Apartheid is often defined as a legalized system of racial segregation enforced in South Africa from 1948 to the early 1990s. The word, derived from the Afrikaans term for “separateness,” captures only a fraction of what this system meant for Black South Africans. Although apartheid officially ended in the early 1990s, its social and economic impacts remain deeply embedded.
This AI-generated definition hardly scratches the surface of apartheid. Here’s my definition, from the experience of a Black South African born in Temba, Hammanskraal.
I was born in August 1977, between two horrific events: the brutal murders of primary school children during the 1976 Soweto Uprising and the killing of Steve Biko, bound and defenseless in chains. Both atrocities were executed with precision by white men who claimed a “civilized” heritage. I was born in Kalafong Hospital and raised in Temba until 1989, in an environment where the smell of tear gas was as common as dust. Eventually, my parents sent me to a boarding school in Mmabatho, where I spent nine out of every twelve months, in a year from 1989 to 1994.
Living this dual life created a split reality for me, as it did for many township kids attending “white” suburban schools. We learned to mask our true selves, adapting to survive. Masking, too, was a form of apartheid.
The townships themselves were masterpieces of separation, constructed to house a labor force exploited for the economic gain of others. Imagine using such capacity for planning on something so dehumanizing. This legacy haunts us today. The townships have only deteriorated, particularly as urban populations surge. Now, there’s a different kind of apartheid among Black Africans in South Africa. Many of us have embraced western lifestyles so thoroughly that we barely recognize ourselves. This has led to a collective inferiority complex, where too many believe they cannot do things for themselves, furthering a cycle of dependency.
While communities wrestle with white-owned media’s propaganda—one that fuels xenophobia by blaming foreign nationals—white companies continue hiring them, further dividing Black South Africans. And now, under the Government of National Unity, the ANC has formed an alliance with those who once championed apartheid, securing control in a strange, self-appointed authority.
Apartheid didn’t begin with South Africa. It was copied from the racial segregation models of places like Jamestown in the USA (I need to verify this detail). The Afrikaners took it up in 1948, implementing a regime that shaped the lives of my parents, born in 1932 and 1942. Growing up in Temba, I absorbed stories of suffering caused by white people, but in Mmabatho, in what was then Bophuthatswana, I witnessed Black excellence in action.
In truth, Black South Africans live in a Matrix created by white South Africans. This is our land of origin, yet we still serve as labor for white people, from cleaners to CEOs.
There’s an ancient law of correspondence that says: “As within, so without. As above, so below.” Actions that separate people from their true nature cannot last. Se se sa feleng se a tlhola (Nothing lasts forever). Apartheid—separateness—is fundamentally unnatural. Racism is an attempt to dominate nature, an attempt to control the uncontrollable. White people are deluded if they believe they wield more power than Ramasedi (the Sun).
For true healing, all South Africans, but especially Black people, need to reconnect with nature. This is our heritage, the way we lived before 1948, before our choices were taken from us. Nelson Mandela once spoke of “the indignity of being the scum of the universe.” I think he was speaking to this exact feeling.
Apartheid made all people sick by forcibly removing connections that we all need. Dividing people by race was an act of supreme ignorance, a testament to limited thinking. And yet, in 2024, we’re still dealing with apartheid’s shadow in an age when AI and technology should be moving us toward unity. I question what Ramaphosa’s administration—a government that chose itself—does while apartheid lingers in its policies. While they may or may not work toward dismantling this separateness, we must also address our own inner divisions. This state of being disconnected drives us to addiction—alcohol, sugar, fast food—poisons that distract and numb us.
In this Matrix, every addiction has a price tag, a profit that flows into white-owned businesses. The African, still a slave in his own land, has also become a source of endless revenue. If apartheid weren’t about control and profit, wouldn’t we have established a basic law by now: No human can own land?