zungu_bheki_p_200305_ma

LEARNING THROUGH THE STRUGGLE
AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF AN AZANIAN YOUTH
by
BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU
(Under the Direction of Norman Thomson)
ABSTRACT
South Africans view 1948 as a crucial year in the history of their country. In that
year, the National Party came to power with the political policy of apartheid--the
enforced segregation of black and white people into different areas. The enactment of
apartheid under the laws in 1948 institutionalized racial discrimination in South Africa.
The race laws touched every aspect of life: education, work, and social relations. The
latter included the prohibition of marriage between non-whites and whites. The sanctions
reserved the best for “whites only,” be it jobs or transportation. To make matters worse,
the Population Registration Act required that all South Africans be racially classified into
one of three categories: white, black (African), or Coloured (of mixed descent). The
Coloured category included the major subgroups of Indians and Asians.
INDEX WORDS: South Africa, Apartheid, Education/Autoethnography

LEARNING THROUGH THE STRUGGLE: AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF AN
AZANIAN YOUTH
by
BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU
B.A., Stockton State College, 1997
A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of The University of Georgia in Partial
Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree
MASTER OF ARTS
ATHENS, GEORGIA
2003
© 2003
BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU
All Rights Reserved

LEARNING THROUGH THE STRUGGLE: AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF AN
AZANIAN YOUTH
by
BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU
Major Professor: Norman Thomson
Committee: Kathleen P. DeMarrais
Ronald VanSickle
Electronic Version Approved:
Maureen Grasso
Dean of the Graduate School
The University of Georgia
May 2003
iv
DEDICATION
The race laws touched every aspect of life: education, work, and social relations
v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The race laws touched every aspect of life: education, work, and social relations
vi
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.................................................................................................v
CHAPTER
1 INTRODUCTION ............................................................................................1
South Africa Before My Time (1948 to 1971) and the Apartheid Era (1948-
1990)..............................................................................................................1
Racial Inequality............................................................................................3
Education and Inequality (The Apartheid Legacy) .......................................4
2 METHODOLOGY ............................................................................................5
Autoethnography ...........................................................................................5
Methods .........................................................................................................9
The Questions of the Study .........................................................................11
3 THE FORMATION OF SOWETO..................................................................12
Languages in Soweto...................................................................................15
Teenage Years and Personal Experiences of Apartheid..............................18
The Liberation Struggle...............................................................................23
4 GROWING UP IN SOWETO ...........................................................................29
Family Life in Soweto.................................................................................33
Zithathele Lower Primary School ...............................................................35
Emthonjeni Higher Primary School ...........................................................39

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Orlando Stadium..........................................................................................42
Orlando Pirates Fanatics..............................................................................44
5 COMING TO AMERICA..................................................................................46
A Difficult Beginning ..................................................................................46
Struggling to Survive ...................................................................................50
Changing Directions ....................................................................................59
6 CONCLUSION ................................................................................................64
Education for Exploitation...........................................................................64
Education for Liberation, Liberation for Education ....................................65
Education for Assimilation ..........................................................................66
Education for Personal Growth....................................................................68
Implications for Research ............................................................................69
Implications for International Students........................................................69
EPILOGUE ........................................................................................................................70
BIBLIOGRAPHY..............................................................................................................71
APPENDIX........................................................................................................................73
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
South Africa Before My Time (1948 to 1971) and the
Apartheid Era (1948-1990)
The race laws touched every aspect of life: education, work, and social relations. The
latter included the prohibition of marriage between non-whites and whites. The sanctions
reserved the best for “whites only,” be it jobs or transportation. To make matters worse,
the Population Registration Act required that all South Africans be racially classified into
one of three categories: white, black (African), or Coloured (of mixed descent). The
Coloured category included the major subgroups of Indians and Asians.
Classification into these categories was based on appearance, social acceptance,
and descent. For example, a white person was defined as “in appearance obviously a
white person or generally accepted as a white person.” A person could not be considered
white if one of his or her parents was non-white; in this case one would be classified as
Coloured, neither white nor black. A black person was held to be someone considered to
‘appear’ black or accepted as a member of an African tribe.
The Department of Home Affairs (a government bureau) was responsible for the
classification of the citizenry. Non-compliance with the race laws was dealt with harshly,
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including arrest, imprisonment, and even massacre as evidenced by the massacres that
took place in Sharpeville in 1960 campaigning against the passes (passbooks). All blacks
were required to carry passbooks, the humiliating black-only “identification book”
containing fingerprints, photo and information on permitted access to non-black areas.
Passbooks entailed an assortment of rules and regulations. For example, when
employed by a white employer, a black employee was required to go the Bantu Labour
Office to obtain a special permit. He was also examined by a doctor who would instruct
the “patient” to take his pants down and swing his penis up and down. If the employee
executed the exercise without showing any strain or pain, then the doctor concluded that
the patient was healthy and fit for employment. Once employed, every month it was
expected by the apartheid law that the worker submit a passbook to the employer for his
signature. Should someone fail to do so, and if a policeman demanding a passbook
discovered the non-compliance with the set rules, then the worker would be arrested and
charged under section 29 of the Pass Laws Act. The sentence would then be served in
corn fields or cattle farms. The farmers were allowed by the state to recruit pass offenders
from various prisons, at a low wage, and to keep them as labourers the duration of their
sentence.
In 1953, the Bantu Education Authorities Act was implemented, which
established a basis for ethnic government in the African reserves, known as
“Homelands.” These homelands were independent states to which every African was
assigned by the government, according to a record of origin which was frequently
inaccurate. All political rights, including voting, which were held by an African were
restricted to the designated homelands. Four of these homelands were created,

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denationalizing nine million South Africans. By this measure, Africans living in the
homelands needed passports to enter South Africa: they became aliens in their own
country.
Racial Inequality
After 1948, the apartheid policy was highly effective in achieving preferential
treatment for whites, as is demonstrated by statistics. There were 36 million blacks to 4.5
million whites, but most of the land was in the hands of the whites, 87% versus 13%
(Cross, 1992). There was a huge discrepancy in the sharing of the national wealth. The
black majority were the ‘worker bees’ of the country, yet the white minority held more
than 75% of the national income, compared to less than 20% for blacks. The minimum
taxable income was also very skewed; blacks, even though they were not making much,
were taxed more than whites.
One of the worst inequalities of apartheid was in the health care system. For every
one white doctor, there were 400 white patients, compared to 5,500 black patients per
doctor. Blacks had a high infant mortality rate of 25% compared to 2% for whites
(Corona, 2000). With the invention of the homeland system in the 1970’s, the situation
reached astounding proportions because the health budget appropriated by the white
government did not meet the needs of the black population in the homelands. Apartheid
was also practiced in most hospitals to varying degrees. Some admitted patients of one
racial group only, and others designated operating rooms and special care facilities for
patients of certain racial groups. This practice often led to expensive and redundant
services, and at times to unnecessary neglect.

4
Creation of the homelands, therefore, drastically affected the health of blacks,
changed the country’s population distribution, and impacted regional economic patterns.
Many homeland residents were barely able to support themselves, owing in part to the
homelands’ arid land, inferior roads and transportation, and overcrowding; some
residents were consequently forced to travel great distances to work in white South
Africa. This created a debilitating sense of dependency among black people; they relied
on white people for almost everything.
Education and Inequality (The Apartheid Legacy)
According to Cross (1992), high school education for blacks was separate and
equal to that of other groups until the enactment of Bantu Education in 1953. Prior to the
enactment of the Bantu Education Act, the quality of teachers instructing blacks was held
in high esteem. However, with the start of Bantu Education, black teacher qualifications
were down-graded by the former white government, and the context of what was taught
to black pupils was re-defined to make their education inferior to that of other groups. At
the same time, white “Afrikaans” education was being developed to be superior.
This study is a way to illustrate the experiences of one individual growing up and
being educated during the Apartheid through the time of the struggle. The next chapter of
this thesis examines the autoethnographic method used for the study and briefly reviews
other autoethnographic work. The third chapter provides description of Soweto.

5
CHAPTER 2
METHODOLOGY
Autoethnography:
Several primary definitions have evolved for autoethnography. Pratt (2001,
p.242) has observed that “In one term the prefix auto describes the ethnographers, those
who observe from the outside so that the term describe the methodology they use to
explore the borders and themselves. Ethnographers recognize their own lives as stories.
Autoethnography is thus a mode by which members of the minority resist a dominating
discourse.” In my case, I would say that autoethnography is thus a mode by which
members of a majority resist a dominating discourse. Pratt lists three requirements for a
work to be autoethnographic:
(a) First, colonized and neo-colonized subjects must undertake to represent
themselves in ways that engage with the colonizers’ own terms
(b) They must return the gaze by writing back
(c) They must seize the means and media that their dominators have used to describe
them and redirect the description.
As Carolyn Ellis put it (1995), “Autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of
research and writing that displays multiple layers of consciousness. Usually written in
first person voice, it appears in a variety of short forms, short stories, poetry, fiction,
novels, personal essays, journals, social science prose, and so forth.” Most social
scientists, she says, “don’t write well enough to carry it off. Or they are not sufficiently
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introspective about their feelings or motives or the contradictions they experience.
Autoethnographic exploration generates a lot of fears, and self doubts and emotional
pain. Then there’s the vulnerability of revealing yourself and not being able to take back
what you have written or having any control over how readers interpret it. It can be
humiliating.” She cautions about the ethical issues: “I warn, just wait until you are
writing about family members and loved ones who are part of your story.”
Moreover, Reed-Danahey (1995), who wrote a book on autoethnography, said, “Well,
I start with my personal life. I pay attention to my physical feelings. I use what I call
systematic sociological introspection and emotional recall to try to understand an
experience I have lived through. Then I write my experience as a story.” She adds that
“autoethnographers vary in the emphasis on the research process( graphy), on culture
(ethnos) and on self (auto) (1997). She writes, “researchers disagree on the boundaries of
each category and on the precise definition of the type of autoethnography. Many write
more back and forth among terms and meanings even in the same article.” Since there are
different types of autoethnography; I focus mine on reflexive ethnography. According to
Ellis and Bochner (2000):” Reflexive autoethnography: focus on a culture, subculture.
Authors here use their own experiences in the culture reflexively to bend back on self and
look more deeply at self. The researcher’s personal experience becomes important
primarily in how it illuminates the culture.”
Ellis performed a study of heartfelt autoethnography with a student researching
breast cancer. Sylvia Smith is a woman in her 40’s who interviews breast cancer
survivors to understand how they are coping after cancer cancer. Sylvia has had breast
cancer herself, yet she explained to Ellis that she would not let that influence her
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research. “Of course you will, as you should,” said Ellis. Smith responded by saying, “I
thought I had to keep my personal experience out of my research if I want my story to be
valid, as I can’t mention to my participants that I’ve had breast cancer.” Ellis asked Smith
if she would be willing to talk about her cancer first; that would help her understand more
about Smith’s academic interest in the topic. “Are you okay to talk about your own
experience?” Ellis asked. “Of course, I am,” she responded. She began her story about the
lump she discovered 7 years before, her mastectomy, and follow-up chemotherapy,
explaining how this has had a significant impact on her family, her relationship with her
daughter, and how she sees herself. It is then that Ellis introduced Smith to
autoethnography. She warned her that autoethnography is about confronting things about
yourself that are less than flattering. She also talked about the vulnerability of revealing
yourself, not being able to take back what you have written, and not having control over
how readers interpret it.
Ellis wrote another work of autoethnography which she called Stories that
Conform/ Stories that Transform: A Conversation in Four Parts. In this piece she wrote
about coping with a speech problem. She wrote, “I didn’t suffer the speech problem as a
minor bodily stigma. It had not really changed its physical presence, but I did not respond
to it anymore” (Bochner and Ellis, 2002).

