I Write What I Like – Steve Biko: Part Black Consciousness

In my quest to continue learning South African history from voices other than those i grew up with i was encouraged to read, ‘I Write What I Like’ by Steve Biko. Not so much a story as a collection of letters and speeches, this book is really helpful as it contains real time words, thoughts and ideas from one of South Africa’s great leaders written during the height of apartheid.

The Catholic Herald had this to say in description: An impressive tribute to the depth and range of his thought, covering such diverse issues as the basic philosophy of black consciousness, Bantustans, African culture, the institutional church, and Western involvement in apartheid.

i am still only about half way through reading the book, but there are already a number of extracts i would like to share in the hope that they will challenge your thought and hopefully inspire you to get hold of a copy for yourself to read it and try and understand some of the struggle from the other side.

Here is a passage to get you started:

Apartheid – both petty and grand – is obviously evil. Nothing can justify the arrogant assumption that a clique of foreigners has the right to decide on the lives of a majority. Hence even carried out faithfully and fairly the policy of apartheid would merit condemnation and vigorous opposition from the indigenous peoples as well as those who see the problem in its correct perspective. The fact that apartheid has been tied up with white supremacy, capitalist exploitation, and deliberate oppression makes the problem much more complex. Material want is bad enough, but coupled with spiritual poverty it kills. And this latter effect is probably the one that creates mountains of obstacles in the normal course of emancipation of the black people.

One should not waste time here dealing with manifestations of material want of the black people. A vast literature has been written on this problem. Perhaps a little should be said about spiritual poverty. What makes the black man fail to tick? Is he convinced of his own accord of his inabilities? Does he lack in his genetic make-up that rare quality that makes a man willing to die for the realisation of his aspirations? Or is he simply a defeated person?  The answer to this is no a clear-cut one. It is, however, nearer to the last suggestion than anything else. The logic behind white domination is to prepare the black man for the subservient role in this country. Not s long ago this used to be freely said in parliament even about the educational system of the black people. It is still said even today, although in a much more sophisticated language. To a large extent the evil-doers have succeeded in producing at the output end of their machine a kind of black man who is man only in form. This is the extent to which the process of dehumanisation has advanced.

Black men under the Smuts government were oppressed but they were still men. They failed to change the system for many reasons which we shall not consider here. But the type of black man we have today has lost his manhood. Reduced to an obliging shell, he looks with awe at the white power structure and accepts what he regards as the “inevitable position”. Deep inside his anger mounts at the accumulating insult, but he vents it in the wrong direction – on his fellow man in the township, on the property of black people. No longer does he trust leadership, for the 1963 mass arrests were blameable on bungling by the leadership, nor is there any to trust. In the privacy of his toilet his face twists in silent condemnation of white society but brightens up in sheepish obedience as he comes out hurrying in response to his master’s impatient call. In the home-bound bus or train he joins the chorus  that roundly condemns the white man but is first to praise the government in the presence of the police or his employers. His heart yearns for the comfort of white society and makes him blame himself for not having been “educated” enough to warrant such luxury. Celebrated achievements by whites in the field of science – which he understands only hazily – serve to make him rather convinced of the futility of resistance and to throw away any hopes that change may ever come . All in all the black man has become a shell, a shadow of a man, completely defeated, drowning in his own misery, a slave, an ox bearing the yoke of oppression with sheepish timidity.

This is the first truth, bitter as it may seem, that we have to acknowledge before we can start on any programme designed to change the status quo. It becomes more necessary to see the truth as it is if you realise that the only vehicle for change are these people who have lost their personality. The first step therefore is to make the black man come to himself; to pump back life into his empty shell; to infuse him with pride and dignity, to remind him of his complicity in the crime of allowing himself to be misused and therefore letting evil reign supreme in the country of his birth. This is what we mean by an inward-looking process. This is the definition of “Black Consciousness”.

From Chapter 6, titled, ‘We Blacks’ of the Steve Biko book, ‘I Write What I Like’

[For more from Steve Biko on History and Heroes, click here]

[For extracts from Robert Sobukwe’s excellent, ‘How Can Man Die Better’, click here]

Blood Brothers: Part Genuine Forgiveness

This is a much longer extract from the book ‘Blood Brothers’ by Elias Chacour, which i do encourage everyone to read. Both as a glimpse into the Israel/Palestine history and situation, but also as a much deeper journey of faith and wrestling with ideas of God and kingdom.

