Pretoria:
Learning
in
Future
Africa
My
wife
and
I
spent
five
days
in
Pretoria
as
one
of
six
facilitators
for
a
leadership
development
forum
for
university
administrators
from
across
the
continent,
organized
by
the
International
Association
of
Universities
(IAU)
and
UNESCO.
The
sessions
were
held
at
the
Future
Africa
Campus
of
the
sprawling
University
of
Pretoria.
I
presented
twice,
first
on
“Rethinking
Revenue:
Diversification
and
Fundraising
in
Universities,”
and
then
on
“Steering
Higher
Education
in
the
Digital
Era.”
The
discussions
were
robust,
textured
with
both
urgency
and
imagination.
It
was
a
pleasure
working
alongside
fellow
facilitators:
current
and
former
vice
chancellors
(presidents)
from
Egypt,
Ghana,
Britain,
South
Africa,
and
Australia,
and
a
provost
from
the
United
States,
as
well
as
participants
from
universities
across
the
continent.
I
learned
as
much
as
I
taught,
not
only
in
formal
sessions
but
in
unplanned
conversations
over
meals
and
coffee
breaks,
including
sumptuous
dinners
in
the
city
and
on
campus.
Outside
the
program,
Pretoria
revealed
itself
in
quieter
ways.
I
strolled,
sometimes
accompanied
by
my
wife,
through
the
neighborhoods
around
the
campus,
soaking
in
the
rhythms
of
this
bureaucratic
capital,
watching
people
move
through
their
day,
including
government
employees,
office
workers,
youths,
and
students.
I
paused
often,
letting
the
city
pass
before
me
like
a
gently
unfolding
film,
its
pace
measured
and
unhurried.
Shops
and
cafés
exuded
the
intimate
rituals
of
daily
life:
parents
shopping
for
the
holidays;
friends
meeting
after
work
and
leaning
in
to
exchange
the
latest
news;
young
couples
holding
hands
across
a
table,
whispering
with
the
seriousness
of
first
love;
older
men
reading
newspapers
slowly,
pausing
now
and
then
to
glance
up
at
the
street
as
if
measuring
the
world
outside
against
the
headlines.
A
low
hum
of
cups,
footsteps,
and
conversation
became
its
own
form
of
welcome.
At
small
shops
and
bakeries,
people
queued
patiently,
exchanging
greetings
in
English,
Afrikaans,
and
Setswana,
the
languages
layering
into
a
soft,
melodic
hum.
There
was
something
grounding
about
watching
ordinary
suburban
life
happen,
including
gardeners
tending
to
hedges
with
quiet
pride,
parents
coming
from
work,
and
students
returning
from
school.
These
simple
moments
offered
a
reminder
that
dignity
lives
in
routine,
and
belonging
is
built
in
fragments
of
everyday
gesture.
It
reminded
me
that
cities,
even
those
where
power
is
concentrated
in
offices
and
ministries,
are
also
held
together
by
the
small,
steady
acts
of
people
who
belong
to
them.
In
those
moments,
Pretoria
felt
less
like
a
capital
and
more
like
a
living
neighborhood,
textured,
human,
and
quietly
compelling.
Cape
Town:
Where
Oceans
and
Histories
Meet
From
there,
the
world
opened
wider
in
Cape
Town,
where
we
spent
a
week.
My
wife
and
I
stayed
at
a
boutique
hotel
at
the
Waterfront,
a
place
where
ocean,
commerce,
and
culture
meet,
creating
an
atmosphere
that
feels
both
worldly
and
deeply
rooted.
Each
evening
we
sampled
different
restaurants,
feasting
on
seafood
and
conversation.
One
night,
joined
by
friends,
we
dined
in
downtown
Cape
Town
to
the
sounds
of
a
legendary
South
African
jazz
musician,
with
music
rising
like
memory
and
lingering
in
the
cool
evening
air.
We
spent
a
day
with
a
friend,
a
senior
administrator
at
the
University
of
Cape
Town,
together
with
his
wife,
driving
the
winding
coastal
road
toward
Cape
Point.
As
we
ascended
the
escarpment,
we
stopped
at
lookouts
to
take
in
the
city
behind
us
and
the
shimmering
ocean
below,
the
water
shifting
from
slate
to
turquoise
as
the
sun
rose
higher.