8
Relevant Literature
Researcher Title Story
Ellis,1995 Final Negotiations She writes about the illness and

death of her first husband. Her
story is a relationship story. She
writes about the major events
during the relationship with
Gene. She claims that she
became an ethnographer because
of her own experience. She
writes about the hardship she
went through witnessing the
death of her husband.
Gatson, 2003 Onbeing Armophous: Here the author is trying to
Autoethnography, Geneology, identify her place and identity in
and Multiracial Identity this world. She writes her story
by confronting her blackness,
confronting her multiracialness,
and confronting her whiteness.
She describes the term
armophous as a “shimmering
thing, a picture with blurred
edges; a way to take in
information about oneself, and
one’s connection.”
Reed-Danahay Turning Points and textual
Infertility and pregnacy where
Strategies in ethnographic
2003 writing. the ethnographer places her
own personal experience of
IVF pregnancy in the context of
her own life as an ethnographer
among the Bedouin women.
9
Methods
My impetus to write about my life growing up in Soweto, South Africa coalesced
when I was introduced to autoethnographic research. However, my first thoughts of
writing about my life in high school during apartheid, and about my life with my
grandmother, began when I was a senior in college. At that time, though, I did not know
how and even where to begin. I had to step outside of South Africa to really understand
the effects of apartheid on my life and the lives of my fellow South Africans. I had not
kept notes of day-to-day description and analyses of events as they occurred. Therefore, I
have not followed the traditional rules of the ethnographic method.
However, I began writing a draft of my story--from the time I was born to when I
left South Africa for the United States. I wrote everything I could recall, following the
suggestion of Ellis, who observed: “I use a process of emotional recall in which I imagine
being back in the scene emotionally and physically” (1997). In my own way, I
remembered a lot of what had happened. I tried to write everyday. I wrote poems about
my life in Soweto; I talked to friends I grew up with; and I also interviewed my mother,
and teachers, and friends in South Africa in December-January, 2002. I gave a copy of
my work to my mother to check if all the stories I wrote about her and my grandmother
were truthful. After she read some of what I have written, she was at first not sure if I
should include that because she was worried about what the people at church would say. I
searched for maps of South Africa, Soweto, and my neighbourhood--Orlando East. I also
followed Ellis “by constructing a story without notes more than 12 to 15 years after the
actual events occurred (1997).

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Given the history of apartheid, most of what happened in South Africa cannot be
easily forgotten. I felt I had to write about this experience, yet, the truth is that no one I
know can fully tell exactly what life was and is like in Soweto. We all have our own
individual stories to tell, about how the events of apartheid affected us individually and
also as a nation. As Ellis (1997) put it:
The truth is that we can never capture experience. Narrative is always a

story about the past, and that’s really all field notes are: one selective story
about what happened written from a particular point of view at a particular
point in time for a particular purpose. But if representation is your goal,
it’s best to have as many sources and levels of stories recorded at different
times as possible. Even so, realize that every story is partial and situated.
Autoethnography according to Ellis (1995), generates a lot of fears and

self-doubts and emotional pain. Just as you think you can’t stand the pain
anymore, that’s when the real work has only begun. Then there’s the
vulnerability of revealing yourself, not being able to take back what
you’ve written or having any control over how readers interpret it. (1995).
Ellis (1997) maintains that when doing an autoethnographic study, “It
depends how people define validity. She starts from the position that
language is not transparent, and there’s no single standard of truth”
Validity can also be judged by whether it helps readers communicate with
others different from themselves or offers a way to improve the lives of
participants and readers and even your own.”
There’s no such thing as orthodox reliability in autoethnographic research.
Therefore, in this study I undertook reliability checks by calling friends and family so
they could offer their interpretations and comments. My story is not just a personal story.
It speaks to all South Africans about the experience they lived through under the
apartheid regime. Also, my study is directed to a large extent to all international students
who have experienced life in the same way I experienced it. Moreover, I address teachers
and college administrators.

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The Question of the Study
There are two main purposes that guided my study. The first has to do with
looking back at life in Soweto in an attempt to understand the value of life and education
during the apartheid era. The second question, however, has to do with my life and
assimilation in the United States education system. Therefore, answering these questions
will, somehow, make me understand the value of education within my life, and perhaps
for readers interested in the experience of South Africans from Soweto during the period
of the struggle.
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CHAPTER 3
THE FORMATION OF SOWETO
The unsung hero 957 Phiela Street

To be a descendant of a hero is a thrill
A thrill to the bone straight down my toes.
Lamenting your name in a voiceless voice
Is not being silence,
For silence does not always mean concern.
But who is Mpanza?
He is the
Masses the
Peasant
All
Networking
Zealously for
Africa.
This poem serves to introduce James Sofasonke Mpanza.
was born in Eshowe, KwaZulu in May, 1889. He grew up there, and as a young man he
had the misfortune and murdered an Indian person. He was then sentenced to death by
guillotine. He was fortunate enough to avoid the guillotine and was later deported. While
in prison, he became a Christian and prayed all the time. He even preached the word of
God to his fellow inmates. Twelve years later he was released. On his way he decided to
go to Standerton, first to see his brother (who was my mother’s grandfather) before
proceeding to Johannesburg. In 1934, he landed in Johannesburg in a place called
Prospect Township (ghetto-like). There came a time when people from Prospect
Township were to be moved to a newly created township in Orlando East; he was one of
them. Things were not as rosy as they were promised.

13
Mpanza decided to represent the desolate people because the houses were not
adequate to house all of them. He held several meetings with the the former government,
but they were to no avail. It was then that he defied the law and led the people to an open
space between the Orlando and Mlamlankunzi train stations, in order to erect some
shacks there. People used all sorts of building materials, from canvass, wood, mud or
corrugated iron, just to provide a roof over their heads.
Mpanza, my grandfather’s uncle always got onto the wrong side of the law by
refusing to obey the white man’s law, and many a time he was in serious confrontation
with the police. In 1935 he formed an organization called the “Sofasonke Party.” This
translates to “we will all die together.” One popular song they sang when they had
meetings was “Mzulu, Msotho, Mxhosa hlanganani,” which translates to “Zulu, Sotho ,
Xhosa people unite”. All this led to the birth of Soweto, one of the largest black
townships in South Africa. What is sad about this is that he was never recognized by the
government, and he never ever got credit for what he did for his people. He died a very
poor man, and to this date his descendants, like my other grandmother, Queen, who was
Mpanza’s baby girl, and others, still live in poverty.

14
There was a time in Soweto where people wanted to change the name Soweto to
Mpanzaville, but the powers that be refused. I remember one time when I was young and
my grandmother sent me to the office to pay rent for her, and the teller noticed that my
grandmother’s last name was Mpanza, as I handed him the money and the rent statement.
His jaw dropped and he said he was amazed that I was paying rent after what Mpanza has
done to the people of Soweto. Even in school during the apartheid era in South Africa we
never learned about James Sofasonke Mpanza. It was my grandmother, and my mother
who used to speak of him with great enthusiasm, who made sure we knew that there once
was a hero in our family who fought for the people. I hope and trust that when they call
the names of the heroes in the new South Africa his name will be there. My grandmother
Mantshingila once told us that Mpanza was a no-nonsense man. He turned his house into
a court by day, and he would decide peoples’ cases and then pray for them. He is my
inspiration.
The Only Weapon I Knew
I used to throw stones higher and longer,

From coro brick to face brick.
I never saw beauty-
All I could see was a weapon
That liberated me.
Mfowethu, have you forgotten
How to throw that stone?
What a shame.
Can you still whistle and hear
the sound of a rock hit
a moving van at 70 miles an hour,
While inhaling tear-gas in the process?
Is all that considered a game of the past?
Remember, the struggle continues……
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Languages in Soweto
Even though I was born and raised in Soweto, I cannot honestly say I am fluent in
any of the languages that are spoken in Soweto. But I can converse in most, if not all of
the languages. Soweto is unlike other places like KwaZulu Natal, where most people
speak standard Zulu; people who come from Bophutatswana speak standard Tswana.
There are eleven official languages spoken in South Africa. In Johannesburg, mainly in
Soweto, we speak a taste of all these languages, and we code switch as we go along. The
language that we seem to understand more than any other is what is called isicamtho
(“street language among friends”).
To me this language makes a whole lot of sense. Here’s how--my neighbour in
Soweto is Sotho, in my house we speak IsiZulu, in the house next door they speak
IsiXhosa, while in the one next to it they speak Isishangane. Two blocks from my
grandmother’s house is a town called Noordgesig-–a coloured (mix of black and white)
town where they speak Afrikaans as their first language. The Afrikaans that they speak is
not as ‘standard’ as the one that is spoken by the average Afrikaner. Since we grew up
together we had to incorporate all these languages into our everyday lingua. Therefore, a
taste of all these languages is the language that is spoken and understood, by most, if not
16
all, people in Soweto. The only times I would speak standard Zulu was with my
grandmother because she did not understand isichamtho, and of course at school during
the isiZulu class period. Otherwise, isicamtho is the language I grew up speaking in
Soweto. Make no mistake; I still have complete command of the Zulu language, since it
is the first language that was introduced to me at birth. I am not that unusual. Most South
African musicians, especially those who sing Kwaito music cannot finish a song in one
language. If you pay attention to their music you will find that they use three to four
languages in just one song, and most of the lyrics are in isicamtho.
There was a time in Soweto where we would talk in isicamtho about a person who
was not considered a “Sowetan” right in front of him or her, and he could not understand
a word that was said. Isicamtho is also a language we used to attract girls, and they liked
how we code switched. If I were to describe isicamtho in one sentence I would say: “It is
like a pun, a play on words, that has some elements of music attached to it.” Every time
you code switch from one language to another, someone who does not know might think
that you are reading notes from a music book; the sound of isicamtho is poetic and
flawless. Here is an example. Let’s say you see a girl that you like and you want to ask
her out and she gives you a hard time. A summary follows“ Hello ma… sharp kunjani”
(Hey girl, how are you); then, you wait for the response. If the response is not
forthcoming or something you did not expect, you continue, “Bheka la ma ngikwenzela I
favour ngiyakuzama ngiyaku shaynisa wena uyangiqhomela ubani othe umuhle ukudlula
isiganga or ucabanga ukuthi unuka kamnandi ukudlula inja efile” This translates to :
“Look here I am doing you a favour by speaking with you, and you think you look better
than a junk yard or you think you smell better than a dead dog in a hot summer day”.
17
Here is another example. This is a conversation between two friends Sbutis and Gazi and
they are later joined by someone named Styles.
Sbutis: Wola gazi
Gazi: Wola Sbutis mpintshi yam
Sbutis: Zithini
Gazi: Ah niks man, wat se met jou
Sbutis: Ah angibulabuli Mfowethu
Gazi: So wenzani jump bells
Sbutis: Fokol why? uneplan
Gazi: Bengi denka, I was thinking
Sbutis: van wat, khuluma man
Gazi: van ‘n plan
Sbutis: Huis braak
Gazi: Ini
Sbutis: Ungizwile. Yini uyasha
Gazi: No angishi Mpintshi yami ukuthi ngiphuma estubhini and angifuni ukubuyela.
Sbutis: oh uyasha, anyways…Styles shows up.
Sbutis: Wola styles
Styles: Wola wola wola zithini magenge
Sbutis: kwenzenjani mpintshi yami
Styles: ngiqeda ukubona abanye abantwana aba nice and polite e-Lofentse High School.
I said “Hi ladies, say yeah to the guy”.
Sbutis: How was the response