This passage it helps to have read the rest of the book to understand the full story of, but a brief background is that Abu Mouhib is the policeman in the town, that the author is the new church leader in, and has a completely messed up with his three brothers and has for years. He also is not a big fan of the author.

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When I finally reached the home of Abu Mouhib, where the woman had been residing, I was shaking visibly. He hesitated a moment before allowing me to enter. He disliked me, I knew, though he did come to church on rare occasions. This was not the time to express personal dislikes, however, and he showed me to his mother’s sickroom.

Far into the dark morning hours, I sat with the dying woman, whispering a few timid words of comfort. Those years in seminary had failed to prepare me for this. In my sweating palm lay her tremulous, blue-veined hand. It was cold and curled up like an alabaster leaf. Her breathing came in rasps for an hour or so—and then it ceased. With icy fingers, I closed her eyes.

My legs were rubber when I told Abu Mouhib that his mother was dead. Trying the best I could to comfort, I offered to go and tell his three brothers. “They would like to come and see her, I’m sure.”

Abu Mouhib’s grieving features stiffened into a scowl. “No!”he shouted. “My brothers do not set foot in my house. If they dare to come here, you will have five funerals on your hands, because we will kill each other.”

A chill shook me. Even the death of their mother would not draw these brothers together. As I helped wrap the woman’s frail body, I grieved for her—for her sons, and for the whole village.

A gray, faint light lit the streets as I made my way back home. A deadening exhaustion stooped my shoulders. I wanted only to crawl into my Volkswagen and sleep for hours and hours. As I squeezed myself into the backseat, however, I felt a real ache of grief in my chest—grief and anger. Sleep would not come.

I lay there wrestling against the whole world of conflict that sprawled around me. In my head, I lunged at the four brothers in an angry conversation, telling them how disgusted I was at their behavior. Couldn’t they forgive each other now when they needed to honor their own mother?

And they were not the only ones I attacked. The image of the Responsible smirked at me in the half-light, and I flung hard words in his face. I railed at the priest who had stolen from the church; at fellow seminarians who had slandered all Palestinians, calling us “terrorists”; at seminary professors; at the principal who had punished me at the school in Nazareth.

Another image appeared vividly . . . a military policeman towering over a small boy, whipping him with a stick . . . I heard cries . . . my own voice . . . I was picking up a stick, beating, smashing the man’s head until he fell unconscious . . . bleeding. . . . There were tanks on the hills of Biram . . . explosions . . . our homes stood fast while the tanks blew apart . . . and the agonized bodies of soldiers. . . .

Then I knew.

Silent, still, I lay there, aware for the first time that I was capable of vicious, killing hatred. Aware that all men everywhere—despite the thin, polite veneer of society—are capable of hideous violence against other men. Not just the Nazis or the Zionists or the Palestinian commandos—but me. I had covered my hurts with Christian responses, but inside the anger had gnawed. With this sudden, startling view of myself, a familiar inner voice spoke firmly, without compromise: If you hate your brother, you are guilty of murder. Now I understood.

I was aware of other words being spoken. A Man was dying a hideous death at the hands of His captors—a Man of Peace, who suffered unjustly—hung on a cross. Father, forgive them, I repeated. And forgive me, too.

In that moment, forgiveness closed the long-open gap of anger and bitterness inside me. From the time I had been beaten as a small boy, I had denied the violence inside me. Now . . . the taming hand that had taught me compassion on the border of West Germany had finally stilled me enough to see the deep hatred in my own soul.

Physically and emotionally spent, I fell asleep. Later that morning, I woke with a new, clean feeling of calmness. The change that had begun on my visit to the Mount of Beatitudes was complete.

I knew what I must do in Ibillin.

My year and a half of home visits and the sisters’months of ministrations had made a dent—a small dent—in reuniting the believers of Ibillin. Few attended the church regularly, and walls of hostile silence remained firm. However, most of them would not think of missing services during the Christmas and Easter seasons, coming to be comforted by familiar customs, not out of desire for true spiritual renewal. True to the pattern, attendance increased markedly on the first Sunday of Lent, growing each week as Easter approached.

