’s dark hair, which falls in gentle waves just past my shoulders. And my eye colour is a blend of my mom’s leaf green eyes and my father’s warm chestnut brown ones. Mine are hazel - like emerald green stars against burnished gold, fringed with long dark lashes.

I never really thought of myself as being particularly pretty up until recently. I was a late bloomer, and my feminine curves took a while to show up. Sure, there was a boy in high school who’d asked me out one time, but we were academic rivals and I always suspected he was just trying to derail my studies. I wasn’t into boys, and never have been, to be honest. I just don’t have time. I’m too busy studying.

Recently some people - especially my nosy aunties and my mom’s friends - keep on saying that I’ve ‘blossomed’ over this past summer, as if I’m some sort of flower that was a tightly closed bud before, now unfurling to reveal a new, unexpected beauty. The problem is, I’m still not entirely sure what sort of flower I am.  

I’m excited, but also worried, about the next six months - how will other people get to know me if I don’t even know myself? I don’t want to be all alone, outcast.

In fact, if there’s one thing I dread most in life, it’s being an outcast. I know from bitter experience how traumatic that is. In junior school and for the first year of high school, before I moved schools due to bullying, I was the class pariah. Rejected and shunned, an untouchable at the very bottom of the pecking order. To even be seen talking to me was social suicide, so the other girls only deigned to acknowledge me when they were kicking the back of my chair in class, or throwing my school bag in the trash.

Why were they like this? I suspect it’s because they didn’t understand me, and people are afraid of what they don’t understand. I was shy, and a daydreamer, and worst of all in their eyes - I was mixed race. I got so used to hearing the insult “mongrel” hurled my way that eventually it didn’t sting.

Things got better after I moved to a co-ed school, and made a small but tight group of friends. 

I wonder what it will be like in Luxembourg, and whether I’m really ready for this. 

Am I making the worst decision of my life? Is it too late to back out?

Probably.