18
Styles: Positive?
Sbutis: Ketsona
Gazi: hhe styles yazi lo ufuna siyo roofa
Styles: So, what’s wrong with that?
Sbutis: Styles mfowethu, ake ukukhulume naloyo uyasha futhi ungifakela i-slowdown.
Kunomhlaphansi lapha ngaphandle yena akawufuni.
Styles: Mara angimblaymi uGazi kulamalanga lamajudge ayakulahlela. Akushaya
ngesigwebo sase bioscope.
Gazi. Iya mpinthsi yami mtshele uSbutis ukuthi. Crime does not pay; it pays
underground.
Sbutis: Wena Gazi ubani othe sowazi isingamshishi.
A conversation like this one has about five different languages. Anyway, it’s about three
friends who are planning a house breaking and theft, and one says, “Oh, no, I just came
from prison, and I am not going back there. The other one tells him that he is a coward,
that he does not have courage anymore, and his response to him is that crime does not
pay it pays six feet under the ground.
Teenage years and Personal Experiences of Apartheid: Selelekela Seniour
Secondary
When I was at age 14, I went to live with my mother. She was worried that I was
now becoming too much for my grandmother to handle. Well, in all fairness, I can’t fault
my mother; I was a teenager, and naturally adolescent stage was somehow in control of
my life. I stayed with my mother until I finished High School in December of 1991. I
would, however, visit with my grandmother almost every day since she lived only a few
19
blocks away from my mother’s house. At the time, the youth in Soweto were into
International Disco Music, and also a kind of local music which was referred to by the
media as ‘bubble gum music’ (music without a message). Guys my age were also into
stokvels , a fundraising exercise where one member would host some kind of a party and
sell alcohol. In addition to that the members would contribute money that would go to
him for that particular day. Well, that was one form of entertainment among the youth.
There were also all kinds of gangsters in Soweto at the time, mainly in my very
own neighbourhood—Orlando East. There were at least seven gangs-, ranging from The
Kabasa, TV2, Ninja’s, Rambo’s, BWZ and ‘N 5, Kappa, to my very own gang the
“Shidoperm” boys; which we were referred to as the ‘ladies men’. The phrase “there’s
honour among thieves” has, some element of truth attached to it, we competed among
ourselves. All these gangs were known for the specific crimes and misdemeanors they all
specialized in. Some were car thieves, others were shoplifters, while most were pic-
pockets. Sunday, was the best day to show off. We usually went to the famous
Communal Hall in Orlando East to the Sound of Soweto (S.O.S.) dance club, where we
would pick up girls. Most of the time that is where we met with the rest of the gangs, and
sometimes we would quarrel and start fighting over women. Sometimes the fights were
so bad that some guys were stabbed and others shot at.
I mentioned Communal Hall because that is where the Pan Africanist Congress
(P.A.C) was formed in 1958. Most of the political meetings by the African National
Congress (A.N.C ) and the P.A.C in the 1950’s and 1960’s were held at this Hall. I
myself remember in the mid 80’s when the former President of the P.A.C. - Uncle Zeph
Mothopeng- gave a touching speech; I happened to be at the talk. All this took place in
20
the mid 80’s when we used to perm our hair. We also used to wear Converse All Star
and Kennex Sneakers (takkies), Dickies trousers , and Darks of London Shirt or nice T-
Shirt from Linear Italiana (a famous Italian clothing store in Downtown Johannesburg at
Carlton Cente). Sometimes we would go to City outfitters another famous clothing Store
in Jeppe, Johannesburg, or Strachan and Mayburg in Commissioner Street to buy Taurus
Jersey’s and Pringle of Scotland. Trying to come up with money to buy all these clothes
was a serious challenge, and our parents could not afford it.
I guess I was forced to get a job, which I did working for the construction
company “Isicoco Kronen Paving,” earning R50.a week (about $5 a week). A year later,
I got a job at Edgars clothing store in Eastgate Shopping Mall. That, I should say, was a
good part-time job for a high school student. At least that way I was able to afford some
of the clothes without having to ask mama for money. The only challenge I had at the
time was that I never got to buy all the clothing I needed for myself because I had to help
my mother out with groceries. Sometimes I had to buy my younger brother a shirt and a
pair of socks because I did not want him wearing my stuff anymore. Unfortunately, the
majority of our parents were workers, and as they were exploited by the former
government, they were not able to maintain their families. Hence, some of their children
ended up dropping out of school due to financial problems. Peer pressure also had a great
effect on teenagers at the time. We were living in the ghetto of Soweto where some of our
role models were brothers who had never had jobs but were driving nice cars wearing all
the expensive clothes, and dating all the beautiful women. I guess for some of us, looking
up to our teachers as role models was just heartbreaking because these were the people
who were starving with dignity. Why go to school? was the question most students would
21
ask themselves. It did not matter to us at the time where most of those brothers got their
money from. In the view of our age group, their lifestyles were justified because we were
living in the era of apartheid, when even graduating from high school was a challenge on
its own, let alone going to college or university. In as much as I never was a naughty
child, I did, however, find myself in the mix of things, having to steal wheelcaps and car
batteries in order to make money. Anyway, that was as far as my friends and I would go
in terms of stealing things; I guess we never had the courage to go beyond that. We did,
however, have a few teachers who never gave up on us. One in particular was Mrs.
Rantseli my biology teacher. For some reason she saw a future for me. One day she made
me teach biology lesson in class for she said that I had the potential. She was aware of
my stuttering, but said that I should not let that bother me because she saw a teacher in
me. I guess some people can just change your life without you knowing.
I really became involved in the movement opposing apartheid in 1984, when I
was in standard six (grade 8) at Selelekela Seniour Secondary School. At that time the
government implemented legislation that limited constitutional reforms, and it continued
to exclude blacks. We blacks doubled our commitment to make the apartheid country
ungovernable under the current system and to change its policies. The first action was a
consumer boycott, during which we refused to buy white-only-produced products. We
destroyed their trucks as they attempted to deliver goods in the townships, and the
government was forced to respond by deploying troops to come and protect their
products. We destabilized the Indian and colored communities by making them feel
guilty about the tricameral parliament, a government-formed parliament that included
whites, Coloured, and Indians and systematically excluded Blacks.

22
But this initial effort was short-lived. Students decided not to go to school, and the
government had to come in to control us. The chairman of the Transvaal Stay Away
Committee, Thami Mali, was reported as saying: “We have proved to the government
that we have power in our hands and we can use it. No amount of intimidation can stop
us on our way to liberation. We cannot go back now. Our duty as the oppressed people is
to step up resistance and create an ungovernable situation”
As I recall, students tended to act autonomously of other sections of the
community, often in an arbitrary fashion. This often led to the danger of divisions
between students on the one side, and parents, workers and teachers on the other. In the
case of teachers, as students, we cautiously regarded them as working for the system, and
we constantly humiliated them and even sometimes subjected them to violent attacks.
One example of this was when a student chased the principal of a school with a knife;
another time, a student beat a teacher in front of the students in the classroom.
Overcoming apartheid came at a price for students, as well as teachers and
administrators. As students we understood that due to our activities in the liberation
struggle, it would be impossible for us to finish school in 12 years. Workers, on the other
hand, realized that some of them would eventually lose their jobs in the name of the
struggle. The students and the workers had put liberation before education and wages,
respectively. In my view, black people bore the greatest burden of the international
economic sanctions imposed upon the apartheid regime; these, nevertheless consequently
propelled us to an ultimate victory.
The defeat of apartheid, however liberating, left a huge burden of poverty,
unemployment and limited educational opportunities on the black population. To redress

23
this situation, it is essential to understand how education in post-apartheid South Africa
should be planned and implemented. It is my belief that with the very recent increased
access to education our adversities can be overcome.
The Liberation Struggle
The 1980’s stands as a turning point in the liberation struggle in South Africa.
The re-emergence of the Pan Africanist Congress and the African National Congress, in
addition to the student organization movements led the apartheid government to crack
down on black opposition with wide-spread arrests, detention, and torture. The
proclamation of the State of Emergency in 1985 gave the security forces more official
powers than they had already seized. Troops were always in and out of the black
townships, from Soweto to Sebokeng.
An incident I remember vividly from that time was in 1986, when many students
were arrested under the State of Emergency Law. We, the students, mobilized the masses;
we decided that we were going to travel to Moroka Police Station to demand that our
comrades be released at once. We forced motorists on the roads to give us rides to the
police station, which was about 15 miles away from my school in Orlando East, where
everything had started. All was well until we hijacked a lorry (a construction truck), and
we all helped each other climb into the back of the truck. The truck driver was so scared
he was shaking, and he took off running. The students grabbed him and ordered him to
drive the lorry, since none of us knew how to drive a truck that big. We were singing and
chanting liberation slogans. Little did we know that the truck driver was going to betray
us; he drove the truck right into the police station. Students started jumping from the
moving lorry, for we knew that if we were caught we would be arrested as well. Many of
24
us were injured in the lorry incident. I had a few bruises myself, on my thighs, and I
twisted my ankle in jumping, but that did not stop us from chanting slogans and freedom
songs outside the police station, demanding the release of our comrades. The police
ended up firing tear gas at us, and more students were arrested that day.
This incident, of course, was a clear indication that we would not go back to
school until all of our comrades were released. We spent the year of 1986 going back and
forth, fighting the apartheid government. The saddest part of all was when the soldiers
came to guard us on campus; every time we had go to the bathroom we were guaranteed
company from a man with a machine gun on his shoulder. One day, right after school was
out, my friends and I were sitting in class when a gun was fired. We all jumped, thinking
that the soldiers had started firing at the students, but to our surprise it was one of the
soldiers who had accidentally fired a gun and killed another soldier. We all came out
running, and the next day the students chanted slogans celebrating the death of a Boer-
man.
The next day the students wrote on the walls: “HOERE DIE BOER IS DOOD,”
which translates from Afrikaans to “we are happy the Afrikaner (boer) is dead.” Because
the soldiers were still dealing with the loss of their friend and compatriot, they decided to
give us three minutes to vacate the school premises. We, of course, refused. The next
thing I remember was seeing war tanks. I felt as though World War Three had broken
out as they closed all the entrances but one. We all flew to that gate as we were inhaling
teargas and throwing stones in return. I felt badly for the girls; I saw them run for their
lives, some collapsing from inhaling so much tear gas.

25
That was one of the many incidents that propelled some students to leave the
country to join the Azanian People’s Liberation Army, APLA (POQO), the military wing
of the Pan Africanist Congress (PAC). Others went to join Umkhonto We Sizwe (The
Spear of the Nation), the military wing of the African National Congress (ANC).
The 1980’s saw a wave of student unrest and boycotts all over the country. One
of the main reasons the political climate was more tense in the 80’s than it was in the
1970’s was the formulation of the many student liberation movements, which in turn
shaped the political thinking of the country. First in importance were the Student
Representative Movements that mobilized not only students in tertiary institutes but also
in different high schools within the country. Black students at the time were faced with
many choices of affiliation.
In my school there was a huge split among the students. Some were in favor of
the Pan Africanist Congress (PAC), while others favored the African National Congress
(ANC). The advantage for the student supporters of PAC, Azanian Student Movement
(AZASM)) was that the school was un-officially called Robert Sobukwe High, after the
founder of the PAC. But the teachers were union members, who favored the ANC. The
tension over who was in charge escalated between the two organizations to the point
where the students did not get along among themselves. I remember one incident in a
classroom, when one of the ANC students pulled out the biggest gun I had ever seen and
pointed it at a student who belonged to a different organization. I wondered if he was
going to use it, and I remember shaking my head in disbelief, asking myself who exactly
our enemy was--“Was it the white man who is oppressing us? Or was it a fellow black
man, of my very blood and soul?”

