As we slowly approach Heritage Day, I am reminded of the rich culture we have as
South Africans, primarily black African cultures. Many of us grew up in homes with an
archive of rich customs and rituals, many fundamental to our survival and livelihood. We
were taught from an early age how to respect the elderly, put others before yourself,
observe various gender-differentiated customs in daily life, and as we grew up, we hung
on to some very fundamentals of our cultures.
For example, in my Xhosa upbringing, there were tried-and-true remedies passed down
for common childhood ailments – like treating umoya (what Western medicine calls colic)
with amayeza omoya, herbal mixtures given to newborns to help them pass gas and find
relief. Depending on who you asked, though, these weren't just for passing gas –
sometimes they were used to chase out igrhogrho – evil spirits – many would attest
these came in very handy in the child passing through this colic phase.
On the horizontal side, we also learned quickly about certain cultural practices that
shaped our genderedness. As girl children, we were taught about that time of the month
— what it meant for us, the dos and don’ts in that season. If any 90s kid can relate, it
mostly ended with the same ambiguous advice:”Books before boys, because boys bring
babies.” And that was the summary of our sex education. Nothing more, nothing less.
We also learned that the more sensitive the topic, the greyer it became — not because
the information wasn’t out there, but because for many of our parents, that’s all they were given too. And so, I guess, you take what you get.
Today, I opt to sit in that grey area — which, without needing vetted facts, I believe is
one of the root causes of the pathology we see today.
A rape culture that thrives in silence.
Staggering, unimaginable statistics of women and children are violated daily – and for
many, it started in these same silences we inherited.
The Grey Areas of Silence
Many people can identify with growing up in a "normal" household — except normal, for many of us, wasn't the clean-cut, aspired-to nuclear family. Our homes existed in multiplicities: gendered, spanning age gaps, surnames, relationships — makazi,
dadobawo, malume- omdala, tamnci — all of it, simplified into just “uncle” or “aunt” in
English. These homes were not only safe for our immediate families, but also served as
transit routes, temporary housing, escape routes, places of survival, and even event
venues — serving not just our kin, but at times the wider community as well.
Rural and township lives have historically carried the fluidity of Black realities — a
constant shifting, stretching, accommodating. These homesteads have rarely been places of staticity. They were always in motion, always adapting. Because the Black
condition itself has been one of precarity, of improvisation under pressure, of making a
life in the cracks left by land dispossession, migrancy, and poverty. Yet, the same
movement and generosity that carried us could also expose us.
These homes, these people, this hurried livelihood of necessity, have tainted the lives of
many children and women, left them in brutal conditions that have been summed up as
“Hinto ye family.”
Homes That Sheltered and Exposed Us
Lulled sexual abuse accounts for generations have never been identified as that, never
thought of as deeds of accountability, but as necessary evils for the preservation of the
family, and the family name. The grandmother or the mother has never not known –
initially maybe, but has never not known that these violations were occurring, but chose
to keep quiet, not in their eyes as feeding the evil, but perhaps for the preservation of
either the family name or, in many cases, preventing the loss of Maslow's bottom
hierarchy of needs, given by the perpetrator.
I choose to root this synthesis in the idea of the grey area, emphasizing how our culture
has normalised, suppressed, and deliberately chosen not to point out, from these simple
words, “Hinto yefamily,” loosely translated as “It stays in the family.”
Matriarchs, Silence, and Survival
Black cultures are centered on community, and value is found in the collective. From my
own experiences, this value is heavily protected and will be protected at all costs. I think
these matriarchs kept quiet not because they didn't see the violations—they did see.
However, they prioritized protecting the family name. Moreover, under patriarchal norms,
sexual violation often meant the depreciation of the child or woman's value. Closer to
more spiritual beliefs, people thought a violated child was 'contaminated,' reducing her worth in the community’s eyes. These women then carried the unbearable tension of choosing between two losses: the dignity of the child or the dignity of the family name.
Furthermore, because of the structure of patriarchy, women’s voices have often been
diminished. This was especially true during apartheid, when men were the main source
of income. To call out the violation would risk diminishing the bread on their tables. But
these women sometimes did not keep quiet for these reasons alone. They kept quiet
because perhaps the same was done to them. By not addressing those issues or not
knowing how, this became intergenerational. The expected and perpetuated silence was
handed down. Silence became tradition.
The fruits of cultured silence in these matriarchs are built-up resentment and
hopelessness, and a great sense of defeat. Many times, these women do feel that they
could have done better to protect the girl child, but often didn’t, due to choosing the greater evil of bodily harm over the harm to sustenance, assuming in this case that was
the reason. I don’t think for a nanosecond that they accept that “this is how things are”;
They just don’t have the collective power to do anything about it, because of how
ingrained the silence is.
Isn’t that quite an oxymoron, actually—the very same collective these families protect is
the very same one that violates them.
Elderly people struggle so much with any possible disdain that could come against the
family name. Justice to them means that no matter the circumstances, the family name
still stays intact—the lineage, the preservation of who we are. No matter how broken, it
should internally bleed, because if we don’t have this family name, “isidima
sooMbathane”—loosely translated, the integrity of ooMbathane—then what do we have?
That name must stay intact. Even with the foundations of rot, bruises on the backs of
innocent children. The family name must stay intact!
The Weight of Inherited Silence
To hold all these truths at once means I acknowledge how we are systematically, inter-
relationally, economically, and spiritually victims and perpetrators, either by submission
or omission of truths. I feel like a grain of sand against these waves of forces of
normative generational trauma, deemed as culture, where I wish I could turn myself into
a grain of wheat, in hopes of multiplying the cries and echoes of many women and
children violated under all these conditions, to finally hold space for them, for us, for me.
I still also want to hold the nuance and space for those who enabled these behaviours,
not with ill intent, but in that moment picking the devil they deemed better.
To give language to the victims who have opted to take their stories to the grave, due to
the costly inheritance of silence in order to preserve either the family name, or in some
cases, to prevent the long arm of justice reaching the perpetrator. When the uncle
violated you at such a tender age, or the father, and you had nowhere to turn to,
restricted by loud, known silence that you yourself did not even know where it came
from. To state that you are seen, and that it wasn't your fault. Moreover, in hopes that perhaps you would be brave enough to not carry this as your burden, or inheritance, but rather break it, rupture it, name it for what it is.
As much as we can call out the sickening nature of sexual violence, there were socio-
cultural seeds that planted this behavior, and we as a community need to acknowledge
that. These men are our brothers. For most of their lives, they were woven into a culture
that shaped them. It cannot be correct then that we expect a different product if
something in the cultural atmosphere, alongside other aspects, continues to perpetuate
this cycle.