Racist? Moi?

Growing up in the racist society that was Southern Rhodesia, we children did not initially challenge the basic concept that white people are superior to people who are not white. Indeed some never changed that belief into adulthood or to the grave. We were not taught this, any more than we were taught that  the sun rises in the East, that grass is green and the sky is blue. It is just one of the facts of life that we observed and absorbed. It was only later in life that it slowly dawned on some of us that none of these beliefs is correct.

My initial experiences after I left school at the age of fifteen to start work in the Magistrate’s Court in Salisbury (now Harare) tended to confirm the underlying perceptions of the inferiority of black people. My first appointment was as a junior Clerk of the Criminal Court under the aegis of a gruff retired ex-Indian Army man - The Colonel - who certainly had no doubts about the worthlessness of the people of colour.

My job was to process the criminals, organizing their case files, recording their convictions in the great ledgers – The Colonel insisted on a neat handwriting – and preparing the warrants that would see them go to gaol. There was no doubt that these black people were savages. Who else would turn up at Court one morning with the head of his girlfriend in a shopping bag? The memory of the photographs of the defence wounds in the hands of a white housewife stabbed to death by her black gardener still gives me the shivers. Bone showed through the slashes – how painful would that have been?

In contrast the white customers tended to be old fraudsters, young kids caught with a bit of marijuana, drink drivers still stinking of booze when they signed their bail bonds with a hangdog air. Victimless crimes. Not vicious, savage ones.

Nationalism was on the rise in Rhodesia and the Criminal Court became very busy. Riots became a regular event providing substantial herds of prisoners to be dealt with – and also some sudden death dockets when the police opened fire. The men and women who were to become the leaders of a free Zimbabwe also became frequent visitors as their political speeches became more fiery. Censorship meant that very few of their speeches were reported, but as a curious young Clerk I had access to much of their material. How dare they challenge the authorities in this way?

And yet, the influx of these important people brought with them black lawyers, black journalists, black businessmen to pay the bail. The white journalists who covered court proceedings were a pretty sleazy bunch. Good fun, most of them, but not always entirely abstemious and scruffy in their dress. Some of the white lawyers were not much better – Magistrate’s Court appearances didn’t attract top flight attorneys. In contrast the black people were smartly dressed, very polite and, listening to them in court, apparently more knowledgeable than the bumbling police prosecutors. And certainly more knowledgeable and better educated than I was.

Moving on as part of my training I transformed to a Clerk of Civil Court initially issuing  summons for debt – most of which, to my surprise, related to white people. Knowing how my parents scrimped and saved and paid everything due, I had not expected to finds that so many people simply didn’t. We also dealt with maintenance claims and domestic violence issues here. Although juniors were not allowed to be directly involved in the latter, someone had to do the filing. And what an eye-opener this was for me, who had been taught that raising a hand to a woman was not acceptable. Yet here I read of the cruelty of some men – and white men at that. One expected a black man to be a savage, but these men were white.

Another lesson learned at this time – or perhaps not learned – was how opposing a majority view could lead to problems. In addition to the political problems in Southern Rhodesia, there were similar issues in Nyasaland (now Malawi). In  discussing these in a tea break, the consensus of opinion was that the best way to deal with the troublesome blacks was to mount a heavy machine gun on the back of a truck and shoot every one in sight. That, it was felt, would encourage the others to be more law abiding and less troublesome. When I expressed an opposing view, I was ‘sent to Coventry’ as the saying was at that time. By common agreement, no one spoke to me, all ignored me as if I did not exist. Even my superiors communicated their instructions in writing. Of course all my fellow workers were white. What a way to behave, I thought. A most uncomfortable time for me, although as time went by, there was a relaxation of the ukase.

Moving on I landed up in the Licensing Section. There we dealt with a number of matters, including the issuing of marriage licences and the registration of voters. As far as the voting roll was concerned, most of the new voters registered were black. Until then black people had been disenfranchised, but legislation had recently introducing the concept of a qualified voters roll – anyone who met the educational or financial requirements could have a vote.

As was the case in the Criminal Court, there was a significant contrast between the marriage licence seekers and the voters roll people. Most of the former were white and many of them were pretty seedy – and often none too sober when they fronted us. One well known white farmer tended to re-marry his ex-wife when the crop was good and he was flush – and then divorce her again. In contrast the putative black voters were polite, and even if their clothes were old, they were clean and tidy. Many were much more wealthy than I would expect a black man to be. I started talking to them as I processed them, curious about how they felt about the political issues of the day. Most of them had a very clear idea of what needed to be done; none condoned the violence. The universal thought, expressed in many ways was “We want to see change for the sake of our children.”

My conversion was not Pauline. All those years of input absorbed as a child cannot be overturned in a couple of years of teenage observation, but I was pointed in a direction that would see me gradually realising how simply wrong it was to judge any person by observable differences – and to realise that sometimes majority views were untenable.