26
The situation was tense in Soweto in those days. I recall that a friend of mine had
arranged with the people who were in charge of transporting students who wanted to join
either the Azanian Peoplpe’s Liberation Army (APLA). He decided that of all his friends
he could trust me with this news; we were not allowed to tell our family members about
this kind of journey. He came and left his clothes at my place, and then he went off to
await his departure. It was difficult for me to simply keep quiet and not tell his uncle,
whom I knew very well. I decided that I must have a talk with my friend; I was afraid that
we would not see him again, and his grandparents were very old. He was determined to
leave, and I threatened to tell his parents.
I do not know what happened that evening; the trip was postponed and my friend
never got the chance to leave. I breathed a sigh of relief when he came the next day to tell
me the news. I remember telling him that he had to be there to bury his grandparents,
who raised him expecting he would be there when they died. We all went back to school
the next day and continued with our lives as if nothing had happened.
As much as the situation was tense for the students, we were also confronted by
another major problem. That was the challenge of differentiating between students and
the non-students involved in the protest actions. A lot of youngsters who were not
enrolled in schools were also part of the struggle, and most of them were gangsters from
nearby neighbourhoods, who had friends who were students. Some of these non-students
would start chaos outside the school premises and then come back to mingle with the
students. It was difficult to tell who was doing what because we did not know who
exactly wanted to study at school and who did not want to study. One incident occurred a
block away from my grandmother’s house when a man was set on fire for having a fight
27
with the members of a particular gangster group; this group had friends who were
students. It looked as if it was the students who had killed this young man, but we all
knew what had happened. It got to the point that we were now not only afraid of the
Boers, but also the COMTSOTSIS (Comrades Who Were Thugs), as they were called.
Yes, it was difficult. At that point it was difficult to even go to the teachers for
support, for they themselves were afraid for their own lives. Some teachers would come
to school drunk, while others would drink alcohol out of their coffee mugs, pretending
they were drinking tea. At that time school became a place to while away the time, not
study.
These conditions really cost a lot for the students in Soweto, as we had to repeat
the same standards the following year, because we did not sit for the exams. I remember I
was in standard seven at the time. The beginning of the following year the term “Pass one
Pass All” was coined by the students, basically telling the government to either pass all of
us or fail us all. As luck would have it, we all had to repeat the same standards. In that
year my mother decided to send my brother and my sister and myself to a boarding
school in kwaNdebele, which was a place far away from Soweto, in the countryside. In
fact, most of the parents in Soweto that year sent their children to boarding schools.
I remember my trip back to Soweto from KwaNdebele. It was raining hard that
day, and someone came from Soweto in a minibus to pick all fifteen of us. Most of us
were not coming back for sure, while some were just going home to visit; two students
were simply going home to see with a doctor since they had come down with syphilis.
We were singing and chanting freedom songs all the way to Soweto. The thing I missed
most about the boarding school was that now we were always in class, and the teachers
28
were doing their jobs. There was respect between teachers and students. But I guess back
then, being in Soweto was like being in the thick of everything, and the camaraderie
among the students from Soweto was totally different to that of Kwandebele.
At my school, a quarter of the students that were admitted in that year were from
Soweto. To this day, I still think that attending school in kwaNdebele made matters
worse. We basically took over the school, changed everything the school was all about,
and we chanted the slogans of the struggle. We found students who did not know
anything about the struggle and introduced them to the life of Soweto. Six months later, I
found myself back in Soweto in the middle of the year, asking the principal of my former
school to re-admit me. To my surprise, my school principal looked at me and he said,
“Welcome back home Mr. Zungu, hamba uzobuya (“I knew you students would go and
come back”). This is your home, nobody outside Soweto can stand you children.
Anyway, I know you are one of my best students, and I am happy to see you again. Buy
the way, we still need you to play soccer and run track for the school.” I was relieved, but
I did not pay him too much attention as I headed to class. At least, I was back in my home
school.
29
CHAPTER 4
GROWING UP IN SOWETO
In this chapter I open with a poem on Soweto, a black township in Johannesburg, South
Africa where I grew up.
SOWETO
Soweto my love.
Soweto are you still my love?
Where umzulu, umsotho, umxhosa
Drink from the same calabash
And discuss the events of the past.
The source of my primary education.
Soweto are you still the same?
Is tribalism still not an issue
Or has classism taken over?
Where children speak the language of the settler
To appease the west,
Forcing their grandparents to play catch up
Or keep the dictionaries at hand
Soweto have you changed on me?
Soweto is it me putting words into your mouth?
Hoping the worst is over
Soweto—please heed the drum of hope
Banging from Phiri to Mapetla,
Zola to Mndeni, all the way to Orlando East.
I was born on May 23, 1971 to Ncanyana and Reuben Zungu in Orlando East,
Soweto, South Africa. My parents had a large family. I was the third of five children:
three boys (Perry, Bheki and Gabi), and two girls (Zinhle and Simphiwe). Ncanyana was
one of two children born to my grandmother Mantshingila, who was herself born during
the Bhambatha War in 1906, the war between the Zulu’s and the English. My
grandmother migrated to Johannesburg in 1929, and first settled in Sophiatown before

30
she moved to Orlando East, Soweto. My aunt Nyama lived not too far from where we
lived, and she had five children, so we had a busy family life. Since life was difficult in
Soweto, both my mother and my father had to work hard to support the family. They
usually left at the break of dawn for work and came back very late at night. Based on
these circumstances, the responsibility of raising us was shifted to my grandmother, who
was indeed happy to accept. We all called her “Mawe” short for “Our Mother”.
Ncanyana, jovially called “Ncane” came to see us at our grandmother’s on
weekends. She would bring us clothes and food, and life was always great at my
grandmother’s. I remember that my siblings and I used to visit with my mother often on
weekends. My mother would sometimes jokingly remind all of us that she was the Queen
of the house, and that the King had run away. She told us he did not want to pay support
and had left her to raise all the children. At first, I could not understand why my father
would do such a thing, why he would betray his family, only to find out later that he had
passed away. I never knew much about him except that he was an educated man who
died of alcoholism.
31
Living with my grandmother was interesting indeed. I remember one scene from
my childhood as if it was yesterday. I am sitting with my grandmother as she is preparing
lunch for the two of us. Half an hour or so later she calls me to let me know that it is time
to eat. Since we are eating from the same dish, she shows me how to eat Izindlubu (beans
and corn meal combined together) using one’s hands. All was well until I decided that I
was full and let her finish all the food and I dashed off to play with my friends.
I could hear Mawe scream at the top of her lungs “Wo libamba lingashoni”
(“Make sure the sun does not go down on you”). Little did I know that I had committed a
crime and that my punishment would be decided at dinner--whether I would live or die.
At 5 years old you really do not know anything about the world or why the sun is shining,
for that matter. When I returned home after playing with my friends, my grandmother
handed me her washrag to go and wet it for her. To my surprise, I found myself
screaming and apologizing as she somehow enjoyed whipping me with the rag, from the
top of my head down to my calves. That was one lesson I learned before I even started
school--that I had to be responsible for washing my own dish.
From the time I was born until I was about 6 years old, I learned everything I
needed to learn from my grandmother, lessons that to this day surpass the lessons of
many of my school teachers. She taught all of her grandchildren how to respect their
elders. I remember the Zulu proverb she would use: “Ligotshwa lisemanzi“ (“The branch
of a tree is bent while it’s still young”). The literal meaning for this saying is: Discipline
your children while they are still young. Every once in a while the teacher in her would
surface as she would remind us that today’s children do not know how to speak properly,
32
and with respect. During my childhood, she would often say: “good children obey their
parents.”
At my grandmother’s house, there never was a dull moment. One day I felt sick,
and that was the day I vowed never to get sick again at my grandmother’s house. Visiting
my mother while sick was great because if you would cough, the next thing you knew she
would send you to the clinic to get some medication. My grandmother was the doctor of
her house; she would mix up whatever she came across in the cupboard and force you to
drink--order you to shut up and drink. She would watch you down the medication to the
last drop, and you had better not throw up, for round two was not too far behind.
Sometimes she would chop up green leaves and spinach and let it sit for days, then use it
as a drink and that she said was good for a cold. There was also her favourite medication-
-potassium pomegranate, which she called “zifo zonke,” a cure for all diseases. When I
was young I never sweated like other children; I would only sweat in my armpits and not
in the face, even when I was playing soccer in the hot sun. My grandmother would
prepare a glass of water put a few stones of potassium pormegranate into it, and order me
to drink. After that, I started sweating in the face every time I would play soccer or go for
a run with friends.
My Closest Relative
Will you still be the first

To arrive at the scene
And explain to the rest
What had just unfolded?
Why is it I have doubts
When I know you were there?
Have things gone that bad
That you build a huge wall
to keep me away from you?
Can you still recite the tales
33
That we learned when we were young

