Mother to Mother': Exploration of Empathy, Guilt and Healing

This essay will examine how Mandisas story in Sindiwe Magonas 'Mother to Mother' represents the everyday struggles of the community of Gugulethu, both during and towards the end of the apartheid era and will also be referring to specific scenes in the novel which will then substantiate the points that will be made.

Mother to Mother: a Narrative of Empathy, Grief, and Healing

It can be seen that the novel Mother to Mother is a touching and elegant story of race relations and misunderstanding in South Africa. It can also be seen that the author bases her book on true incidents, but looks at it from the eyes of a mother who loves her son but recognizes his inadequacies. It is also a very devastating look at apartheid, violence and anger in a society long split between the white and black. Mandisa asks the Mother why the Girl was in Gugulethu, where it is unsafe for white people. She believes that the Girl was naïve in her commitment to helping others—that “people like your daughter so believe in their goodness, know they have hurt no one, are, indeed, helping, they never think anyone would want to hurt them.” Mandisa suspects that if Mxolisi had killed one of the black women who were accompanying the Girl, there would have been no public outcry, no police involvement, and he likely would’ve walked free. Mother to Mother is based on the real-life murder of a young white woman named Amy Biehl—a kind-hearted, altruistic Fulbright scholar who was in South Africa to help residents get ready for their first-ever democratic elections—in the impoverished black township of Guguletu. The novel never expressly states that the Girl and Amy Biehl are one and the same, but the way that Mandisa pieces together the Girl’s life and murder largely echoes Biehl’s life—and its sudden end.

Mandisa argues that the Girl “has paid for the sins of the fathers and mothers who did not do their share of seeing that” Mxolisi lived a good life. Now that he’s in jail, he has access to amenities he never had as a free man. She wonders, why is Mxolisi “living a better life, if chained?” Mandisa once again argues that she shouldn’t be responsible for Mxolisi’s crime. Instead, she points to “the fathers and mothers who did not do their share” of ensuring that Mxolisi could live a good and meaningful life. Mandisa is likely referring to white settlers here, suggesting that colonizers (who eventually became governors, then other politicians, then law enforcement officers) are like cruel, adoptive “fathers and mothers” of South Africa who care little for their “children,” only providing them with basic necessities within the confines of a government-funded prison.

Two days earlier, COSAS ordered school children to join Operation Barcelona ostensibly in support of striking teachers. This involves children skipping school to “burn cars and drive reactionary elements out of town.” Although the students are calling for the government to improve their education, Mandisa remarks “these big-mouthed children don’t know anything,” and cautions that if they’re not careful they’ll end up like their parents, domestic labourers for wealthy white people. The novel pays careful attention to the political and social fabric of South Africa leading to Mxolisi’s murder of the Girl, not to justify the crime but to explain how it came to pass. Here, in charting how certain well-intentioned political movements festered and erupted into pure violence, the novel also charts the increasing radicalization of Mxolisi’s generation. This passage also reminds readers that Mxolisi’s generation is still young and ignorant; although they have an abundance of pent-up energy and anger against the government and their circumstances, they are still just “big-mouthed children [who] don’t know anything.”

Mxolisi and his friends pass the police station, which everyone treats cautiously, as they don’t know “what mood the pigs might be in.” Even so, “there is always the possibility of sporting with them.” The group continues to split as people move towards their own homes. Mxolisi and his gang are clearly disdainful of the police, who are likely white and corrupt. This passage also suggests that the white law enforcement is unreliable and volatile, as they serve the township based on their fluctuating “mood[s].” Desensitized to violence and simmering with anger, the boys also consider “sporting,” or playing, with the police, meaning that they see violence against their white oppressors as a darkly entertaining pastime.

