The Great Divide: Thoughts on Being White, American, and a Volunteer in South Africa

[I told you that I had a lot of thoughts floating around my mind after having dinner at uShaka last weekend. Here they are. They are just thoughts that constantly have been tugging at me - just a commentary on my own thought process.]

Last weekend we went out on the town in Durban. It was a much anticipated social event. As 4 females we aren’t able to get out too often after the sun sets.

So – our new friends from the Kloof parish took us out. It was an eagerly awaited event, but it induced a sort of social schizophrenic sensation in our minds. I am now two people. Becca – the fun, extroverted American volunteer hanging out with new friends, drinking good beer at an ocean front restaurant after a long week of work. And, Becca – the 1000 Hills Community Helpers employee sharing a government provided meal with the people of Inchanga. It blows my mind that my work daily brings me to a place that most white South Africans would rarely think to go. And so a battle has begun within my heart to try and identify with both of these women. To maintain some semblance of togetherness when there are two radically different aspects of my life that are daily waging war against each other.

I could go into detail about many instances when I felt this divide. For instance, last Saturday night, we had dinner at Moyo with the Kloof crew. It was the type of place I imagine a guided tour of Durban would take you. It was a surreal experience watching people flash photos of dancers at Moyo who were paid to demonstrate the tribal dances of KZN. Everyday at St. Leo’s I see the learners do the same type of tribal dancing. They dance not because they are paid to or as a tourist spectacle, but because it is a part of their culture. It is who they are and brings joy to them. Again – so hard to bring these two vastly different worlds together.

I felt no solidarity at Moyo. In fact, in the moments while I was eating and drinking there I felt as separate from the people of KZN as I possibly could have.

Even attending church is a testament to these two different worlds. We attend the long Zulu mass at St. Leo’s, barely understanding what is said but being in beautiful communion with the people of Molweni. Then at night we attend mass at Our Lady of Mercy (Kloof) and it is so wonderful to have a relationship with people our own age that live in South Africa. Mass at Kloof is entirely in English and has familiar praise and worship music and is such a comfort to me so far from home. But there are rarely Zulu families at this Mass. There still seems to be such a divide.

Even the geographical location of my home enforces the division. Most Zulu people live in the valley, while our home sits on a hill overlooking Embo. We are – even physically – positioned higher than the people we work with on a daily basis.

I haven’t figured out how to cope with these thoughts and feelings. I have had the recurring realization that this may be something I will never be at peace with. Being born into the middle class as a white citizen of the United States, there are some things that I will never truly be able to understand. And I don’t know how to approach that realization.