To give hope to the child
That steered him from being astray?
NEIGHBOUR, are you still my closest relative?
Family Life in Soweto
My family life in Soweto included not only relatives, but neighbours as well. The
term family depended on the context in which it was used. It should not be mistaken for
the western concept of family. At my grandmother’s house many people, relatives or not,
have stayed at that house for one reason or another. Yet, the tiny two-room house that
was located in Orlando East was by no means a house filled with luxury.
My grandmother had two children, my mother and my aunt, and both my mother
and my aunt had five children each. At one point all of the children were raised in that
two-room house. The best time was at night, right before we went to bed, and my
grandmother would tell us tales from the early 1900’s when she was growing up in
KwaZulu. These stories were told to her by her mother, who herself was told by her
mother. We would gather around in her bedroom, where my sisters and cousins slept with
my grandmother in bed. Some of the stories were so scary that I would sometimes have a
hard time sleeping because of fear that I would see the people that she talked of.
I remember she used to put old clothes under the mattress, I guess to support the
mattress, because at one point four to five people slept on that bed at the same time. The
clothes that she put under the mattress were winter clothes that we wore in the winter
time. Most of the clothes that we wore were hand-me-downs. My sisters (I say sisters,
because I did not see them as cousins but as my sisters) wore each others’ clothes because
34
their sizes were somewhat similar. My younger brother Gabi and I slept in the dining
room under the table, and my brother Perry slept on the couch, while two of my uncles
slept in the kitchen. My other sister lived in the veranda that she built for herself and her
husband. So, we were not allowed to go into the veranda. Sometimes, when it rained at
night, we could hear the sound of the rain hitting hard on the roof.
While some of my friends went to kindergarten, my brother and I stayed with my
grandmother and learned from her many Zulu teachings and traditions. She had this
hoarse voice, and liked to sing. My brother and I would sometimes sing along with her.
All this happened in the mid- 70’s. Then, in 1976, the black students in Soweto began to
lead the uprisings against the Bantu Education curricula, inadequate education facilities,
and Afrikaans as a medium of instruction. A number of factors blended together to create
a climate of revolt. These included all the elements of an inferior education system--from
the overcrowding of schools, to under qualified teachers using hopelessly inadequate and
old facilities. This period of uprising continued well into the 1980’s.
I do not remember much of the 1976 riots, but I recall my first day of school in
1978, when my cousin took me to register. I saw children my age crying as their parents
were dropping them off at school. At first, I was not sure what was happening. Then I
was put in a classroom; that is when I realized that I would never spend time again with
my grandmother in the way I used to. I was now to encounter the education system
mandated by apartheid.
35
Zithathele Lower Primary School
I went to Zithathele Lower Primary School. The school was located half a block
from my mother’s house and about seven blocks from my grandmother’s. I was one of
the few students who did not have to walk a far distance to get to school. Nevertheless, I
remember most days I would cry in the morning and refuse to go to school without my
grandmother. My sister Zinhle, who was three years older than I, would literally drag me
out of the house, for she could not afford to arrive to school late anymore because of me.
My Sub A (grade one) teacher Mrs. Mfusi was to be my teacher for the next four
years. In Sub A she taught me how to write in between the lines. Both my grandmother
and my mother had already taught me how to count from one to ten, and also to write my
name. Even in Substandard A- I knew I was already one step ahead of some of the
students in class. After school I would run home to my grandmother Mawe to let her
know about the things I did in school that day. She had a plastic bag in which she used to
36
put all her stuff, like her tobacco, handkerchief, and sweets; she gave me that every time I
had a story to tell her so I could have a reward.
There were days when I could not wait for school to end so I could go and spend
time with my grandmother. Sometimes we would make canned fruit. Mawe had a peach
tree, and she was growing corn in her yard. My younger brother Gabi and I would climb
the tree and get as many peaches as we could to give to grandmother to make canned
fruit. Some days the kids in the neighbourhood would come and steal the peaches, until
one day my grandmother came up with a plan. It was right after we had came back from
school. The kids were playing outside when my grandmother grabbed a bucket full of
water and a broom, and started to sprinkle the tree with a bucket of water and a broom.
That was the day the children in the neighbouhood decided to stop stealing the peaches,
for there was this belief that people who ate the peaches after they saw what my
grandmother did would die. This did not bother me because I knew granny was not a
witch.
Until I made friends, most days I would drag my feet to school. One friend in
particular--his name was Bayanda Gamede-who for some strange reason became my
partner in crime. Here’s how. There was a girl in class whose parents had a couple of
grocery stores, and since a poor lunch was provided at school she always brought a
cheese and bologna sandwich, a banana, and yoghurt. Well, let me just say her, lunch box
was a luxury that most students could never afford, and looking back at the peanut butter
sandwich and phuzamandla ( powder milk) that we were getting for lunch, we thought
something had to be done. In Sub A, our desks were arranged in such a way that four to
five students would sit at one long desk. There were four rows of desks arranged
37
vertically, and about six rows arranged horizontally. Each class would have about forty to
fifty students depending on the number of students enrolled that year. Mrs. Mfusi often
made us take naps in class when she would go outside to get some fresh air.
One day Bayanda and I reached into this girl’s lunch box and took her sandwich
which we shared before lunch, right before we stood in a line to get our daily peanut
butter sandwich and phuzamandla (Powder milk). Smanga, the Bully of the class saw us
eating the sandwich and made us share with him. He threatened to tell on us. We gave
him the whole sandwich, with the hopes that he was going to share with us, and he just
took off. Smanga was very strange, he just enjoyed bullying other children for no reason
at all. On Fridays, in particular, Smanga would make sure that he sent two students home
crying; he would just wait for the bell to ring and smack a student, then take off running.
Yet, even though he was a bully in class, we somehow got along. Maybe it’s because he
only lived five houses from my grandmother’s house.
I remember some of the poems that we used to recite in class, and they went like
this.
NOMATHEMBA
We nomathemba “Hey Nomathemaba,
Ushaywe ubani who beat you up?”
Ileya ndoda “It is that man.”
Ibize ize lapha “Call him to come here.”
Cha ngiyencena “No, I am scared.
ayehla amodolo My knees are shaking
abheke nzansi.
38
Siziznyoni
Sizinyoni thina We are birds
Sizinyoni We are birds
Siyahlala We sit
Siyasuka We move
Sizinyoni We are birds.
Ikomishi
Mina ngikomishi I am a cup
Lo umlomo This is my mouth
Lesi isivalo This is my lid
Mina ngiyathela. I get to pour
For some reason, I was so good at reciting these poems, despite my stammering,
that my teacher gave me the responsibility to ring the bell at lunch and also after school.
I felt so special, and I was envied by the other students.
After a while, the school decided to stop feeding us at lunch, and we had to bring
money to school to buy ikota (a quarter of a loaf of bread with potatoes, archar, and
minced meat). Lunch became the best time at school, and for the next four years I began
liking school and did not cry in the morning when I left my grandmother’s house. After
we graduated from standard two (grade four), we all went to Higher Primary School. I
39
remember waving goodbye to Mrs. Mfusi, as I went off to Emthonjeni Higher Primary
School.
Emthonjeni Higher Primary School
Emthonjeni was one of those schools that every parent wanted their children to
attend. Some students walked up to 5 miles to come to school, while others came by
public transportation. If I were to describe the school in one sentence, I would say: “the
place where discipline was enforced to its ultimate.” The school was located just one
block from the famous Orlando Stadium (see map) and about a block and a half from
Mlamlankunzi train station. The school overlooked Orlando West, Mzimhlophe, and
Killarney. Next door to Emthonjeni were two famous High Schools, Orlando High
School and Selelekela Secondary School. I later attended Selelekela Secondary School.
There were four stores that we frequented at lunch: Sizanani, Hamisi, Mtungwa,
and Bhaza Bhaza. Each of these stores specialized in either amagwinya (fat cakes), fish
and chips and ikota (a quarter of bread with potatoes, archar, and minced meat). At
40
school we also had ladies who sold food to the students. Sis Prinkosi and Sis Busi were
two famous ladies who competed to see who had the best tatazela ( chicken fat) and
amanqina enkuku (chicken legs). We as students would literally push each other and
sometimes fight over tatazela. It only cost 5 cents, but sometimes coming up with that
money was a challenge.
Emthonjeni was where I learned not only to respect teachers, but to fear them as
well. The teacher was the ruler and the students were not supposed to question his or her
authority. As good as the school was, and as wonderful as the teachers were, they also
made a lot of students fear school. There was this teacher by the name of Mr. Ngcobo,
whom we all feared. He did not have to say much, but his voice alone was enough to
make a student tremble and sometimes cry. He was the vice-principal of the school, and
he also taught mathematics. I remember on Wednesdays after lunch, all the boys in the
school would clean the yard while the girls were learning how to sew.
My friends and I decided that we were going to skip school that day and go to the
train station to catch the train; we liked to switch from one station to the other. Some
students told on us, and when we came back to mingle with the rest of the students, we
were called to the office. Mr. Ngcobo beat me harder than the other guilty students
because he knew my parents and wanted to prove his authority.
Another incident happened in standard three during choir rehearsal. Mrs.
Makolota, my Afrikaans and music teacher, was another no nonsense person. Our school
was known for winning all the choir competitions since Mrs. Makolota was also a
member of a famous choir in Soweto: Imilonji kantu. We were expected to win, whether
we liked it or not. One day my friends and I went for rehearsal, and a friend Jabu sang in
41
this voice that was not what Mrs. Makolota was looking for. She told us to sing Do re mi
fa so la thi, la so la miredo.
My friend Jabu’s voice annoyed the teacher so much that she beat him up with a
stick and then asked who his friends were. Of course, I was one of the friends. She beat
all of us and told us that the choir was not where we belonged. In as much as the other
children were afraid of our teacher, they all laughed at us, and we left the room all crying.
I guess some people take the phrase “birds of a fearther flock together” too seriously.
Then there was Mrs. Mbatha, my Geography and Bible Studies teacher. She used to call
all her students “unonofatshi isismaku sikaMrs” which translates to “White people’s little
puppies kept inside as house pets” or she would call us “isimushela” which to this day I
still do not know what it means. Every time she would ask a question and you failed to
answer, she would grab you by your cheeks, pick you up from the desk, then squeeze
your cheeks and let go of you. Talk about pain! Then there was “Mam” Mrs. Ndlovu she
was an old lady in her late sixties or early seventies. She sometimes reminded me of my
grandmother. If one did not know better, one would think they were sisters. She used to
tell us to touch our toes whenever we did not get an arithmetic problem right, and whip
our behinds with a stick. She used to say “Mfana” (Boy) touch your toes.” Apart from all
those beatings, I did make a lot of friends at Emthonjeni. Little did we know that our
teachers were preparing us for high school. As strange as it sounds, we were highly
disciplined by the time we got to high school. The best part about high school education
was that I learned woodworking and welding; while other students learned bricklaying,
and the girls learned how to sew. Even in Higher Primary School, I was business-
minded, and I sometimes learned how to make my own money without depending on my
42
mother and my grandmother. I would go to Orlando Stadium to sell small items or do
small jobs, like other boys in the neihgbourhood.
Orlando Stadium
One advantage for my friends and I was that we lived not too far from the famous
Orlando Stadium. Sometimes we would guard the cars that came to the stadium and get
paid after the game. That way we always had money to afford amanqina enkuku
netatazela (Chicken legs, and chicken fat). It was a hassle to guard cars because there
were bullies who would come and chase us away so they could claim the money from the
owners of the cars when they came back from watching the game. I remember one guy in
particular—Valdez (that was his nickname). To this day I still do not know his real name.
Valdez made life difficult for all of us. Valdez and his boys would ignore as the game
started and we ran around directing people where to park their cars. Valdez would arrive
immediately before the game was over and threaten us, telling us to leave or he would
beat us up.
Eventually, I realized that this kind of situation would not get me anywhere. I was
getting tired of working for other people. I later decided that I was going to shine shoes. I
had my own cloth, and I would shine peoples’ shoes as they stood in line to go to the
stadium. Some people were very nice, and they would tip us 10 cents here, 5 cents there;
43
the next thing you knew you would have enough money to buy yourself tatazela on
Monday. However, I shined shoes for one man, and when I was hoping to get paid, he
just looked at me. He told me that he had not asked me to shine his shoes; hence, he
would not pay me.
Since we could never afford to go to the stadium to watch the games, my friends
Darky, Penwell, Bibi, David, Louis, and Paul would sometimes wait for soccer players to
arrive at the stadium so we could carry their bags. That way we were guaranteed to get
into the stadium to watch the game. The only disadvantage was that every teenager
wanted to do that, and it became difficult for us to win out all the time. We had to come
up with a plan. We decided to stand right next to the gates and shout to people to come
and use the gate we were standing by. That way, right before the game started, the person
collecting money at the gate would feel sorry for us and let us in. I remember shouting at
the top of my lungs to impress the gate keeper “Ayi Ngena ngapha, ayi ngena ngapha”
(use our entrance, use our entrance) two rand empty gate. We shouted that the gate is
empty, yet the line was almost a mile long.
One day my friend Penwell and I decided that we were not going to do this
screaming and shouting job anymore in order to get into the stadium. We decided that we
were going to start selling apples and oranges and peanuts at the stadium. We would take
the train to Kliptown, to the Indian market and buy the food we needed to sell. I would
ask my mother for money to buy the food. The agreement was that I would pay her back,
and keep the profits.

44
The Orlando Pirates Fanatics
I remember the Orlando Pirates fans. They were so cruel that if you were not a
supporter of their team and you happened to sit in their section, you would be asking for
trouble.
One day the Orlando Pirates were playing the Kaizer Chiefs, their rivals. A young
man in his early twenties was also selling apples and peanuts at the stadium; he was
wearing a Kaizer Chiefs T-shirt, and he happened to be selling in the Orlando Pirates
section. The grandstands were arranged in such a way that the sellers could not walk from
row to row to sell, so we would stand right at the bottom of the grandstand and give
people passing by the food we were selling, to give to whomever was buying. Most of the
time the person would be right at the top of the grandstand. We would sometimes throw
an apple and hope the person would catch it; in return, and in return he would throw the
money down to us.
One fellow kept throwing apples to people in the grandstands, and they kept
asking for more. He realized later that the people were not throwing money to him, and
the whole crowd started laughing and cheering and thanking him for his generosity. He
learned that day not to wear T-shirt like that when selling.
The Orlando Pirates fans were so cruel that one day when the Pirates were playing
the Moroka Swallows, and the stadium was so packed that one Swallows fan sat with the
Pirates fans. Even though he was not wearing a Swallows T-shirt, he made it so clear that
he was not a pirates fan; he kept jumping and celebrating every time his team scored. It
did not take long before I saw the man roll down from the top of the grandstand and hit
45
the ground. People were kicking and punching him, as if he was simply nothing. The
fellow must have lost his teeth that day.