Mandisa makes her way onto a bus, densely crowded with bodies and packages and grocery bags. The bus driver yells that Guguletu is “completely surrounded” by police. Mandisa reflects on how there has been trouble in Guguletu since its creation by the government. She considers the irony of the name, which means “Our Pride,” although residents call it Gugulabo, or “Their Pride. ”The two slightly different names for the township highlight black South African’s anger and frustration at the government, as well as the way that language can connect people to their shared experience or history. The name “Our Pride” suggests a unified and harmonious city (or, more broadly, a country) that all citizens are proud to call their own, but this is far from reality. Black South Africans feel like strangers in their own land, and thus call the town “Their Pride,” indicating that white people still run the country and treat black residents as pawns to be moved around and pushed off to the side—and that the white people are proud of it.

Mandisa remembers being dumped in Guguletu with her family as a child. She was raised in Blouvlei, but then, like tens of thousands of others, she was relocated from her former home into this enormous city made up of tiny houses, which she describes as “squatting structures. Ugly, Impersonal and Cold…”The housing project in Guguletu functions as a symbol of the government under apartheid; like the buildings, the government is “ugly,” “impersonal,” and “cold,” and cares little for the residents it is supposed to nurture and protect.

Mandisa relates her own troubles with education to current issues in Guguletu, where there are still not enough teachers or schools. Additionally, she recognizes that mothers are working, or drunk, or dead (“We die young, these days”), and are thus unable to force their children to go to school. Mandisa illustrates how the problems in Guguletu are like a domino effect: because of institutionalized racism, black South Africans are kept in poverty and forced to work long hours for little pay. This arrangement is extremely grating, and many people turn to drink. Whether parents are drinking, working, or dead, they simply can’t be engaged in their children’s lives and be around enough to ensure their children are going to school. Plus, institutionalized racism means that schools in black townships are sparse, underfunded, and understaffed, which makes education not only less appealing but also less impactful.

At 7:45 p.m., Mandisa’s neighbour, Skonana knocks on the door. Skonana is nosy and wants to know what is happening with Mandisa, but Mandisa hopes to get information from her neighbour. Skonana reveals that she’s heard a white woman was killed in Guguletu earlier in the day. Mandisa knows that “Guguletu is a violent place,” but violence against a white woman will have dangerous repercussions for the black community. Mandisa understands that the police “are not our friends,” and their involvement will only lead to more trouble and “pull this township apart.” Against the backdrop of political instability and an unreliable government, the community provides people with a necessary sense of stability. Even though the township is already riddled with violence, Mandisa knows that they are at least currently left to their own devices, as the police and government care little if black South Africans kill other black South Africans. Now that a white woman is the victim of violence, however, the township is bound to receive more attention from the police, which is not a good thing.

Skonana can see that Mandisa is distressed, and offers her some tea. Mandisa appreciates the offer but, feeling “weepy,” declines and returns inside. Mandisa begins to address the Mother again, wondering why the Girl was in Guguletu at all, why anyone would come there. Mandisa begins to tell the story of how she ended up in the township, as if “borne by a whirlwind of the government’s making,” an “upheaval” so intense that “three decades later, my people are still reeling from it.” Mandisa now begins to tell the story of how the nation’s racist apartheid regime relocated her family to the township of Guguletu. Because apartheid has been in effect since 1948, Mandisa explains that “three decades later, my people are still reeling from it.” Although Mandisa is referring to apartheid, this passage also points to colonialism’s legacy in South Africa, as its trappings (like race inequality) are still present three centuries later.

Mandisa wonders how the government could even move the residents of Blouvlei. There are millions of people in the township, which has served as a home to its inhabitants for generations. An elder comments, “The afterbirths of our children are deep in this ground,” as are “the bleached bones of our long dead.” Mandisa is reassured by this assertion that Blouvlei will remain her home. The idea that the government could relocate such a huge group of people suggests that, under the apartheid regime, the government sees black South Africans as pawns that can be picked up and moved out of sight. In other words, the government doesn’t consider black South Africans to be real people who are rooted to their community and land.

