What in the World Are You Griping About

Crying victimhood as you’re not allowed out

I’m talking to the privileged in the US and elsewhere.

First, let me thank Helen Cassidy Page for triggering the idea for my story with her insightful essay on the goings-on in her country.

I endorse the views she expresses.

From a global perspective, the location may differ, but the underlying message doesn’t. I’m calling out the privileged classes wherever they are, including South Africans.

You isolate in your apartment or house, blessed with paved roads, running water, a flush toilet, electricity and the grocery store is a ten-minute drive away.

You have access to the internet where you can Zoom to your heart’s content or fill your hours with friends on House Party or movies on Netflix.

I bet you have more than one room in your home. And a kitchen where you can create three meals a day. Bake bread. Roast a chicken.

But you whine you’re missing your wine. The cellar is drained now, even though you had the funds to stock up a month’s worth before lockdown.

It’s 42 days with no end in sight and you bitch at your empty glass over dinner while food parcels have still not reached the millions who have been hungry for five weeks.

“Isn’t that awful?” you say, but do nothing to help.

In South Africa they have banned the sale of alcohol and tobacco products since March 27 — this prohibition continues as they eased restrictions on May 4. Sadly, the criminal underworld is thriving on illicit trade. The black market is flourishing in the virus’s slipstream — even food parcels go missing and are sold for profit.

Lawyers are lobbying to have the ban on alcohol and tobacco lifted because the privileged are complaining.

I’ve been a teetotaler for over two decades and accept and understand the rationale for the legislation — to free up trauma units to treat Covid-19 patients in an over-burdened public health system. The caseload has decreased 67%.

Even if I still drank, I would say “Cheers!” to that.

I’m now an ex-smoker. Despite that being forced upon me at short notice, I was planning to stop anyway, and ran out of ciggies on March 31. Five weeks and counting. I’ve managed my withdrawal with the help of nicotine gum.

I’m content because I’ve reduced my health risks.

It’s natural to stereotype me as privileged, being a Whitey living in South Africa. Nothing could be further from the truth. Many of you know my story, which I shall not repeat here.

Throughout my seven decades I have always loved every human bean. (Spelled the way I first wrote it age six!)

Although I was born in 1950, after World War II, I was aware of the sacrifice and suffering by family and the entire British nation who’d endured fourteen years of austerity and anguish but never faltered. (They repealed the last rationed items when I was four.)

In 1922, when my Dad was six, his eldest sister succumbed to rheumatic fever at 15.

Prior to that, 40-million perished in World War I and another 50-million died from the Spanish Flu which started in the spring of 1918 and spread across the globe as troops returned home after the armistice in November that year, in crowded ships and trains.

During World War II, one of my aunts lost her fiance, a naval officer, when his ship sank in battle. She dedicated the rest of her life to the Wrens (Woman’s Royal Navy Service), received her OBE (Order of the British Empire) in 1962 and retired in 1964.

My father was a Japanese POW captured in the fall of Singapore in 1942. He spent three and a half years working on the Burma Railway in appalling conditions. He was known for his snake and lizard stew and sense of humor.

POW’s returning from the Far East never received ticker-tape parades or a hero’s welcome, but he never grumbled. He suffered from recurring bouts of malaria for the rest of his life but got on with the job of living, not seeking pity, though he fell victim to periods of depression.

I guess it’s because of my family background, I empathize with the suffering of others.

I cannot relate to or endorse those who want to party and have fun as if nothing’s wrong.

How would you feel crammed into a one-room shack in a township or informal settlement with eight to ten people; where you share a communal toilet with 25 or more; where you cannot venture out to make enough money to buy food for today’s meal because if you do you may be whipped, beaten or arrested?

Another world you do not see, where the people say they’ll die of hunger long before the virus gets them.

Here’s another side to Cape Town you wouldn’t have seen as a tourist.

The easing of lockdown on May 1 allows outdoor exercise from 0600–0900.

That morning, the Sea Point promenade was overloaded with people literally exercising on top of one another. But after 9 am, the promenade emptied. Middle class joggers, cyclists and walkers returned to their comfortable homes. They could choose whether or not to return the next day.

Meanwhile the residents of the nearby township of Khayelitsha have no choice but to stay put.

I voted in an online poll yesterday run by a local news channel. The results shocked me.

The question was:

“Have you donated to charity or the Solidarity Fund during lockdown?”

67% = No

33% = Yes

Two-thirds of these middle-class subscribers had chipped in zilch.

I wasn’t one of them.

Important to note that many South Africans ARE helping their compatriots but, like me, mostly those who can least afford it, while the wealthy cling to their last bottle of Blue Label.

There.

I’ve had my rant.

Please spare a thought for others’ needs besides yours. This pandemic will take however long it takes.

Stay safe. Stay Healthy.