On Palm Sunday, every bench was packed. Nearly the entire congregation had come, plus a few other villagers whom I had invited. The weather that morning was balmy, with a warm, light wind straying through the streets, so I left the doors wide open, hoping that passersby might be attracted by our singing. When I stood up, raising my hands to signal the start of the service, I was jolted by stark, staring faces.

Looks of open hostility greeted me. The Responsible’s faction was clustered on one side of the church, almost challenging me with their icy glares. Indifferently, those whom the Responsible had ostracized sat on the opposite side. I was amazed to see Abu Mouhib, the policeman, perched in the very front row with his wife and children. In each of the other three quadrants of the church, as distant from one another as possible, were his three brothers. The sisters, I could tell, felt the tension, too, for their faces were blanched. I rose and began the first hymn, certain that no one would be attracted by our pathetically dismal singing. I thought, with sadness, of the battle lines that were drawn across the aisles of that sanctuary. And nervously, I hoped that no one would notice the odd lump in the pocket beneath my vestment.

What followed was undoubtedly the stiffest service, the most unimpassioned sermon of my life. The congregation endured me indifferently, fulfilling their holiday obligation to warm the benches. But then, they did not suspect what was coming. At the close of the liturgy, everyone rose for the benediction. I lifted my hand, my stomach fluttering, and paused. It was now or never.

Swiftly, I dropped my hand and strode toward the open doors at the back of the church. Every eye followed me with curiosity. I drew shut the huge double doors, which workmen had rehung for me. From my pocket, I pulled a thick chain, laced it through the handles and fastened it firmly with a padlock.

Returning to the front, I could almost feel the temperature rising. Or was it just me? Turning to face the congregation, I took a deep breath.

“Sitting in this building does not make you a Christian,”I began awkwardly. My voice seemed to echo too loudly in the shocked silence. The sisters’eyes were shut, their lips moving furiously in prayer. “

You are a people divided. You argue and hate each other—gossip and spread malicious lies. What do the Moslems and the unbelievers think when they see you? Surely that your religion is false. If you can’t love your brother that you see, how can you say you love God who is invisible? You have allowed the body of Christ to be disgraced.”

Now the shock had turned to anger. The Responsible trembled and seemed as though he was about to choke. Abu Mouhib tapped his foot angrily and turned red around the collar. In his eyes, though, I thought I detected something besides anger.

Plunging ahead, my voice rose. “For many months, I’ve tried to unite you. I’ve failed, because I’m only a man. But there is someone else who can bring you together in true unity. His name is Jesus Christ. He is the one who gives you power to forgive. So now I will be quiet and allow Him to give you that power. If you will not forgive, we will stay locked in here. You can kill each other and I’ll provide your funerals gratis.”

Silence hung. Tight-lipped, fists clenched, everyone glared at me as if carved from stone. I waited. With agonizing slowness, the minutes passed. Three minutes . . . five . . . ten . . . I could hear, outside, a boy coaxing his donkey up the street and the slow clop-clop of its hooves. Still no one flinched. My breathing had become shallow, and I swallowed hard. Surely I’ve finished everything, I chastised myself, undone all these months of hard work with my – Then a sudden movement caught my eye.

Someone was standing. Abu Mouhib rose and faced the congregation, his head bowed, remorse shining in his eyes. With his first words, I could scarcely believe that this was the same hard-bitten policeman who had treated me so brusquely.

“I am sorry,” he faltered. All eyes were on him. “I am the worst one of all. I’ve hated my own brothers. Hated them so much I wanted to kill them. More than any of you, I need forgiveness.”

And then he turned to me. “Can you forgive me, too, Abuna?”

I was amazed! Abuna means “our father,” a term of affection and respect. I had been called other things since arriving in Ibillin, but nothing so warm.

“Come here,” I replied, motioning him to my side. He came, and we greeted each other with the kiss of peace. “Of course I forgive you,” I said. “Now go and greet your brothers.”

Before he was halfway down the aisle, his three brothers had rushed to him. They held each other in a long embrace, each one asking forgiveness of the others.