A bell sounds, announcing a town meeting, and the adults leave their homes to gather and (presumably) discuss the flyers. Mandisa is happy to get extra time to play, as her parents stay at the meeting past sunset. When they eventually return, they are frustrated. The meeting was full of endless questions, and very few answers. The meetings continue for days and weeks. Representatives are sent to the government, but are rejected. Even white employers are asked to help, but nothing will change the mind of the government and its officials. The only setback is that the relocation occurs in September, instead of the promised July. The white government cares so little for its black citizens that it doesn’t even bother to answer their questions or provide them with adequate information. The people in Mandisa’s community try to appeal to their white employers for help, hoping that they can serve as a go-between, but the government is both unflinching and unfeeling.

Early in the morning on September 1st, Mandisa and her family wake up to their house burning down. Police cars, bulldozers, and military vehicles surround the township, and white men are destroying homes, forcing the residents to relocate. Families try to salvage what they can from their homes, pulling the structures down themselves to save building materials. The government and law enforcement don’t just forcibly pluck Mandisa and her neighbours from their homes—they also cruelly destroy those homes. This scene reads like the frontlines of a battle, a violent riot, or an instance of cold-blooded terrorism, but it’s actually how the government deals with a large, disenfranchised segment of its population.

Mandisa remembers being in school after she was relocated to Guguletu. The classes were so big; she didn’t learn the names of the other students in it. When inspectors came to check on the children’s learning, the teacher used her hands to indicate the right answer to the questions so the children would seem well learned. The corruption in South Africa under the apartheid regime also seeps into the schools. Mandisa has already pointed out that the schools of her youth (and the ones her children attend—or are supposed to attend) lack adequate resources. This passage shows the impact of that, as there are too few teachers and too many students for any real learning to take place.

Mandisa briefly addresses the Mother, wondering if the Girl went to school. If she did, did she not understand that Guguletu “was not safe for the likes of her”?

Here, Mandisa draws clear boundaries between white spaces and black spaces in apartheid-era South Africa; the divide is so strict that trying to cross into the other territory can prove fatal. Mandisa is certainly not arguing that this is the way things should be, but simply that this is the way things are. As in many parts of the novel, Mandisa seems passively resigned to the corruption that surrounds her, making her a foil for the altruistic Girl and the politically charged Mxolisi.

The story begins: in 1972, Mandisa is a star student, and Mama hopes that both Mandisa and Khaya can use “education to free [themselves] from the slavery” that she and Tata experience as “uneducated labourers. “As black South Africans, Mandisa and her family are kept in poverty and have few means for advancement. The one resource that is available to them is education (even though their schools are second-rate), which is why Mama clings to it as her children’s only chance at a better life.

Another day, Tatomkhulu tells Mandisa the story of Nongqawuse. Mandisa learned in school that she was “a false prophet who told people to kill all their cattle” with the promise of new cattle; the people did as she said, “Because they were superstitious and ignorant.” Upset, Tatomkhulu tells Mandisa the real story. The schools for black South Africans are funded by the white government, and thus the government has control over what the children learn about their own histories. Mandisa’s misinterpretation of the story of Nongqawuse shows that the government dramatically altered the legend to further degrade black South Africans and make fun of their sacred narratives and culture.

Mxolisi is “King! If for a day.” People begin to chant “Amandla! Ngawethu! Power! It is ours!” As well as “Amabhulu, azizinja! Boers, they are dogs,” a song Mxolisi has heard his whole life. The crowd cheers Mxolisi on—in fact, society has “been cheering him on since the day he was born. Before he was born. Long before. ”This passage encompasses all three of the novel’s major themes. First, Mandisa suggests that the legacy of colonialism and apartheid is devastating and inescapable—even before birth, Mxolisi couldn’t escape it. Secondly, Mandisa points out how the entire community failed in their obligation to keep Mxolisi on a more productive path, instead instilling him with bloodthirstiness and passion. Lastly, Mandisa draws on the chant that has punctuated the novel most frequently—“AmaBhulu, azizinja!”—to remind readers that chants such as this one have been passed down from generation to generation, thus making people like Mxolisi feel that his fight against the government is also his ancestors’ fight.