The
road
curled
along
the
mountainside
like
a
ribbon
laid
between
rock
and
sea,
each
turn
revealing
new
vistas:
vineyards
tucked
into
valleys
and
hillsides,
clusters
of
pastel
houses
clinging
to
the
slopes,
and
fishing
boats
scattered
across
the
bay
like
flecks
of
paint
on
a
canvas.
At
each
stop
the
wind
carried
the
smell
of
seawater
and
fynbos,
and
our
interlocutors
narrated
the
landscape
with
the
ease
of
people
who
know
it
well,
speaking
of
its
beauty,
its
tensions,
and
the
histories
laid
into
the
shoreline.
Further
along,
we
stopped
at
the
penguin
reserve
at
Boulders
Beach,
where
the
charismatic,
tuxedoed
birds
waddled
along
the
sand
and
into
the
surf
with
disarming
dignity.
Watching
them
slip
into
and
out
of
the
water
felt
like
witnessing
a
quiet
miracle
of
nature.
We
continued
the
drive,
passing
through
Simon’s
Town,
home
to
South
Africa’s
principal
naval
base,
with
its
whitewashed
buildings,
stately
harbor,
and
the
faint
scent
of
salt
and
engine
oil
mingling
in
the
wind.
Eventually,
we
reached
Cape
Point,
the
southernmost
tip
of
the
continent,
where
the
land
drops
off
into
wind
and
endless
sea,
a
place
that
feels
like
both
an
ending
and
a
beginning.
Another
day,
an
old
family
friend,
a
renowned
academic
born,
bred,
and
intellectually
formed
by
Cape
Town,
guided
us
through
neighborhoods
layered
with
history,
pain,
and
extraordinary
beauty.
With
her,
the
city
became
a
text,
one
written
in
memory,
resilience,
and
a
fierce
sense
of
place,
as
alive
in
its
vistas
as
in
its
silences,
complexities,
contradictions,
immense
wealth
and
deep
inequalities,
cosmopolitanism
and
provincialism.
Between
outings,
we
explored
the
Waterfront’s
bustling
shopping
malls,
watching
the
holiday
season
unfold
in
hurried
purchases
and
joyful
reunions.
We
walked
the
expansive
boardwalk
along
Beach
Road
all
the
way
to
Sea
Point,
pausing
at
neighborhood
eateries
for
refreshments.
One
memorable
morning
I
visited
the
Zeitz
Museum
of
Contemporary
African
Art,
reportedly
the
world’s
largest
museum
dedicated
to
contemporary
African
and
diasporic
art.
The
building
itself,
an
architectural
marvel,
seemed
to
breathe
creativity.
Cape
Town
lingered
with
us
long
after.
Table
Mountain
rose
like
an
ancient
god,
the
harbor
shimmered
with
possibility,
and
the
promenade
at
sunset
left
me
speechless
as
I
witnessed
beauty
made
effortless.
No
wonder
Cape
Town,
combining
the
unparalleled
natural
splendor
of
majestic
mountains
and
hills
with
the
dramatic
meeting
point
of
two
oceans,
the
Indian
and
the
Atlantic,
and
the
energy
of
a
vibrant
urban
life,
is
a
global
tourist
mecca.
It
draws
international
visitors
and
new
residents
in
numbers
that
have
increasingly
priced
many
locals
out
of
the
seafront
and
the
tony
suburbs,
altering
the
social
geography
of
neighborhood
after
neighborhood.
The
result
is
a
city
of
astounding
wonder
and
complex
tensions,
a
place
where
nature
and
aspiration
coexist
uneasily
in
beauty
and
strain.
Victoria
Falls:
At
the
Mouth
of
Awe
Victoria
Falls
arrived
like
a
revelation.
Nature
there
overwhelms
language:
thunderous
sheets
of
water
collapsing
into
a
gorge
of
mist
and
rainbows,
the
earth
breathing
in
geologic
time.
We
stayed
for
five
days
at
an
old,
elegant
hotel
built
in
1904
that,
despite
its
size,
feels
almost
intimate.
The
service
is
superb
without
being
obsequious,
anchored
in
a
graciousness
that
seems
inherited
from
another
era.
Our
room
was
spacious
and
full
of
old-world
charm
with
polished
wood,
high
ceilings,
and
windows
that
opened
to
a
chorus
of
birdsong.
Its
neatly
made
bed
with
crisp
white
linens
sat
beneath
a
soft,
flowing
mosquito-net
canopy,
creating
a
serene,
elegant,
and
gently
romantic
atmosphere.