In an instant, the church was a chaos of embracing and repentance. Cousins who had not spoken to each other in years wept together openly. Women asked forgiveness for malicious gossip. Men confessed to passing damaging lies about each other. People who had ignored the sisters and me in the streets now begged us to come to their homes. Only the Responsible stood quietly apart, accepting only stiffly my embrace. This second church service— a liturgy of love and reconciliation—went on for nearly a full hour.

In the midst of these joyful reunions, I recalled Father’s words when he had told us why we must receive the Jews from Europe into our home. And loudly, I announced: “We’re not going to wait until next week to celebrate the Resurrection. Let’s celebrate it now. We were dead to each other. Now we are alive again.”

I began to sing. This time our voices joined as one, the words binding us together in a song of triumph: “Christ is risen from the dead. By His death He has trampled death and given life to those in the tomb.”

Even then it did not end. The momentum carried us out of the church and into the streets where true Christianity belongs. For the rest of the day and far into the evening, I joined groups of believers as they went from house to house throughout Ibillin. At every door, someone had to ask forgiveness for a certain wrong. Never was forgiveness withheld. Now I knew that inner peace could be passed from man to man and woman to woman.

As I watched, I recalled, too, an image that had come to me as a young boy in Haifa. Before my eyes, I was seeing a ruined church rebuilt at last— not with mortar and rock, but with living stones.

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[Chapter 10, Tough Miracles]

[For more from Blood Brothers, click here]

Blood Brothers: Part Which Person are You?

This short extract from ‘Blood Brothers: The Dramatic Story of a Palestinian Christian Working for Peace in Israel’ really jumped out at me and i think speaks for itself:

It was during our final spring days at Saint Sulpice that my kindly mentor, Father Longère, touched a deeply resonant note, like a voice out of eternity. I had come to value his wisdom, his remarkable way of challenging us, spurring us to deeper thought on any subject in which we were certain of our opinion. During one of his final lectures, I found myself riveted to his words. “If there is a problem somewhere,” he said with his dry chuckle, “this is what happens. Three people will try to do something concrete to settle the issue. Ten people will give a lecture analyzing what the three are doing. One hundred people will commend or condemn the ten for their lecture. One thousand people will argue about the problem. And one person—only one— will involve himself so deeply in the true solution that he is too busy to listen to any of it.”“Now,” he asked gently, his penetrating eyes meeting each of ours in turn, “which person are you?”

[Chapter 8, Seeds of Hope]

Race and reconciliation issues in South Africa. The Black Lives Matter movement in the United States. Education. Poverty. Treatment of Refugees. And so much more…

We can’t all possibly solve, or even make dents in, every one of those areas. But we can choose one. And be the one person.

For me at the moment, one of those issues that i feel strongly about and am trying to figure out how to be so deeply involved in the true solution that i am too busy to listen to any of it, is race and reconciliation in South Africa.

Which person are you? [i would honestly love to hear from you and hear you identify the issue you feel most strongest about and if you’re currently doing something about it or have a deep heart and desire to do so, please leave your mark in the comments section]

[For the Intro and links to other extracts from the book, click here]

The Lemon Tree and Blood Brothers: Intro

i just finished reading this incredible book that was recommended to me by my good friend, Steve Graybill, who has travelled to Israel on multiple occasions and i feel has a fairly good idea of what goes on over there.

i was challenged on my blog a few months ago about not knowing what was going on with the whole Israeli/Palestinian conflict and it was totally true. It’s one of those things, as when i was growing up was the Irish Catholic vs Protestant conflict where you completely know it’s a thing and you feel like you know what’s going on but in reality actually don’t know much about it at all.

Realising that about Israel, i asked Steve for some help. Apart from sharing some thoughts on the conversation at hand, he recommended two books to me: The Lemon Tree, by Sandy Tolan and Blood Brothers by Elias Chacour and David Hazard.

i instantly bought both of them for my Kindle app on my tablet where they lived for a number of months as i was busy with a whole lot of other books.

i read ‘The Lemon Tree’ a while back and really enjoyed it and found it helpful and somewhat educational. The main focus of the book is the story of the relationship between a Palestinian young man and an Israeli woman who at different times, live in the same house which is categorised by the lemon tree which grows in the back garden:

