The other day, while going through some old documents, I came across a feature I wrote about my father growing up in South Africa's apartheid regime.
The story, written for my long-form narrative journalism course, revolved around him being part of the University of the Witwatersrand (Wits University) student protests following a State of Emergency declared by the regime. Around 21,000 people died and 22,000 people were injured from the political violence during apartheid, which existed for 46 years.
For as long as I can remember, I have been on a pursuit to understand my family's pain and the ways in which apartheid has shaped us. In 1950, the South African population was divided into four groups — white, Indian, coloured, and Black — with white people holding the highest status and Black people being seen/treated as inferior to everyone else. This was also the year that a law was passed that prevented people from marrying outside their race under threat of imprisonment.
Whenever we talk about apartheid, my father makes sure to mention that the Black community were treated much worse than he was; Indians, the group where people who looked South Asian were lumped into (regardless of heritage), were placed below white people in the race hierarchy.
My entire family, including my mother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, was discriminated against during this time. They were humiliated, faced threats of violence, weren't allowed entry into non-Indian areas, and were denied countless opportunities because they were Indian and poor.
I've read books, scholarly papers, and nagged my parents constantly on the subject. But it was only when I was writing this feature in 2022 that I discovered the ironic connection between Canadian residential schools and the South African apartheid.
For the piece, I interviewed journalist Duncan McCue. We discussed the similarities between Canada's treatment of Indigenous people and South Africa's treatment of Black people. He mentioned that South African officials got the idea for Bantustans, or the Bantu homelands system, while visiting Canada and "touring" residential schools. This revelation, which shook me and the way I'd come to know Canada at the time, led me down a long rabbit hole. By the time I emerged again, I learned that Canada was one of the last countries to impose sanctions on South Africa and to stop its relationships with the apartheid regime.
Finding this story also reminded me of my father's journey in learning about residential schools.
My family moved to Canada in 1999. During this time, Canada was advertised to my parents as this wonderful multicultural place free of racism with equal opportunities for everyone. At no point, even to acknowledge their existence, were Indigenous people mentioned. And though my father works as a pharmacist for nursing homes, and has had patients who were elders, it didn't occur to him to look into Canada's history with Indigenous communities. At least, not until 2021.
I will never forget the day that my father demanded to know, by phone, if what he had been hearing about residential schools was true.
"Are you telling me that the Canada I've known these past 20 years is a lie?" he asked me.
It still rings in my ears, as does the shock and sadness in his voice over realizing that the place he'd left South Africa for, for the future of his family, had roots that were just as deep in racism and systematic oppression.
It's rather poetic then that I came across this story just before both Orange Shirt Day and the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, which both take place on Sept. 30. It's also poetic that this story came back into my life now that I work in a community with so many people impacted by residential schools and its painful history.
Apartheid started in 1948 and ended in 1994. That's only 31 years ago. In that time, I've witnessed people being surprised that South Africans still aren't over it, as if 31 years is enough time to come to terms with the violence, abuse, and dehumanization that they've gone through. And as if it's enough to unpack the intergenerational trauma that apartheid has caused.
I've seen similar attitudes towards Indigenous people as they continue to advocate for themselves, and ask that Canadians acknowledge the violence and trauma imposed onto Indigenous communities. As mentioned in the Sept. 26 edition of The Hope Standard, "the shameful legacy of the institutions known as residential schools must never be forgotten."
Healing cannot begin without acknowledging one's pain and what they have gone through. And the fear and shame around colonial histories, and the long-term harm caused by it, shouldn't be a reason to avoid helping others heal.
Kemone Moodley is a multi-media journalist at the Hope Standard.