46
CHAPTER 5
COMING TO AMERICA
A Difficult Beginning
In January, 1992, my mother came home and told me the news that there
was a possibility I might go to the United States to study. “The United States,” I say,
shaking my head in disbelief as I grab my sports bag, heading out the door to soccer
practice. Later that evening, I came back from practice all sweaty and tired, and my
mother insisted that I sit down. I realized that my mother was not joking as she told me
the news. I started jumping up and down, and I gave my mother a big hug. She told me it
would be nice if I took a bath. I decided to go tell my grandmother the good news, only to
find out that my mother had already done so.
I remember talking to my grandmother Mantshingila. I told her that as much as I
was happy about going to the U.S I was not happy about leaving her in South Africa, and
I began having second thoughts. We talked for a while, and in the process she started
yelling at me, telling me to study hard and not play around when I got to the United
States, to become the lawyer that I aspired to be. I know that she did not approve of me
wanting to become a lawyer, for she would say all lawyers are bad people, and they are
all going to hell. I kept telling my grandmother that I worried a lot about her, and she told
me jokingly not to worry, for she would be dead by the time I came back from the U.S.
We all laugh about it.

47
A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, I was sitting at home with a friend drinking soda,
and my younger sister Simphiwe came home running and told me that my grandmother
had passed away. She looked at me, and she started crying. I nearly jumped out of my
skin as I told my friend I had to go to my grandmother’s house to see for myself. I ran
so hard you would swear I was being chased by a lion. My whole life seemed to have
come to a halt, for I could not believe the news. When I arrived, I saw my grandmother
lying in her bed as if she would wake up and ask me to cut her hair. For some reason
she would not allow any of her grandchildren to cut her hair, except for me. Some
neighbours were already at the house, and it happened that my mother had come to
spend time with my grandmother, as she did every weekend.
In the course of one week, I went from being the happiest young man, to being the
saddest person you could ever imagine. My mother and I looked at each other, and she
and everyone in the house started crying. I must have been the only person in the house
who did not even shed a tear. About two hours or so later the people from the funeral
home came and took the body. I watched them put her body in the back of a mini bus,
and that was when I started crying, for I knew I would never see my grandmother, my
love, anymore.
On the day of the funeral, a family friend handed me a form and told me it was
my scholarship form. All I needed to do was to fill out the form and give it back to him. I
did as I was told, and I waited for the results. In the meantime, I decided I was not going
to tell friends until I was accepted. Four months later, I got my letter of acceptance. I
remember my mother saying to me, “My son is going to a university to study law.” I
really liked the sound of it.

48
I looked at the clock and noticed it was the time my friends had told me they
would come to see me. I sat and waited as they arrived one by one; they had bought me a
suitcase and other gifts the day before. My mother was preparing dinner for all of us to
eat, and I noticed that I had forgotten to say my goodbyes to one special friend, whom I
had known throughout high school. I asked my mother if I could rush to her place; she
refused to let me go and told me I could always go in the morning. After we finished
eating, my friends talked about this huge journey I was about to undertake. We promised
each other that we would be friends forever and that we would stay in touch. They all
left, only to come back in the morning to see me off at the airport.
In the morning I thought I was dreaming, and I pinched myself to make sure this
was not fiction, but reality. A few hours later, my whole family decided to have a family
meeting, and my mother and uncle gave me a last- minute talk about the do’s and don’ts
of the world. The last thing my mother gave me right before I took off was – a Bible King
James Version as she told me that I should be careful because I was going to a land where
“people eat sins with forks and knives.” I decided to ride in a separate car, and my family
and friends followed behind. We arrived at the airport around 10:30 am to catch the
1:00pm flight. There were four other people I was going to the United States with. We all
arrived at the airport at the same time.
All was well, until I noticed that my parents were not among the people who had
arrived on time. I watched other children hugging their parents and taking pictures, and I
wondered what had happened to my family. I looked at my friends and my cousins and
gave them hugs as I was going down the escalators to board the flight. Tears started
flowing from my eyes, for I did not get the chance to say goodbye to Mama. I kept
49
looking back with the hopes that I would see my family. I was the last person to board the
airplane, as I was waving everybody goodbye from afar.
We were told to fasten our seatbelts and to adjust our seat, as the flight was about
to take off. I was told later that my parents had arrived at the airport too late. My mother
was crying tears because I left without her kiss goodbye. Well, what happened was the
car they were driving broke down on the road, and they had to start walking until one
gentleman stopped and offered to take them to the airport. Meanwhile, my flight was
uneventful. We arrived at J.F.K. airport, New York City 23 hours later, after making a
stop in Rio De Janero, in Brazil. The first thing that hit me was that I was going to have
to drive on the wrong side of the road. We crossed the street to look for the bus to Port
Authority; then were off to Cape May, New Jersey. An old man in his 60’s came running
up to us and offered to take us to our destination. We all looked at each other and started
putting our bags in his mini van. Little did we know that the trip we were about to take
was 4 hours from the airport. Even our driver did not know where Cape May, New Jersey
was, for he started asking people for directions even before we began our trip. We arrived
in beautiful Cape May on a Saturday afternoon. We kept asking people for Shelton
College, until a man by the name of Woody, whom became a best friend later, took us to
the school.
We all looked at each other, and I remember asking where the college was, and I
was told I was already on the campus premises. My mouth just dropped, as I pinched
myself again to make sure I was not dreaming. I looked at this college, which was the
same size as a kindergarten, or the size of any post office you could possibly think of. At
first, I thought they had taken us to the offices to meet with the dean, or somebody in the
50
administration. I remember asking where the law school was, and the answer I got was:
“This is a Bible college.” I am telling you, misfortunes follow one after the other. First,
the taxi driver asked for $700 of our money, of which he ended up taking $500 for
himself. Between the expensive taxi and the view of a tiny college, my hopes for a better
future were shattered.
On Monday we went back to campus and met with the dean and the president of
the school. The dean was from India, and the president was the son of a founding member
of the school. We were handed over papers to sign and told that we would start working
for them at the hotel they owned. We had arrived in May, and school did not start until
September. What surprised me most was that the school had 13 students, all of whom
were international students. I worked as a room cleaner, and I also cut grass at the school.
This was not the college life I had been planning on, at all.
Struggling to Survive
One day in July, the dean of the school asked if I knew how to paint, and then he
ordered me to wash and paint the bus that had been abandoned for years. When I asked
him how old the bus was, he himself did not know. There were spider webs everywhere
and all kinds of insects and rats living in that bus. I cleaned and spray-painted that bus. A
few weeks later, the bus was on the road. It was used to transporting the senior citizens
who frequented our Bible College. I was putting in 14-15 hours a day working at the
hotel, and I also got another job as a bus boy in one of the night clubs in town.
One day I met a lady by the name of Denise. During our conversation I mentioned
to her that I did not want to go to a Bible college and become a priest, for I knew being a
priest was not my calling. She told me about a community college in Atlantic City, at
51
which her son Charlie had been accepted in Culinary School. One day, on my day off, I
woke up early in the morning and boarded the bus to find out more about the school.
Later in the week, I met with Denise, and I asked her if she could be my sponsor. I
explained that all she had to do was to sign the papers, and I would pay the fees myself.
She told me she would think about it, and in the meantime, I worked like a mule to save
money.
Eventually, I drafted a letter to both the Dean and the President of the school that
went like this:
Dear Sirs:
When I was in Africa I applied to your institution to study law. I was shocked to
find out that I was coming to become a priest. Therefore, I will not be able to
attend your institution, and I would appreciate it if you would reimburse the
money my mother paid for me to come to this school.
Sincerely,
Bheki P. Zungu
The very next day I was called to the office, and the dean reminded me that they
brought me to this country, and that I should be grateful for that. They told me that I
should take into consideration that I worked under their umbrella and that if I did not
continue working for them they were going to notify Immigration, and that I would be
deported. I spoke with the students whom I came to this country with, and some other
Africans who had arrived before us, to let them know about what I had decided. Most of
them told me that I had made a stupid move. Since we all came on a B-Visa (visitors’
visa), I should have known that we had been deceived by the people who were running
52
the school. We had to apply to Immigration for change of status. So, I kept checking my
mailbox for my letter from immigration. As luck would have it, I was the first one to
receive a letter, and my status had been changed from a Visitors’ visa to an FI-Visa
(student visa). As a result, the government found out that the school was not accredited
and decided to shut it down.
I went back to the dean and demanded my money, and he basically told me that I
was not going to get my money. Half an hour later I went to the nearest convenience
store, to use the phone. I called the dean, letting him know that I had just spoken with my
lawyer, who had just informed me to ring the dean and demand my money. He told me to
come see him the next day, which I did. Both the dean and the President gave me my
money, and asked me not to tell the rest of the students. That is when I realized that this
whole thing was a scam. So, I decided to tell the rest of the students who flocked to the
dean’s office to demand their money. I reminded all the other students as they were going
to school to demand their money that I was still on my own, and that the move they were
now making was not unwise. They all looked at each other and said nothing in return.
Well, no one but myself and one other girl was reimbursed by the school, and the next
thing we knew the school was no more.
I left the hotel and got a job as a dishwasher in a nearby restaurant. Denise,
eventually, agreed to sign the papers for me, and that is how I ended up at a community
college. I worked hard my first semester, and I was offered a job on campus as a
computer lab aid. The following semester, in the spring things got difficult, since Charlie,
Denise’s son who used to bring me to school, moved to live with friends around the
campus area. He was in Culinary School, and sometimes he would have to go to school
53
around six in the morning. So, his move to May’s Landing was understandable. It used
to take us 45 minutes by car to get to school; the college was 12 miles west of Atlantic
City, and about 48 miles north of Cape May.
In that semester I signed up for a course in cultural anthropology. It was my
teacher, who was my advisor, who suggested that I take the course. The course was at
8:00 am, and coming from Cape May without a ride meant I had to take the 3:35am bus,
which took almost two hours to get to Atlantic City. Then, I waited an hour for another
bus that would get me to school at 7:50 am to attend the 8:00am class. Once in a while I
arrived at school to find a note that the class was cancelled. After class I would usually go
and sleep on the couch in the Student Center, and wait for my 3:00 pm class that would
last until 4:15pm. I usually got home around 10:00 pm in the evening.
Life got so bad in those days that I, together with some of the other African
students, decided that we would visit high schools around the area and dance for the
students, so we could make money to pay the rent. I remember calling my mother in
South Africa and requesting that she send me my Zulu warrior clothes that we used to
wear to dance for the children in Elementary schools and high schools in order to make
money. Our performance was so great that we danced in a few schools in the area.
Cape May is a summer seasonal place, so in the winter there were no jobs, and I
used to go house to house’s and shovel snow in order to make a living. My friends and I
would even go to grocery stores to steal food. We would wear big overcoats, and by the
time we left the grocery store we had food that would last us for the next two days. I
became a specialist in stealing bread and toiletries, not to mention school books from the
54
bookstore, while others specialized in stealing meat and other things we needed in the
house.
After some time my friends and I decided to split up and we went our separate
ways. Some went down South--to Atlanta, in search of a better life, while others moved
to Philadelphia. I, on the other hand, decided to stay in Cape May. I found myself
homeless in the winter of 1993, sleeping under the boardwalk. It was so cold that at one
point I thought my humorous bones were going to crack into two pieces, so I decided to
go into a public bathroom, where I found a little warmth until the next day. I remember
asking myself, “Why did I come to the United States, the so-called Land of
Opportunity?” As much as the situation in South Africa was not stable politically, I never
went to bed hungry there, let alone had to sleep in a bathroom.
Nevertheless, in the Spring of 1995, I managed to graduate with an Associate
Degree in Pre-Law. I remember they called my name in front of thousands of people —
believe- me, when I tell you that there is no feeling like it. I worked hard that summer,
and in the fall of the same year, I enrolled at Richard Stockton College of New Jersey,
where I majored in Political Science. By that time, I had bought myself a car for $1000
from an elderly lady in Cape May. I had borrowed money from my boss, and he would
deduct from my paycheck every week.
I held three jobs then. At one job, I worked in the Fish Market at the Lobster
House. I would start at 4:00 am in the morning; we used to make thousands of crab cakes
and put them in the pastry tray, and we also de-veined boxes and boxes of shrimp, and all
kinds of fish for the market. I always smelled like fish. I also worked as a dishwasher,
and my boss, knowing I worked in the fish market, would ask me to clean seafood for his
55
own restaurant. One day as I was cleaning the scallops and the shrimp, he asked me to
stop what I was doing, and go to the store to buy orange juice and milk for him. It was in
the summertime; the sun was hot and people were enjoying themselves at the beach. I
was standing in line, and as I was about to pay, the cashier at the store said to me in a
loud voice: “You smell like fish.” I was compelled to reply with a “fuck you,” but I felt
bad for cursing at her. I was disappointed that my hard work was looked down on.
There are still good memories, however, I remember my first ride to school on
the Garden State Parkway going North towards Atlantic City. My car was a 1984
Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. For the first time, I had something that I could call mine.
Sometimes in the middle of a lecture, I would step outside as if I was going to the
bathroom, just to check to see if my car was still there. It was not that people would steal
my car, but it was nice to see it parked in the school parking lot. I moved to Ocean City,
New Jersey, where I boarded with a wonderful lady by the name of Jane Hill. I met Jane
through a gentleman who worked in the administration office at the college. Finally, I
found happiness in my life, even though I was far away from home. There were four of
us living in the house with Jane: Charlie, Debbie, Marta, and myself. Debbie and Marta
were Downs-syndromes, and they were in their mid-to-late 40’s. Charlie was somewhere
in his late 40’s to early fifties. Jane was in her seventies, if I am not mistaken. I would
come back from school to a warm house; I had my own room, and life could not be any
better.
While I was still a student at Stockton, I got a job working for the Dean of
General Studies. I got that job through my professor, who also helped me get a job
pumping gas. One day, as I was pumping gas, I noticed that my boss was friends with a
56
gentleman who was the owner of a limousine company. He used to get gas from the
station before he would drive down to the casinos in Atlantic City. A few months later,
my boss told me that I was too smart to pump gas, and he asked me If I’d like it if he
talked to Mike, the owner of a limousine company, about working for him. I remember
Mike asking me if I had driven limousines or a taxi cab before. I told Mike that I used to
drive for my employer’s mother. When I lived in Cape May, I had worked at this Bed and
Breakfast as a cleaner, and one day the owner asked me if I could drive her mother to the
hospital for dialysis, and to take her to the grocery store and to her eye doctor in Avalon,
New Jersey, every now and then. So, I had some experience.
I drove the lady around and cleaned her house doing many chores from changing
her bed sheets to cleaning the bathroom. Some guys on the streets would make fun of me,
saying that I was driving ‘Miss Daisy.’ The fun part would be at the grocery store. I
would open the door for Jane, and she would put her arm around mine, and I am pretty
sure people were asking themselves: “What is this young man doing with an old lady?”
Mike laughed at me as I was telling the story, and I was hired right then. A week later he
helped me get a Commercial Drivers License (CDL), and I took a driving test, which I
passed on the spot. My first day as a driver was interesting. Mike and I had to drive for a
wedding party. I was so afraid to drive that huge car at first, and Mike kept on pulling to
the side every mile or so, waiting for me. If one did not know, one would think that I was
driving on my own, with a separate group of people. Eventually, I caught up with him. It
was not long before I learned the corners of New York City, from Staten Island to
Chinatown, all the way to Manhattan.