There
were
several
dining
spaces,
including
a
beautiful
verandah
where
we
ate
lunch,
a
thatch-roofed
open-air
restaurant,
where
breakfast
was
served
as
the
morning
mist
rolled
in,
fronted
by
a
stone
sculpture
garden
that
showcased
the
artistry
Zimbabwe
is
famous
for,
and
an
ornate
formal
dining
room
where
some
meals
were
prepared
in
front
of
us
with
quiet
theatricality.
The
well-manicured
grounds,
dotted
with
mango
and
other
trees,
overlooked
stunning
greenery
and
the
far-off
plume
of
mist
rising
from
the
falls,
like
smoke
from
a
sacred
fire.
The
national
park
at
Victoria
Falls
is
astonishing
in
scale.
The
cataract
runs
for
more
than
a
mile,
almost
three
times
the
length
of
Niagara
Falls,
bordering
Canada
and
the
United
States,
and
forms
an
immense
sheet
of
water
that
seems
to
break
the
world
open.
The
stone
walking
trail
along
the
cliff
was
busy
with
visitors
from
Zimbabwe,
from
neighboring
countries,
and
from
every
corner
of
the
globe.
Standing
before
the
roar
of
the
falls,
the
air
thick
with
spray,
we
were
drenched
in
seconds.
It
was
a
deeply
moving
experience
that
left
us
suspended
between
awe
and
humility,
reminded
of
how
small
human
ambition
feels
beside
the
overwhelming
beauty
and
power
of
nature.
One
evening,
we
took
a
sunset
boat
cruise
on
the
Zambezi,
the
fourth-longest
river
in
Africa.
It
begins
in
northwestern
Zambia,
winds
through
Angola,
curves
along
the
border
of
Namibia,
Zambia,
and
Zimbabwe,
and
then
slips
through
Mozambique
until
it
reaches
the
Indian
Ocean.
Light
caught
in
reeds,
hippos
bared
their
huge
teeth
from
the
water
while
crocodiles
basked
on
the
shores,
and
the
sun
slipped
toward
the
horizon
like
a
dropped
coin.
The
passengers
formed
a
temporary
community,
a
lively
mix
of
voices,
accents,
nationalities,
races,
and
stories.
The
chatter
felt
animated,
carried
by
the
collective
wonder
of
strangers
sharing
the
same
moment
of
enchantment.
We
also
explored
the
town
beyond
the
hotel.
We
visited
the
nearby
mall,
ate
at
a
restaurant
in
the
town,
and
stopped
at
crafts
shops
displaying
ornaments,
carvings,
fabrics,
and
paintings
rich
with
color
and
history.
As
is
my
habit,
I
bargained
with
the
vendors,
not
only
for
the
joy
of
the
exchange
but
for
the
conversations
that
came
with
it.
I
spoke
with
Uber
drivers
about
national
politics
and
the
state
of
the
economy.
I
asked
about
their
lives
and
their
aspirations.
Their
candor
revealed
a
country
navigating
difficulty
with
creativity
and
endurance.
The
horrid
settler
colonial
past
was
not
gone;
it
negotiated
itself
with
the
harried
postcolonial
present
through
every
conversation.
Johannesburg:
The
Glitter
and
the
Grind
From
Victoria
Falls,
we
went
to
Johannesburg,
where
we
spent
ten
days,
which
felt
like
the
final
movement
of
a
symphony:
restless,
creative,
bruised,
and
triumphant.
It
is
a
city
that
never
sits
still.
It
thinks
aloud.
It
improvises.
It
hopes
in
public.
We
stayed
in
an
apartment
hotel
complex
in
Sandton,
the
financial
heart
of
Johannesburg,
and
often
described
as
the
wealthiest
enclave
on
the
continent.
The
area
is
a
glittering
collage
of
corporate
offices,
glamorous
hotels,
polished
shopping
malls,
fine
restaurants,
and
the
Johannesburg
Stock
Exchange.
Nelson
Mandela
Square,
a
ten-minute
walk
from
our
hotel,
served
as
a
daily
anchor,
a
plaza
where
locals
and
visitors
gathered
beneath
the
statue
of
Madiba.
Our
time
in
the
city
was
framed
by
visits
to
places
where
history
sits
close
to
the
skin.
We
toured
Soweto
and
spent
an
afternoon
at
the
Nelson
Mandela
House
Museum,
which
has
been
impressively
upgraded
since
our
last
visit
in
2008.
