How to Raise a Saffa Child in the UK

Before making the trek to Blighty in 2013, I’d spent a total of 32 years in South Africa. From teeny tiny to fully-grown - with a few teeny tiny ones of my own. I can close my eyes and root around in the old memory bank and pull out a sight, a sound, a smell. It’s all there. And it takes me straight back. To a purple rain of Jacaranda trees, the feel of a coastal-bound berg wind as it blows down from the Great Escarpment, the distinctive drone of vuvuzelas and the smell of boerewors on a wood braai.

Our children don’t have the same privilege. Their resource library for recollection is somewhat limited. It was abandoned before it could be built, really. The foundations are there. But it’s empty. No one’s home. They’ve moved.

Despite having spent most of their young lives here. And despite how they speak. My children are not British. Obvs. They’re South Africans who happen to live in Britain. To keep their heritage alive, I try very hard to reinforce as many of our cultures and traditions from down south as I possibly can. I win some. I lose some. But I always try. 

- Food matters. We braai all year round, regardless of the weather. We enjoy a multi-cultural diet. From milktert, malva and mieliebread to biltong, bobotie and koeksusters, we flavour our food with tomato sauce and dip homemade rusks into our tea. 

- Rain does not stop play. Ok so there’s no swimming pool in our backyard. But there is a backyard. And we spend a lot of time in it. Whether it’s raining. Freezing. Or both. We simply wrap up. And get on with it. We visit parks when it’s pouring and trek to tourist sites when it’s two degrees. Simply to be outdoors and underneath a sky. Any sky. Even one that’s ghastly grey and as miserable as moer.

- A picture is worth a thousand words. My children love to see photos of South Africa. They’re fascinated by the life we once lived. How we had a sprawling one-storey home with a pair of dogs and a troop of monkeys with shongololos, snakes and a swimming pool. Always the pool.

- A story shared. In the car before school, I’ll often share memories of my childhood. I recount the adventures I enjoyed with my sister and our cousins who were like brothers. Pelting each other with over-ripe guavas at the bottom of their garden. Bike rides through sugarcane. Long walks to the quarry with my granddad and his dog Heidi, noshing on his illicit stash of Wilson's toffees. Seaside holidays with dripping orange lollies, sunburnt noses and mad-dashes across scorching yellow sand. Encounters with snakes in the garden. Lazy pool days with watermelon and lilos. 

- The power of ubuntu. We socialise with other South African families. We braai. We camp. We run around parks chasing our kids. And most importantly we share. Not just our food, drink and our homes. We do that too. We share about our experiences living in the UK. From the good bits to the gory bits. And everything in between. It’s refreshing to contrast the nonsensical nuances of our foreign existence with people who get it. People who understand exactly what it's like to pack up a life, move to another country and build a new life.

- Heed health and safety by half. Jislaaik so while I appreciate that young children are vulnerable to injury and prone to catastrophe on account of them being…er young children. I don’t appreciate the insane levels of logic-defying, namby pamby over-protectiveness. To me it breeds wussy little whiners. Who’re afraid of everything. Who can’t stand on their own two feet. Or can’t get up when they fall down. Literally. To me that is unhealthy. That’s unsafe. Way more so than a barefoot child playing outdoors, eating a little sand when the mood strikes and god forbid without a sunhat. Who doesn’t need to see their mum-may every five seconds - or more to the point, whose mum-may doesn't need to see them. Who is happy to explore. Climb trees. Run wild. Now to me, that's a healthy child.

- Music makes the world go round. From The Parlotones and Jeremy Loops to Ladysmith Black Mambaza and Mango Groove, while I’m cooking dinner I blast heartwarming harmonies from my homeland. I dance around the kitchen like a loon to shrieks of delight from my youngest, shimmying booty shakes from my little girl and 'you're-so-embarassing' eye-rolls from my eldest.