In 1967, Bashir Al-Khayri, a Palestinian twenty-five-year-old, journeyed to Israel, with the goal of seeing the beloved old stone house, with the lemon tree behind it, that he and his family had fled nineteen years earlier. To his surprise, when he found the house he was greeted by Dalia Ashkenazi Landau, a nineteen-year-old Israeli college student, whose family fled Europe for Israel following the Holocaust. On the stoop of their shared home, Dalia and Bashir began a rare friendship, forged in the aftermath of war and tested over the next thirty-five years in ways that neither could imagine on that summer day in 1967. Based on extensive research, and springing from his enormously resonant documentary that aired on NPR’s Fresh Air in 1998, Sandy Tolan brings the Israeli-Palestinian conflict down to its most human level, suggesting that even amid the bleakest political realities there exist stories of hope and reconciliation.

Blood Brothers on the other hand is told through the eyes and experience of Elias Chacour, from when he was a young boy forced out of the village he grew up in, to his life as a priest working for peace and unity:

Elias Chacour grew up in a small Palestinian village in Galilee. When tens of thousands of Palestinians were killed and nearly one million forced into refugee camps in 1948, Chacour began a long struggle with how to live out his personal spirituality. In Blood Brothers, he blends his riveting life story with historical and biblical research to reveal a little-known side of the Arab-Israeli conflict, touching on questions such as:

•What touched off the turmoil in the Middle East?
•What does Bible prophecy really have to say?
•Can bitter enemies ever be reconciled?

They are both stories and so who knows the absolute extent of the Truth to be found in them. But i found them both to be helpful and enjoyable reads as they both explore the story and situation from both sides [as opposed to being a heavily biased one-sided affair] and for that reason alone it seems to give a decent amount of credibility and at least give you some understanding of the overall picture.

i enjoyed them both, but Blood Brothers, whose subtitle is, ‘The Dramatic Story of a Palestinian Christian working for peace in Israel’ i think i liked the most. It was a story of highs and lows, that demonstrated hope and moments of victory in the face of complete chaos and bewilderment and also showed glimpses of the possibility of peace between two nations in the midst of the most complicated of stories.

i would highly recommend both of them as a way of starting to educate yourself in what must be one of the most significant international conflicts of our time. i will be sharing a few brief passages from Blood Brothers, over the next few days, which i found extremely significant , so give yourself a taste.

Extract from Blood Brothers: Which Person are You?

What are YOU reading that you would highly recommend at the moment? My big unending pile of books is making its way towards completion… 

No Life of My Own: Part Violence Avoided

This is the last part i want to share from this book, but once again suggest that you grab a copy and read it in its entirety, especially if you are a white South African trying to get a fuller education of this country’s history.

This is a letter that Frank Chikane wrote on the 26th June 1986 that is addressed to the Institute For Contextual Theology but would have done well to land in the hand of every pastor in every church at that time. What is incredible is seeing the alternative response of violence he feared might be the inevitable solution [and breathe deeply on how we somehow managed to avoid that] and to ask what type of letter might be written today which should be placed in the hands of every pastor and Chris-following leader across the land with reference to unity and reconciliation and restitution and justice and more…

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Dear Friends,

Events have been happening so fast that it looks like ages after one had visited Europe. Maybe it is because since the last three weeks or so the whole face of South Africa has changed radically. Suddenly people can be detained and kept in prison indefinitely or for periods of six months for no particular crime or misdeed. If a policeman thinks you should be removed, he can do so without explaining his action.

No publication of names of those who is detained is allowed. Even passing information from one family member to another about a detained brother or sister could constitute an offence. And in all this, one has no recourse to a court of law or justice. Because of this strange new face of South Africa, many people have disappeared and it is very difficult now to make out whether some are in detention, in hiding, dead or have left the country. Those who have some information, those who have seen residents in the township gunned down along the streets, cannot make their witness known.

This brings us to the witness of the Church in South Africa. Is it still possible under the circumstances where no one is allowed by ‘law’ to critique the regime, its State of Emergency, and its security forces? Is it still possible to be a conscience of the State? Is it still possible to minister effectively to the black masses of South Africa who are victims of this system when one cannot talk about their suffering, pain and death? When one cannot even talk about the evil that is responsible for this death? The Catholic Church cannot even announce that its General Secretary, so and so, is detained or deported. The Evangelical Presbyterian Church cannot even announce that its Moderator, so and so, is detained. How does the Church carry lout its mission under the circumstances?