The
driver
who
took
us
there
also
guided
us
through
the
city,
pointing
out
landmarks
along
the
way,
and
then
up
to
Northcliff
Hill
for
a
panoramic
view
of
Johannesburg’s
sprawl,
a
horizon
of
suburbs,
townships,
shopping
centers,
and
distant
towers
shimmering
in
the
summer
heat
and
rain.
Another
day,
an
old
family
friend,
one
of
South
Africa’s
leading
writers
whose
family
name
is
woven
into
the
history
of
the
ANC
and
the
anti-apartheid
struggle,
took
us
with
her
two
sons,
daughter-in-law,
and
granddaughter
to
the
world-renowned
Sterkfontein
Caves,
part
of
the
UNESCO-designated
Cradle
of
Humankind
World
Heritage
Site
famed
for
its
extraordinary
paleoanthropological
discoveries.
The
caves,
located
about
an
hour’s
drive
northwest
of
Johannesburg,
are
among
the
richest
early
hominid
fossil
sites
in
the
world
and
have
yielded
more
than
500
hominid
specimens
that
illuminate
human
origins
over
several
million
years.
Excavations
there
produced
the
first
adult
Australopithecus
africanus
fossils,
including
the
iconic
skull
known
as
“Mrs.
Ples,”
and
“Little
Foot,”
one
of
the
oldest
and
most
complete
early
hominids
ever
found,
with
parts
dated
to
around
3.6
million
years
ago.
Tours
of
the
caves
take
visitors
through
chambers
and
passages
where
these
fossils
were
uncovered,
bringing
to
life
the
deep
timelines
of
our
shared
past
and
offering
a
humbling
perspective
on
the
sweep
of
human
history.
On
our
own,
we
took
Ubers
across
the
city
to
see
its
layers:
historic
townships,
where
South
Africa
reckons
with
its
past,
and
new
residential
developments
like
Waterfall,
where
the
country
rehearses
its
future.
What
made
Johannesburg
especially
memorable
was
the
reconnection
with
family
and
friends.
On
several
days,
we
spent
time
with
one
of
my
nieces,
whom
I
had
last
seen
in
2012
when
she
was
thirteen,
and
her
mother.
We
visited
their
home
in
the
northern
suburbs
of
Johannesburg,
which
looked
as
pristine
as
it
did
the
last
time
my
wife,
her
mother,
and
I
were
there
in
2008.
One
of
the
highlights
was
the
Christmas
lunch
they
invited
us
to
at
a
hotel
restaurant
nearby,
a
large,
warm,
and
inviting
space
overlooking
a
beautiful
yard
where
midday
sunlight
filtered
through
the
sky
high
windows.
The
room
felt
bright
yet
relaxed,
the
gentle
clink
of
cutlery
underscoring
the
holiday
mood,
and
the
garden
view
lent
the
setting
an
easy
grace.
The
tables
were
elegantly
dressed,
the
service
attentive
without
intrusion,
and
two
musicians,
a
man
and
a
woman,
performed
festive
music
by
African
American
and
South
African
artists,
their
harmonies
threading
soul,
jazz,
and
township
rhythms
into
the
afternoon
air.
The
meal
was
served
buffet-style,
with
guests
moving
at
an
unhurried
pace
between
stations
offering
an
abundant
spread
of
dishes.
The
restaurant
was
full
of
people
from
across
the
city
and
beyond,
a
diverse
gathering
speaking
the
many
languages
of
the
rainbow
nation,
with
some
visitors
from
neighboring
countries
joining
the
celebration.
It
felt
like
belonging
in
motion.
Among
the
most
memorable
moments
in
Johannesburg
were
our
visits
with
old
friends
the
day
after
Christmas:
first
with
the
former
vice
chancellor
of
the
University
of
Pretoria
in
the
morning,
and
later
with
the
former
vice
chancellor
of
the
University
of
Johannesburg
in
the
afternoon.
The
latter
welcomed
us
into
his
beautiful
home
in
Houghton,
the
leafy
suburb
near
where
Mandela
once
lived,
a
place
that
still
carries
the
echoes
of
history
in
its
quiet
streets.
Over
a
generous
meal,
with
music
playing
softly
in
the
background
like
a
quiet
current
beneath
our
words,
the
conversation
widened
and
deepened
by
the
minute.
