Two years ago we went to South Africa to visit my daughter who was studying at the University of Cape Town.
The natural beauty was jaw-dropping.
The culture was rich and fascinating.
The food was drool-worthy.
But the spirit of the place was something I had never felt before.
There was a vague sense of dread in the air. Everything felt a tad unsafe. Unsettled. Unmoored. Festering.
The bed and breakfast at which we stayed had multiple locked, gated entries.
Razor wire was everywhere.
We had to buzz in to a really nice restaurant … the neighborhood was too dangerous to have an unlocked entrance.
My daughter’s home had a security guard. If she was at the library late at night, she always called a car to drive her home.
On a wine tour just outside a township, we got stuck in a traffic jam and armed guards showed up on the edges of the highway, protecting us from possible car-jacking.
This was South Africa 20 years after the horror of apartheid.
“The sins of the fathers …” is what I kept thinking of.
To see black and brown people living in shanty towns that spread as far as the eye could see, while white people lived in relative luxury … well, it was just shocking.
But it should be no more shocking to me than living here. I guess sometimes you have to travel to begin to see your own situation with new eyes.
I read these statistics this week and they brought me to my knees for my brothers and sisters in this country:
“The US incarcerates a higher proportion of blacks than apartheid South Africa did.”
“In America, the black-white wealth gap today is greater than it was in South Africa in 1970 at the peak of apartheid.”
It was Christians who brought apartheid to South Africa. They thought God condoned it; even mandated it.
As a Christian in America today, I wonder what role I might be playing in the pain and suffering of my neighbors.
Of all the questions I might ask myself these days, this might be one of the most important.