Given this set-up, the people of South Africa, especially the victims, are looking forward to the Church as their only Salvation at this stage. Is it possible that the Church could go on according to the emergency regulations, where using a descriptive word (adjective) would fall within the law? Or is the Church going to submit and be quiet? Is this not the time when the whole church should go to prison and join the people there rather than imprison itself by subjecting itself to these regulations? Is this not the time when the Church should say now in a louder voice than ever before that ‘WE MUST OBEY GOD RATHER THAN MEN’ (Acts 5.29) – when the Church is faced with this kairos in the country and in its history? Shouldn’t the Church review what the Lordship of Christ means at this stage?’

This is the time, the moment of truth. As the Kairos Document says that there is ‘no place to hide and no way of pretending to be what we are not in fact. At this moment in South Africa, the Church is about to be shown up for what it really is and no cover-up will be possible’ (p.1).

Most of you will remember that I said after the end of March that if the Botha regime did not accede to the demands of the people, there will be only two options in the offing for us, that, either the International Community (particularly the USA, the UK, West Germany, France, Switzerland, and Japan) put pressure on South Africa to change peacefully by taking to the people’s leadership, or the other option which is too ghastly to contemplate: direct violent confrontation between the forces of apartheid and the oppressed masses of South Africa. This will be brutal, merciless and cost millions in life, leaving a trail of maimed people and a devastated country. A determination of the people to die for their freedom and the determination of the regime to preserve white domination and apartheid at all costs spell only death and death ahead.

The tragedy of our situation is that the five Western countries I referred to above and Japan have come out clearly that they are not going to apply pressure on their partner in the oppression and exploitation of the black people of South Africa. The fact is that, unless these Western powers and Japan are pressured by their own people, who must also be prepared to sacrifice in this regard, they are not going to move on a purely moral basis. Where capital, profits and power are involved, there is no room for morality!

This leaves us with the option I said is ‘too ghastly to contemplate’. This option has already been embarked on and the world is going to see the type of violence it has never seen before in the days ahead of us. Maybe we, as South Africans, are caled to face this reality. May God help us to die in faith with a clear goal in mind, the Kingdom of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Belonging to the one Body of Christ, we are looking forward to your solidarity, support and prayers in this regard.

Your fellow brother in Christ

Frank Chikane (Rev.)

General Secretary

NB: Letter written from the Wilderness. Is it not in Midian, or is it here in the land of my birth? Or have we already moved to the west side of the wilderness, and come to Horeb, ‘the mountain of God’, to be reckoned with God? Yes, it is real wilderness away from the family, friends, with no freedom to walk along the streets of the country of one’s birth.

[To return to the start of this series, click here]

No Life of My Own: Part Church in Action

i love love love this piece on Christians not being saved to relax and enjoy the Kingdom of God while living in the midst of chaos in the world:

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To be a Christian…

We need to be alive to the reality that Jesus could not have established the church without dying on the cross and being raised again. Thus, the church was born in a struggle of life and death and is plunged into this struggle to work for the Kingdom of God. To be Christian is not to relax and enjoy the Kingdom of God in the midst of sin, corruption, oppression and death. To be Christian means to engage in the struggle for righteousness against unrighteousness, the struggle for justice against injustice, the struggle to save the world. Any view of Christian life without engaging in struggle cannot be compatible with the work of the Lord on the cross. Our mission as Christians is to engage in acts of salvation for the world in the name of Him who died for it. We are called to proclaim the good news of salvation to the world.

[page 84]

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So as followers of Jesus, we can’t not be involved in the societal woes that surround us and yet far too often we choose to ‘protect ourselves’ in the bubble of religious life and activity and keep an active distance from the often overwhelming struggles that are taking place outside our doors.

A little bit later in the book Frank takes it further with this:

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This brings us to an expression quoted by one of the participants at a workshop on the Kairos document in Zurich, Switzerland, in the process of grappling  with the kairos of the Western Church, of Western Christians. The statement was expressed in the following way:

… our problem is that we are stuck with love and charity in our response to the evils of this world rather than justice. We in the West are compelled by love, Christian love and concern about the brutality of some of the systems in the Third World, we are moved by the hunger and poverty to give charity. But we never go beyond charity to justice.