We
moved
from
the
state
of
South
African
universities
to
the
shifting
architecture
of
local
and
global
politics,
from
personal
memories
to
national
memory,
from
the
unfinished
work
of
liberation
to
the
fragile
possibilities
struggling
to
be
born.
It
was
the
kind
of
exchange
in
which
time
loosens
its
grip,
hours
passing
like
minutes,
leaving
us
both
more
informed,
more
reflective,
and
quietly
stirred
by
what
the
future
might
yet
hold.
Johannesburg
is
a
city
where
transformation
is
visible,
especially
in
its
expanding
Black
middle
class.
Post-apartheid
South
Africa
has
experienced
a
significant
rise
in
Black
professionals
and
households
with
stable
incomes,
a
demographic
now
larger
than
the
white
middle
class
and
a
crucial
engine
of
economic
growth.
Yet
the
gains
are
uneven.
White
households
continue
to
hold
most
national
wealth,
and
the
divide
within
the
Black
middle
and
working
classes
is
widening,
with
some
advancing
while
others
struggle
to
maintain
mobility.
Compared
with
many
other
African
states,
South
Africa’s
Black
middle
class
is
larger,
more
established,
and
more
economically
grounded,
whereas
in
many
other
countries
the
middle
class
remains
newer,
smaller,
and
vulnerable
to
economic
shocks.
The
United
States
has
a
much
larger
Black
middle
class
in
absolute
size,
but
it
too
suffers
from
entrenched
racial
wealth
disparities.
Despite
advances
in
income
and
education,
Black
household
wealth
remains
a
fraction
of
white
household
wealth.
In
both
countries,
the
question
of
who
rises,
who
stalls,
and
who
is
left
behind
remains
central.
There
were
also
encounters
that
told
quieter
stories.
We
met
several
African
Americans
at
hotels,
restaurants,
and
tourist
sites,
some
visiting
for
the
holidays,
others
planning
to
relocate
or
already
settled
in
Johannesburg
or
Cape
Town.
Many
spoke
of
South
Africa
as
a
place
where
they
could
breathe
more
freely,
where
the
weight
of
racial
hostility
was
absent,
and
where
they
could
enjoy
a
standard
of
living
equal
to
or
higher
than
what
they
had
in
the
United
States.
Their
reflections
carried
the
resonance
of
both
relief
and
reinvention.
At
the
same
time,
we
met
African
migrants
from
other
parts
of
the
continent,
especially
Zimbabwe
my
country
of
birth,
drawn
to
Johannesburg
by
professional
opportunities,
education,
or
simply
the
hope
of
something
better.
Their
journeys
were
shaped
by
resilience
but
also
by
vulnerability,
as
they
balanced
possibility
with
the
risk
of
xenophobia,
which
continues
to
surface
unpredictably
in
the
competitive
social
dynamics
of
everyday
life.
By
the
time
we
left,
Johannesburg
had
imprinted
itself
upon
us.
It
is
a
city
of
staggering
contradictions,
where
triumph
and
sorrow,
brilliance
and
struggle,
live
side
by
side.
Yet
it
is
also
a
place
of
irrepressible
creativity,
of
a
vibrant
art
scene,
film
industry,
theater,
and
music,
including
the
latest
genre
of
Amapiano.
It
felt,
in
the
best
way,
like
standing
backstage
before
the
curtain
rises,
the
conversations
in
restaurants
and
living
rooms
carrying
the
tension
of
an
orchestra
tuning
before
history
begins
its
next
performance.
As
our
days
in
Johannesburg
unfolded,
the
conversations
around
us
widened.
What
began
as
casual
exchanges
about
daily
life
often
opened
into
deeper
reflections
on
politics,
history,
and
the
fragile
scaffolding
of
democracy.
In
living
rooms,
restaurants,
cars,
and
queues,
the
question
kept
arising:
not
only
what
South
Africa
is
becoming,
but
what
the
United
States
has
become.
Questions
We
Could
Not
Escape
Wherever
we
went
in
South
Africa
and
Zimbabwe,
conversations
eventually
circled
back
to
the
United
States.
Almost
everyone
we
met
asked
about
it.
Uber
drivers,
hotel
staff,
vendors
in
markets,
family
and
friends
at
dinner
tables,
strangers
who
overheard
my
wife’s
accent
and
turned
with
curiosity.
They
asked
how
someone
as
crude,
cruel,
and
chaotic
as
Donald
Trump
could
have
been
reelected
president.