- Pause for the past. Without delving too deeply into the detailed complexities of South Africa's history and politics (because that's a blady deep pool) I think it's appropriate that my eldest has a general understanding. He knows about apartheid. The how and the what. Not necessary the why. I'm not sure I even know the why. Madiba is his hero. He sings Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika in the shower. He and his siblings will slowly learn the history of their heritage and it shapes their future.

I’m fiercely proud of being South African. It's a pride that comes through in the way I think. The way I live. The way I mother my children. I'll never forget where I came from. And I'm determined that my children won't either.

A little mud makes for many happy childhood memories.

The Lottery of Birth. Place.

It's a familiar scene. 

A woman delivers a baby, her partner by her side. The couple is elated. Exhausted, overwhelmed and more than a little terrified. But elated. They can’t stop looking at their child. After nursing, the mother cradles the infant to her chest, her heartbeat a soothing lullaby. As she rests her chin on her baby's fragile head, she understands a love like no other. It’s visceral. Powerful. Unbreakable. The mother tenderly strokes a soft round cheek before she closes her eyes to rest. The child’s father is moved by the sight of his sleeping family.  
He will never forget this day. The day he became a father. The day his life changed forever. He glances out of the window. A whole new world awaits this new life. A whole new world awaits them all.

And what land lies outside of the window that frames this scene... America? England perhaps? Could it be South Africa. Or Australia. Pakistan, Yemen or Syria? It could be anywhere really. Does it really matter? Well, yes in fact it does. It matters very much. For this child. And every child.

Babies are born every second. In every country across the globe. They all come from the same place. From their mother’s womb. All share an instinct to survive. And while it’s no big deal how a baby is born, these details are irrelevant. Trivial in the grand scheme of things. Where a baby is born is a big deal.

As a person who happens to have been born in South Africa, I can enter 90 of the 218 countries in the world without a visa. Without prior permission. For entry into the other 128 countries, I’ve got to prove I am who I say I am, who I’m currently married to and all the people I’ve been married before, who my parents are, where I currently live, where I’ve lived for all eternity before, how much money I have, whether I own property, what its value is, how much I owe to the bank. I’ve got to describe the exact position of the mole on my left buttock and my natural hair colour. Ok so maybe not the last two, but it won’t be long. The process is expensive. Time-consuming. Frustratingly complex and confusing. Some people strip their moer with it all. So they hire professionals. And pay extra. This is simply to visit another country. Many people can't afford to do it it at all. To live, work or study across borders? Well, that’s a whole new visa. More paperwork. More money. And that’s where they go for blood. Literally. And lungs. Those too.

Someone born in Germany or England for example can enter double the number of countries I can without a visa (a massive 176 and 173 countries respectively). Simply because they drew their first breath in a country different to mine. “There is still huge disparity in the levels of travel freedom between countries, despite the world becoming seemingly more mobile and interdependent,” says Dr Christian H. Kälin, chairman of Henley & Partners, a citizenship and planning firm. It doesn't make it right. It doesn't make it fair. It's just the way it is.

No matter how you look at it, the simple and ugly truth is that borders are open or closed to people on the basis of birth. Children die in countries they cannot escape from. Literally trapped in famine or war. Politicians perpetuate the polarity of people and call it nationalism. Prejudice has a party and invites all of its hateful friends. Those who are other do not belong. Cannot stay. Cannot settle. Do not pass go. But do pass your passport, please.

We raise our children to believe that human beings are all equal. That we are all the same. We encourage them to travel. To experience new adventures. To learn from other cultures. We inspire tolerance. Kindness. Hope. Freedom. We nurture their dreams. We do all of this in a world where we are clearly not all equal. In a world where we are not all free. In a world where a child’s destiny is very often determined from that very first breath. In the country of its birth. 

“And we call ourselves the human race,” John F Kennedy once said an ironic statement. I agree. There’s little humanity in the way we live. Little humanity at all.

Words to live by. Literally.