Sentletse Diakanyo ended his post on patriotism with a reference to a football team. This gives me a useful way to submit a contribution on the topic.
I am not patriotic. This does not mean that I “hate South Africa”. Hell no. It simply means that I have beliefs and values that transcend national and/or territorial boundaries.
To illustrate the point, I want to start with a football analogy. I love football. I enjoy a fast-flowing, short-passing game that brings out the skills and talent of players who work as a group. I also like a clean game. If my team, Leeds United, do not satisfy these preferences, I am able to say they are crap. If individual players are cheats, or violent, or if the fans are racist — as Leeds fans have been known to be — I can say fuck’em and vow never to go to home games.
As a general rule, I am opposed to the commercialisation of sport, to wilful exploitation (as much as I am to narrow-mindedness and chauvinism) and especially to subordination to these processes. So, if Leeds United bring out a new team jersey every year just so they can make more money from sales of jerseys to working-class sports fans, I am offended. I can vow never to buy a new jersey just because it is current. I can, also, buy a fake jersey — if I chose to violate copyright laws. The point is this: I believe quite firmly that whatever loyalty I may have to Leeds United should not become chauvinistic — it should, especially, not be in violation of my beliefs and values.
Like most people, I have beliefs and values that I try to protect and promote whenever I can without being offensive or in violation of the beliefs and values of others. Among these are issues such as justice, equality, emancipation, pacifism and a commitment to uncovering patterns of dominance and oppression. Here I am cautious; for instance, a bigot or an anti-Semite might have a very firm belief that Jews and dark-skinned people are evil. This person might place significant value in the protection of his or her white heritage from being “diluted” by black or Jewish blood — and might be prepared to die for these beliefs. There are, thus, instances when the beliefs and values of others are themselves offensive. Without minimising the crude impact and destructiveness of racism, I don’t want to get sidetracked so I will set this issue aside.
The point is that my belief in justice is not restricted to South Africans; my belief in equality is not limited to a single community; the emancipation impulse that drives me as a person, as a scholar and a teacher, is vertical, horizontal and historical. For instance, women face oppressive conditions within families, in and across communities and under general social conditions that are as much historical as they are structural.
If, then, “my country” or the country I call home, through its domestic and foreign policies, through its actions or inaction reproduces injustice, violence and oppression against any other group of people for whatever reason, I am obliged to criticise “my country”. In fact, it would be disingenuous if I were to apply my values and principles only to a section of humanity simply because we happen to live in the same country, speak the same language or claim a common ancestor or religious belief. No single group of people, not even “my people” or the people of “my country”, are more human than others.
I started this post with a reference to football. This should not suggest that I do not take the issue seriously. To illustrate the seriousness with which I take the matter, I want to present a statement by retired Lieutenant General Roméo Dallaire, commander of the United Nations peacekeeping mission during the Rwandan genocide of 1993/94.
“In Rwanda, it was decided that we can handle one dead [Canadian] soldier for every 180 000 dead Rwandans … Are some people more human than others? … Our priority seems to be to preserve the lives of our soldiers, which appears to be more important than accomplishing the mission. The Belgians went into Rwanda for a week, lost 10 soldiers, and left. And 800 000 Rwandans died. The big discussion [in Belgium] was about the 10 who died, not the 800 000,” Dallaire said.
To be patriotic I may have to place a country – which in most cases was established through violence and bloodshed – before humanity. I may have to say that South Africans are more human than others. I cannot do that. I love South Africa. Indeed, there are places in Namaqualand, or the Karoo, where I want my ashes to be scattered. The space between Stellenbosch and Swellendam is probably the most beautiful part of the world. We gave the world Nelson Mandela, Albert Luthuli and Desmond Tutu, and the grace and wonder of Albertina Sisulu is our best kept secret. We should never have let Gandhi leave, but I accept that history needed him in India.
However, I have also seen the majesty of Glacier National Park on the border of Canada and the United States. I spent time in the Swiss Alps with Kate. I want to take Paris (the city, not the woman) home with me. The first time I saw the sun set over Gorée Island I cried; although I swear off any ethnic, national or religious identity, I felt a very strong affinity with Africa at that moment. I am convinced that the air in Madagascar is laced with the breath of angels. Sicily, ahhh Sicily; a produce market in Palermo was the last place I saw a tomato that was actually red. I have felt the might and thunder of Iguaçu Foz, experienced the (open-mouthed) wonder of Venezuela’s Angel Falls, I have felt the spray of the Augrabies, I have swam with dolphins and among coral reefs in Mexico — and I have sang You’ll Never Walk Alone at Anfield. (I have yet to sit/stand on the Kop, though.) I have held Martha, Simon’s daughter, in my arms.
The most at peace with the world I have been was in Iceland. The most happily anonymous I have felt was in Rio de Janeiro (Niterói, more correctly) and the most “at home” I have felt outside South Africa was in New Delhi, Kuala Lumpur (and in Rio). The most scared I have been of the police and the government has been in the United States (today) and in South Africa in the 1980s …
On each of these occasions I have felt a contradictory sense of belonging and detachment; I belonged where I was, but knew that after I left it would still be there. To be patriotic I would have to place “my country” or “my people” before everything and everyone else. I am not prepared to do that. However much we try to, no country can claim a monopoly on righteousness, no group of people claim that theirs is the only struggle for justice or self-determination — that they alone have suffered.
We must either survive together or die together.
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