They
inquired
about
what
had
happened
to
a
country
once
seen
as
a
global
model
of
democratic
aspiration.
They
wondered
why
American
institutions
that
seemed
powerful
from
a
distance,
from
Congress
to
corporations
to
universities,
appeared
hesitant
and
uncertain,
indeed
craven,
in
the
face
of
democratic
backsliding.
Some
were
aghast
at
how
misinformation
spreads
so
quickly
in
the
United
States,
including
claims
circulating
in
certain
right-wing
media
ecosystems
and
MAGA
circles
about
so-called
genocide
against
Afrikaners
in
South
Africa,
questions
fueled
by
online
narratives
and
public
figures
with
South
African
roots
in
business
and
technology,
often
labeled
locally
as
the
South
African
apartheid
mafia.
They
wanted
to
understand
why
such
claims
are
taken
seriously
by
so
many
Americans.
A
few
of
those
we
encountered
expressed
support
for
Trump’s
America
first
agenda,
but
it
became
clear
that
this
was
rarely
an
endorsement
of
what
the
Trump
administration
was
actually
doing
in
the
United
States.
It
was
more
a
projected
wish
that
African
leaders
might
also
put
their
own
countries
first,
govern
with
urgency,
and
act
with
clarity
of
purpose.
In
response,
we
shared
our
perspectives
that
the
United
States
has
always
been
a
flawed
democracy
rather
than
a
full
democracy,
to
borrow
the
classification
used
by The
Economist.
Its
weaknesses
are
structural
as
well
as
cultural.
The
Electoral
College
distorts
representation.
Gerrymandering
protects
minority
rule.
The
judiciary,
including
the
Supreme
Court,
is
intensely
politicized.
Voting
rights
remain
uneven
and
vulnerable.
All
of
this
is
rooted
in
the
country’s
original
sin
of
white
supremacy,
a
foundational
contradiction
that
has
never
been
resolved.
Today,
demographic
change
and
the
fear
of
a
coming
majority-minority
nation
have
accelerated
the
crisis,
fueling
a
volatile
blend
of
white
racial
anxiety,
nativism,
and
ethnonationalist
revival.
We
also
noted
that
this
moment
in
the
United
States
does
not
exist
in
isolation.
It
is
part
of
a
wider
global
political
current.
Across
parts
of
Europe,
identitarian
movements
have
re-emerged,
alongside
populist
parties
restricting
immigration
from
the
Global
South.
Asylum
seekers
are
framed
as
threats
rather
than
people.
Anti-immigrant
rhetoric
is
normalized
in
parliamentary
debates.
In
this
context,
some
Americans
sympathetic
to
these
movements
look
to
South
Africa’s
apartheid
past
as
a
cautionary
model,
or
even
a
blueprint,
for
preserving
white
cultural
dominance
and
minority
rule.
The
result
is
a
feedback
loop
where
American
racial
panic
and
European
anti-immigrant
populism
reinforce
one
another,
producing
a
shared
political
vocabulary
of
exclusion.
The
questions
we
heard
were
not
voiced
with
malice
or
triumph.
They
were
asked
with
concern,
confusion,
and
sometimes
sorrow.
If
democracy
can
falter
in
the
United
States,
many
wondered,
what
hope
is
there
for
younger
or
more
fragile
democracies
elsewhere?
It
was
a
reminder
that
America’s
crisis
is
never
only
America’s
affair.
Its
failures
are
witnessed.
Its
struggles
are
studied.
Its
consequences
are
global.
These
encounters
stayed
with
us
as
we
boarded
our
flight
from
Johannesburg
to
Washington
DC
last
night.
They
formed
the
backdrop
to
our
reflections
on
South
Africa
as
we
prepared
to
leave,
a
country
still
in
motion
and
still
negotiating
the
meaning
of
freedom.
We
were
struck
by
how
well
informed
so
many
South
Africans
and
Zimbabweans
are
about
world
affairs,
especially
the
United
States,
often
with
a
depth
and
nuance
that
far
exceeds
what
most
Americans
know
about
Africa,
South
Africa,
or
Zimbabwe,
a
disparity
shaped
by
histories
of
global
hierarchy
and
each
society’s
place
within
it.
It
reminded
us
that
knowledge,
like
mobility,
is
unevenly
distributed
along
the
lines
of
power
and
geography.
We
were
equally
fascinated
to
see
that
the
flights
to
and
from
Washington
DC
and
Johannesburg
were
now
predominantly
Black,
a
marked
contrast
from
years
ago.