57
Let me just say, being a limousine driver, you get to see a lot while you are
driving. Most of the time I would bring my school work to my job, because sometimes I
would get a run from the Casinos in Atlantic City to New York or Washington D.C. I
used that time to do my homework. One night, I night while driving people to Virginia,
on my way back I hit a deer and smashed the side light of the car. That incident would
not have happened if it were not for the car behind me, which was tailgating. These
occasions are inevitable, it seems.
A worse incident was when I picked up a drunk fellow at the Atlantic City
Convention Center, driving him to Teaneck, New Jersey. I should have known that this
man was problematic when I picked him up, because the front desk manager at the
Convention Center told me he was an “ass hole” and that I should get him out of there.
Fifteen minutes into the journey I had to call my boss because I could not take the verbal
abuse from this man. At one point, he attacked me from behind as I was driving, insisting
that I take him back to Atlantic City. I swerved the car, nearly hitting the car in front of
me. Two miles ahead on the Garden State Parkway I pulled into one of those little
Parkway police stations. As I was getting out of the car, the drunk passenger attacked me
again, but I managed to push him to the ground. I called my boss, who ordered me to
notify the police, while at the same time he called the Convention Center and reported the
man. My boss called me back and informed me that the management at the Convention
Center had kicked the man out for disturbing the guests who came to the Miss America
Pageant.
In a matter of five minutes, the Garden State Parkway police arrived, and as I was
explaining the situation to them, the passenger told the police officer that the officer was
58
a “piece of shit” and that his job “stinks” because it capitalizes on other people’s
mistakes. The man verbally abused the officer. The next thing I knew, the man was in the
back seat of the police car, and now there were two other police cars. I asked the police
what to do now, and I was told to go back to Atlantic City, that they were going to take
care of the man. As I was about to leave, the police asked me if I wanted to come to court
on Monday. When I explained that I was attending school during the week, they would
take care of the rest. An officer handed me my drivers license, and I took off.
Another incident happened in Queens, New York, when I was told to pick up
people who were going to Janet Jackson’s concert at the Taj Mahal. I arrived in Queens
on time, and I decided to call the people to let them know that I was in the neighborhood;
all I wanted was for them to give me directions to the house. The lady told me that they
were still getting ready, and she gave me the directions. They kept me waiting outside,
and they called friends from all parts of the area to come see that they were being
chauffeured.
By the time they got in the car, I thought I was now to drive them to Atlantic City,
only to find that we had to pick up more people in the Bronx, who by the way, were still
getting ready. We arrived late at the concert, and I basically did not get a good tip from
driving those people, not at all. They all blamed me for almost missing the show. I
reminded them that I was not driving a helicopter, that I was driving a car, and that they
had themselves to blame. Of course, I was angry because I did not get a good tip from
that run, and tips were significant pay for these jobs.
I lived with Jane Hill until I had the opportunity to do an internship when I was a
student at Stockton with the Environmental Protection Agency in Washington, D.C. I

59
learned a lot from that experience, and I met and made friends with many people. I came
back at the end of the semester to graduate with a Bachelor’s Degree in Political Science.
It was wonderful because my mother came for my graduation. I had already brought my
younger brother over in 1995, when I graduated the first time. At the time my brother was
a student in a Community College that I attended before I went to Stockton State College.
It was wonderful to see Mama at the airport in New York City. We hugged and
kissed, and cried together, then we all went back to Cape May, New Jersey, where I had
rented a house for a month. We stayed with Mama, and we were joined by my mother’s
friend who was now living in Atlanta, who also came for my graduation. A month later
my Mama went back to South Africa. Just before she went back home, I remember
driving my mother around in Camden on our way to North East Philadelphia, showing
her the area, and she looked at me, shaking her head in disbelief, and I asked mama what
was wrong. She looked at me and she said, “You know son I think I am better off in my
house in South Africa.” When I told her that there were people living in some of those
abandoned houses, she could not believe that she was in the United States.
Changing directions
In 1998, I was visiting with friends in West Philadelphia when a friend mentioned
to us that he was thinking of going back home to South Africa. He had been living in the
United States for twelve or so years. He mentioned to us that the University of
Pennsylvania would be looking for a Zulu language instructor, and he wanted to know if
anyone of us would be interested in the job. At the time, I had been out of school for a
year. A week or so later, I had an interview with the people at the university who told me
that as much as they were impressed with my knowledge of the subject and the culture, I
60
had to compete with other people for the job. However, it did not take long before I got a
call back from the school, and I was offered the job teaching IsiZulu language.
The challenge I had to face then was that I had never taught college before in my
life. Nevertheless, I tried to reassure myself by reminding myself that I would be teaching
a language different from English, one I knew well. Still, I was intimidated by the fact
that I was teaching at one of the most prestigious schools in the country. “Why me?” I
asked myself. “Why not me?” I quickly responded. I realized that it was not by luck that I
had gotten this job; I had earned the job since I had had to compete for it. Well, let me
say, that one learns a lot by having to teach. I struggled at first, like a child learning to
ride a bike, yet one day I found myself comfortable with the material I was teaching.
I taught at the university for a semester, and then the language coordinator
mentioned to me that she had told the people at The University of Georgia that I was
doing a good job with teaching the Zulu language for them. It happened that the
University of Georgia was looking for a language instructor. It did not take long before I
got a call, followed by a fax from the University of Georgia wanting to find out if I would
be willing to teach for them. At first, I was caught on the horns of a dilemma; I did not
know what to do, whether to stay at the University of Pennsylvania or go to Georgia. The
University of Georgia promised to pay for my graduate education if I opted to take the
job, while the University of Pennsylvania decided that they could only pay 50% of my
tuition, and I would have to pay the rest out of my own pocket. I remember discussing
this matter with the language coordinator at the university, who basically gave me the
green light to go. She told me to go to Georgia, since they were offering to pay for my
education.
61
I took the job in Georgia, and I arrived in January of 1999, two days before school
started. I realized then that the Department of African Studies, together with Comparative
Literature, had offered the course for that semester, without having someone to teach it. I
was introduced to the faculty as an IsiZulu teaching assistant. Since no one had taught the
course before, I had to come up with a new syllabus. Also, I had to advertise the course,
just to get enough students to register. Within a week, five students had already enrolled
in the program. When I asked my students why they wanted to learn the Zulu language,
they told me they were overjoyed at learning a language other than Spanish or French and
relieved at not taking a language as demanding as Japanese or Korean, with their difficult
writing systems and a completely different pronunciation base. Those were some of the
answers I got.
One student made a statement that has stuck with me for a long time. He said, “I
am studying IsiZulu, a language that is diametrically opposed to my native tongue, in the
very building used to house the study of English, but I am loving it.” The students
showed so much interest in learning the language that they ended up telling their friends
about the course. What fascinated the students most about this language is that it is a
‘click’ language; some students would bring bottles of water to class, for they said they
needed to wet their throats and tongues in order for them to master the clicks. Believe me,
that is one technique I never thought I had to teach them.
In the spring of 1999, I only taught IsiZulu; I never got a chance to take classes
myself. As a result, I was not paid for the whole semester, and I had to get a job at a
country club in town. The reason I did not get paid was that I had to apply to graduate
school, wait to be accepted, and then start the semester in the fall, just like all the other
62
students. Since I was not on the school’s computer system there is no way I could have
been paid. So, I worked at the country club and was able to pay the rent and put food in
my stomach. It was sad because here I was doing a wonderful job teaching, yet I was not
being paid. At the end of the semester I went back to Cape May, New Jersey, where I
worked for the summer, then came back in the fall semester to start graduate school.
The arrangement with the university was that they would pay tuition, and I would
teach for them. Along the way, I was required to maintain a certain GPA and take a full
load of courses. As bills were piling up, I had to look for another job. I took a job as a
security guard in one of the hotels in town. I would teach two Zulu courses in the
morning and attend classes for myself in the afternoon. Then, I would go home around
6:30 pm to take a nap; I worked at the hotel from 10:00pm to 6:00 am. I thought that with
an assistantship things would be better; Yet, all the school did was to pay for tuition, and
a $900 stipend every month. I was forced to work off campus in order to pay for rent and
utilities.
In the summer of 2001 I never got the chance to go to Cape May to work since I
had to take summer classes, and working at the hotel meant I had to cut my school hours
to 15 hours a week. At one point I wanted to just leave school and go to Cape May and
suffer the results when I came back, but I was reminded that my GPA would be affected
and that would mean losing my assistantship. In the fall of 2001 I found myself teaching
three Zulu courses, plus my own school work. It was hard to balance work off campus
and graduate classes; another challenge, also, was doing course work as a bilingual
student. I did, however, get encouragement from friends and professors.