The implications of this statement became very clear to the group. Giving charity was seen as necessary to save lives in these devastated areas of oppression and exploitation and to alleviate pain and suffering. But it was noted that this good, generous activity on its own cannot resolve the fundamental problem. It remains an ‘ambulance’ ministry to help save the victims of a vicious system. To participate in the ministry of addressing the fundamental problem, Christians in the West must engage in the struggle to uproot the foundations of this problem, which are mainly based in their countries. They must have a deliberate programme of action as part of their confession and their commitment to the gospel. To put it in crude terms, terms that are threatening to some people, they too must engage in a liberation struggle to redeem and free themselves of this subtle system which benefits them, directly or indirectly making them partners in this primary sin.

Churches need to begin to challenge the bankers at their home base. They need to challenge business people, corporations, governments and para-state institutions at their home base. They need to challenge their membership and raise their consciousness about this sin and equip them with better, more critical theological tools to detect it. Christians and committed people at grassroots also need to undertake campaigns to mobilise their people to deal with this problem from below. It seems to me that this is going to become increasingly the most effective way of expressing solidarity in action and struggle, rather than necessarily stopping the attack of apartheid at the frontline of the battleground (i.e. South Africa itself). Our solidarity, our sharing of the same body of Christ, our ecumenism, will be expressed in this common action of faith on all fronts of this war (struggle) against evil and injustice in the world. Our unity in Christ can only be unity in action, united action in struggle; it cannot be a unity that leaves the very structures of oppression intact.

[page 176-178]

[For the next passage dealing with Violence Avoided, click here]

[For some thoughts and shares from Antjie Krog’s ‘Begging to the Black’, click here]

No Life of My Own: Part Intro

My wife, tbV, has a thing about having a thing about buying me presents, maintaining that i am the hardest person to buy for [mostly cos if i want or need something i often just go and buy it myself]. But for my birthday this year she got it spot on – two books about South Africa by South Africans. The first one i read was Better to be Black by Antjie Krog which i wrote a number of posts about which are well worth taking in if you haven’t yet. i took a break in between [of sorts] and read ‘The Lemon Tree’ by Sandy Tolan to try and educate myself on the Palestinian/Israeli conversation/journey. Then i moved on to Frank Chikane’s revised and updated edition of his autobiography, ‘No Life of My Own’ which was initially published in 1988 during the final throes of apartheid.

The main reason for wanting to read books about South Africa by South Africans is that i was fed a largely one-sided history while at school and grew up in a not-very-political family, and so i have a lot to learn and as someone who is wanting to have an impact in South Africa, learning a more accurate story about our country seems like the best place to start. Next up is ‘I write what I Like’ by Steve Biko which i am waiting for a friend to drop off and always open to more suggestions.

‘No Life Of My Own’ was an interesting book to read because the author ‘Frank Chikane’ feels like a name i know quite well, but on reflection, realised i didn’t know much about him at all. It was also really helpful reading a book, where at the time of writing, the author didn’t know how the story was going to progress.

Let me let his back cover tell you what it’s about: ‘Beginning with his childhood growing up black under an oppressive system, and continuing through to his call to the Christian ministry, Frank Chikane tells of his family’s increasing involvement in the struggle against apartheid, the disapproval and suspension he faced from his own church, and the harrowing detention, harassment, torture and exile he endured. Chikane relates his return to South Africa, despite the threat of further detention and death, to continue the fight for freedom. Through it all one thing remains clear: this is a man whose faith compels and sustains him in a courageous and selfless journey towards freedom.’ 

Not as many folded corner pages, which is usually the sign of a book that has deeply affected me, but then this was largely story and so it was more about listening and trying to really hear than being inspired by teachable thoughts. Definitely worth a read though and have one or two extracts i do want to share in the next while… One of the most interesting parts of Frank’s story is the part where the apartheid government actually put poison into his clothes during a flight [via his luggage] which almost killed him – to the point where a priest in the US was brought in to administer last rites, and yet he made a miraculous recovery and was given the chance of continuing his life journey.

For white friends in South Africa in particular, who might be trying to broaden the hue of written thought they are exposed to, No Life of My Own is a worthwhile read in that regard.