In
the
late
2000s,
I
published
an
essay
on
the
“Whiteness
of
Airports”
and
the
way
white
bodies
dominated
the
global
circuits
of
travel,
even
to
and
from
Africa.
That
is
clearly
no
longer
the
case.
Even
with
Trump’s
travel
bans,
visa
restrictions,
and
the
frictions
that
still
govern
mobility
from
the
continent,
something
has
shifted.
The
skies
themselves
seem
to
be
changing.
Conclusion:
A
Country
Still
in
Motion
While
our
visit
to
South
Africa
was
largely
a
vacation,
save
for
the
first
five
days
in
Pretoria,
as
an
academic
who
once
taught
the
history
of
South
Africa,
and
having
engaged
with
South
African
scholars
and
even
a
few
politicians
for
decades,
I
cannot
help
putting
on
my
analytical
hat.
Travel
sharpens
perception,
and
the
beauty
of
the
present
coexists
with
the
shadows
of
the
past.
Since
1994,
the
country
has
made
undeniable
gains.
It
has
built
and
sustained
democratic
institutions,
expanded
civil
liberties,
unified
a
previously
fragmented
education
system,
and
increased
access
to
housing,
water,
electricity,
and
healthcare.
Millions
who
once
lived
at
the
margins
were
drawn
closer
to
the
center
of
national
life.
For
a
time,
economic
growth
was
strong,
with
GDP
expanding
significantly
and
public
finance
management,
inflation
control,
and
macroeconomic
governance
improving
compared
to
the
uncertainty
of
the
twilight
years
of
apartheid
following
the
Soweto
uprising
of
1976.
Yet,
the
structural
legacies
of
apartheid
remain
formidable.
South
Africa
still
carries
the
burden
of
being
the
most
unequal
society
in
the
world,
with
wealth
concentrated
in
the
hands
of
a
few
and
poverty
deepening
again
in
recent
years.
Unemployment
is
staggering,
especially
among
young
people,
with
joblessness
exceeding
sixty
percent
in
some
cohorts.
Infrastructure
has
faced
strains:
until
recently,
loadshedding
was
commonplace,
water
systems
challenges
persist,
and
service
delivery
gaps
weigh
heavily
on
the
poor.
Corruption
and
governance
failures
continue
to
corrode
public
trust.
The
energy
transition
remains
fraught,
anchored
in
an
overwhelming
dependence
on
coal
and
complicated
by
regional
gas
supply
vulnerabilities,
although
green
energy
is
apparently
expanding,
facilitated
by
the
liberalization
of
energy
markets.
Education,
while
more
accessible,
struggles
with
quality,
uneven
resources,
and
exhausted
institutions.
Land
and
housing
inequalities
persist,
shaping
who
belongs
where
and
on
what
terms.
And
yet,
South
Africa
is
not
a
simple
story
of
decline
or
progress
beloved
by
the
country’s
foes
and
friends.
It
is
a
story
of
contestation,
of
what
we
used
to
call
in
radical
African
political
economy,
uneven
development,
the
persistent
mismatch
between
growth
and
development.
It
is
a
country
where
the
future
is
negotiated
in
real
time.
It
remains
one
of
the
few
postcolonial
states
where
democratic
accountability,
constitutionalism,
and
civic
voice
still
hold
meaningful
power.
Its
Black
middle
class,
now
larger
in
absolute
size
than
the
white
middle
class,
has
become
an
engine
of
economic
dynamism,
even
as
racial
wealth
gaps
stubbornly
endure.
Cultural
and
intellectual
life
is
vibrant,
universities
remain
laboratories
of
critique
and
innovation,
and
new
forms
of
organizing
and
imagining
are
emerging
from
the
ground
up.
The
problems
are
immense,
but
so
is
the
civic
imagination
that
confronts
them.
Leaving
Johannesburg,
I
carried
two
truths
that
sit
side
by
side
without
canceling
each
other
out.
South
Africa
is
a
place
of
astonishing
beauty,
creativity,
and
resilience.
It
is
also
a
place
wrestling
with
inequality,
broken
systems,
and
the
unfinished
work
of
liberation.
But
perhaps
that
is
the
point:
freedom
is
not
an
arrival;
it
is
a
process.
And
in
South
Africa,
that
process
continues,
noisy,
brilliant,
wounded,
determined,
and
alive.