63
Despite all the obstacles, it is with a sense of wonder that I am finishing writing
my thesis. Lessons learned on my journey to the Unites States, my early experiences in
the U.S, and finally at the University of Georgia will forever make me cautious when
making decisions. Chapter Five indicates how the above factors have culminated in my
overcoming obstacles, and insurmountable situations and conditions both in South Africa
and America. I reflect there on how every experience can be considered in context and
then can lead to a more global understanding of events and their potential benefits.
64
CHAPTER 6
CONCLUSION
Education for Exploitation
Through these stories of my experiences in different education systems there are
forms of schooling that has shaped me as a person: (1) Education for Exploitation (2)
Education for Liberation, and Liberation for Education (3) Education for Assimilation (4)
Education for Personal Growth.
The Bantu Education Act of 1953 is a perfect example of education for
exploitation. It was not until after its implementation that the education system in South
Africa was divided into four parts. There was education for Whites, Coloureds, Indians,
and Blacks. This separation downgraded the quality of education for blacks. According to
a statement made by Dr. Verwoed in 1953 when he was minister of Native affairs,
“The general aims of Bantu Education Act are to transform

education for Natives into Bantu Education. A Bantu people must obtain
knowledge, skills and attitudes which will be useful and advantageous to
him and at the same time beneficial to his community. The school must
equip him to meet the demands which the economic life in South Africa
will impose on him. There is no place for him (the Bantu) in the European
community above the level of certain forms of labour. For that reason it is
of no avail for him to receive a training which has its aim absorption in the
European community. Until now he has been subject to a school system
which drew him away from his own community and misled him by
showing him the green pastures of European society in which he is not
allowed to graze.” (Bunting, no date available). Verwoerd even went
further and said, “When I have control over Native Education, I will
reform it so that natives will be taught from childhood that equality with
Europeans is not for them.” (Christie, 1985).
65
Even J.L. Le Roux, 1945, a National Party politician once said, “We should not
give the Natives any academic education. If we do, who is going to do the manual labour
in the community?” (Christie,1985). The former National Party government made sure
that they administered the system in such a way that it was difficult to even graduate from
high school, let alone go to tertiary institutions. Another important factor is that no
historically black institutions offered engineering or any science majors. Apartheid was
structured in such a way that insured that people were not going to make it through
education.
Education for Liberation , Liberation for Education.
Black students in South Africa decided that they were going to take to the streets
and protest against apartheid education. This, of course, with the Soweto riots in 1976,
when students led uprisings against Bantu Education facilities, and against Afrikaans as a
medium of instruction. I vividly remember mid-eighties to 1991, when I was in high
school in Soweto. At this time different student organizations such as the Azanian
Student Movement (AZASM), used the slogan ‘Education Before Liberation’ and later
‘Liberation Before Education’. We students threw stones against the Department of
Education (responsible for Black Education) because black students were tired of being
educated for failure. In the era of the 70’s and 80’s there were more high school drop-
outs than in any other era in the history of black education in South Africa; the annual
percent pass rate was less than 40%.
The Black Consciousness Movement of Azania (BCMA) pushed for ‘Education
before Liberation’; they believed that without education it would be difficult for blacks to
run the country. ‘Liberation before Education’ reflected on the sense that changes were
66
not occurring as rapidly as they should. Many students were going to jail, and a state of
emergency was in effect. The ‘Liberation Before Education’ movement coincided with
the international sanctions against South Africa, with people losing their jobs and with
students going into exile.
Education for Assimilation
We become assimilated when we become de-sensitized to our capacity for social
change. Assimilation can either be successful, or it can fail. In 1987, my mother
responded to the education crisis by deciding to send my brother, my sister, and myself to
a boarding school in KwaNdebele, in the countryside. She was afraid that the children of
Soweto would not sit for their exams again; the previous year we all had to repeat our
standard grade because of the ‘Pass One, Pass All’ movement. In the boarding schools
the students of Soweto encountered assimilation; there, we were not allowed to challenge
the status quo of apartheid.
KwaNdebele was a homeland state; the government approved of homeland
schools because they maintained stable education. Due to the large contingent of students
coming from outside the homelands, the government started refusing to admit them,
fearing that they would go on strike. In my case, I refused to assimilate; hence, I
eventually ended up going back to my former high school in Soweto. My boarding school
was comprised of black students only, but half of the staff was Afrikaner and half was
black; the principal was an Afrikaner. I had a tough time understanding why there was a
staff room for black teachers, and a separate staff room for white teachers. The black
teachers at my boarding school were so afraid of the white teachers that even us students
67
ended up losing respect for the black teachers, as well as the whites. We heard a black
teacher calling a white teacher “baas” in Afrikaans meaning “Boss”. We students were
not allowed to question anything at the school.
Some of us encountered white teachers for the first time in our lives; this was a bit
of a shock. There was one thing I noticed. The white teachers did not speak English at all,
but spoke Afrikaans on campus all the time. Knowing the history of Afrikaans, that did
not sit well with me; hence, I finally opted to go back to Soweto. In my boarding school,
our available fields of study were so limited that there were more students in the
humanities than there were in the sciences. The problems ran deeper than that. Going to
school in KwaNdebele made me feel as if I was being assimilated to a culture that made
me feel less black. At least in Soweto, we the students said ‘no’ to such treatment. I know
my mother probably meant well by wanting us to go to the boarding school, but I am not
sure if she realized that some of us felt as though they were getting rid of us, somehow.
Assimilating into an American context can be just as difficult as what I found in
the boarding school sometimes, especially as an international student. There are times
when I look at the current situation concerning the status of students, how little leverage
they have, and I feel like saying something. Then I remind myself that I could be
deported and sent home. For example, here at the University of Georgia, the percentage
of black students and other races is so small compared to the white population. I
sometimes wonder if diversity will be able to enrich the student body. Then, again,
maybe black students do not in fact want to go the University of Georgia. In all fairness, I
do not think that in all my educational experiences I have had a time when I felt truly
comfortable. I could not claim that I had the best education without having to question a
68
lot of things; questioning conventional wisdom in my educational endeavours was not
rewarded at school, but it was also not a waste of time.
Education for Personal Growth
When I think of education for personal growth, I am reminded that I have come a
long way. First, I have learned that as people we generally aim for the same goals in life ,
yet we achieve the same goals in many different ways. I received my childhood education
in a manner different from someone who grew up the same time as myself, and in the
same country, because we had a different kind of skin. I have nevertheless learned to
persevere, to aim for the sky and be happy to reach the tree tops. I have learned in my
educational endeavours to appreciate the little things that have helped change my life,
such as the people who gave me a chance and never gave up on me. In graduate school I
have learned to critique my own work and to be engaged in serious discussions with other
students and professors. I have also learned to understand when other people do not
acknowledge some of the things they take for granted in life, like getting an education;
there are people who would almost kill to have that opportunity. I have learned not to
look a gift horse in the mouth. And, most of all, education for personal growth simply
means I will be going back to South Africa to teach, and that will be one way of giving
back to my community and people.

69
Implications for Research
Writing from a first person voice can sometimes pose some bias in a research
study, especially when the education system that a researcher writes about was in itself
not fair and was designed to undermine a certain sect of race, all in the name of
education. My educational exposure both in South Africa and also in the United States
has created a bias, and has affected how I look at education in general, whether western
or African with western influence.
Implication for International Students
As an international student, I would recommend that students who come to the
United States or any other country should well understand that they will be assimilating
to a culture different to their own. And, also, students should make sure that they conduct
research about the school to which they have been accepted to make sure that they have
everything in writing in support of their scholarship.

70
EPILOGUE
Life in Soweto, especially, in the eighties was very difficult. The youth were now
into different gangsters- we needed to belong in something, somehow. The Pass One Pass
All Slogans, and the throwing of stones made the schools a place to while away time.
Students were now carrying guns, and knives. At one point it was difficult to even
differentiate between those who wanted to learn at school, and those who did not want to
learn. But, I guess, living in SOWETO at the time was almost like being in the thick of
things.
I guess, I was fortunate to leave the country to study in the United States of
America. It was and still is a challenge learning in a different country. I sometimes look
back on my life, and ask myself a volley of questions trying to compare the
incomparable-my life growing up in Soweto, and my life as a student in the United
States. Two countries separated by the Atlantic, yet some of the experiences and the
hardships are the same.
Ten years late r I went to visit home. What I saw was interesting in many ways. I
witnessed the new South Africa; I was like a stranger in the country of my birth. I saw
old friends I used to throw stones with. The children of Soweto are still in Soweto, some
are trying to get out in search of a better life; while most, even if they wanted to go
somewhere else could not. Their education, or lack of, has limited their options in life.
Yet, it hurts to see brothers and sisters who were in the forefront during the struggle
homeless, and most unemployable. But, we all know the children of Soweto shaped the
71
political thinking of Azania. We hope and trust that the sons and daughters of the soil will
one day be remembered. The struggle continues, but remember I am still one of them.
74
APPENDIX

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LEARNING THROUGH THE STRUGGLE

AN AUTOETHNOGRAPHY OF AN AZANIAN YOUTH

BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU

(Under the Direction of Norman Thomson)

INDEX WORDS: South Africa, Apartheid, Education/Autoethnography

BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU

B.A., Stockton State College, 1997

A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of The University of Georgia in Partial

Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree

BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU

All Rights Reserved

BHEKI PERFECT ZUNGU

Major Professor: Norman Thomson

Committee: Kathleen P. DeMarrais

Electronic Version Approved:

Education and Inequality (The Apartheid Legacy) .......................................4

The Questions of the Study .........................................................................11

3 THE FORMATION OF SOWETO..................................................................12

Teenage Years and Personal Experiences of Apartheid..............................18

The Liberation Struggle...............................................................................23

4 GROWING UP IN SOWETO ...........................................................................29

Family Life in Soweto.................................................................................33

Zithathele Lower Primary School ...............................................................35

Emthonjeni Higher Primary School ...........................................................39

Orlando Pirates Fanatics..............................................................................44

A Difficult Beginning ..................................................................................46

Struggling to Survive ...................................................................................50

Changing Directions ....................................................................................59

Education for Exploitation...........................................................................64

Education for Liberation, Liberation for Education ....................................65

Education for Assimilation ..........................................................................66

Education for Personal Growth....................................................................68

Implications for Research ............................................................................69

Implications for International Students........................................................69

South Africa Before My Time (1948 to 1971) and the

Apartheid Era (1948-1990)

Coloured category included the major subgroups of Indians and Asians.

Classification into these categories was based on appearance, social acceptance,

‘appear’ black or accepted as a member of an African tribe.

were required to carry passbooks, the humiliating black-only “identification book”

containing fingerprints, photo and information on permitted access to non-black areas.

Passbooks entailed an assortment of rules and regulations. For example, when

signature. Should someone fail to do so, and if a policeman demanding a passbook

In 1953, the Bantu Education Authorities Act was implemented, which

established a basis for ethnic government in the African reserves, known as

assigned by the government, according to a record of origin which was frequently

restricted to the designated homelands. Four of these homelands were created,

were taxed more than whites.

services, and at times to unnecessary neglect.

Creation of the homelands, therefore, drastically affected the health of blacks,

on white people for almost everything.

Education and Inequality (The Apartheid Legacy)

other autoethnographic work. The third chapter provides description of Soweto.

Several primary definitions have evolved for autoethnography. Pratt (2001,

Autoethnography is thus a mode by which members of the minority resist a dominating

discourse.” In my case, I would say that autoethnography is thus a mode by which

(a) First, colonized and neo-colonized subjects must undertake to represent

themselves in ways that engage with the colonizers’ own terms

(b) They must return the gaze by writing back

them and redirect the description.

As Carolyn Ellis put it (1995), “Autoethnography is an autobiographical genre of

introspective about their feelings or motives or the contradictions they experience.

Moreover, Reed-Danahey (1995), who wrote a book on autoethnography, said, “Well,

systematic sociological introspection and emotional recall to try to understand an