CHARLA SMITH

Om te sê dat geweld ‘n probleem in Suid-Afrika is, is ‘n onomstrede en selfs banale stelling om te maak. Die media- en misdaadstatistieke weerspieël hierdie feit duidelik. Om egter te sê dat Suid-Afrikaanse mans gewelddadig is, sal dalk ‘n meer kontroversiële, minder banale stelling wees om te maak en sal sekerlik deur sommige betwis word. Tog is dit dieselfde mediastories en statistieke wat beide stellings ondersteun. Mans is verreweg die mees gereelde plegers van geweld in hierdie land en dit laat my wonder wat dit van hierdie plek is wat hierdie gewelddadige manlikheid skep en vorm?

To say that violence is a problem in South Africa is an uncontroversial and even banal statement to make. The media and crime statistics reflect this fact clearly. However, to say that South African men are violent, would perhaps be a more controversial, less banal statement to make and would surely be contested by some. Yet it is the same media stories and statistics that support both statements. Men are by far the most frequent perpetrators of violence in this country and it makes me wonder what it is about this place that creates and shapes this violent masculinity?

Ek het in die 1980’s in die apartheidsjare grootgeword. My verwysingsraamwerk van wie mans is en hoe manlikheid lyk, voel en optree, is dus deur ’n deur-en-deur wit wêreld gevorm. Die mans wat ek teëgekom het, was natuurlik nie almal dieselfde nie en ek kon van ’n interessante deursnit van “stande” leer – van blouboordjiewerkers tot regters van die hooggeregshof wat gereeld ons bedrywige, gesellige en alkohol-gevulde huis besoek het. Ek was ’n inkennige, nadenkende kind en het baie van my tyd daaraan bestee om die grootmense dop te hou. In die proses het allerhande boodskappe oor gender op my jong, ongekunstelde gemoed ingewerk. Al hierdie jeugherinneringe het bygedra om ’n prentjie in my kop te vorm van wie en wat mans is: pret, sorgeloos, hardwerkend, liefdevol, maar ook soms gestres, kwaad, outoritêr en magtig. In my eie huiskring het ek egter nie manlike geweld direk ervaar nie.

Growing up as I did, in the 1980s during apartheid, meant that my frame of reference for who men were and how masculinity looked and felt and acted, was shaped in a decidedly white world. These men I encountered were obviously not all the same, and I had an interesting cross-section of classes to learn from: blue collar workers and High Court judges alike frequented our  busy, social and alcohol-infused home. I was an odd and awkward, contemplative child, and spent much of my time observing the adults. In the process all sorts of messages around gender impressed upon my young, undefended mind. I suppose that these childhood memories combined to form a picture for me about who men were: fun, carefree, hard working, loving, but also sometimes stressed, angry, authoritarian and powerful. But in my home life, I did not experience male violence directly.

Tog staan een herinnering uit wanneer ek nadink oor watter betekenis manlike geweld nou in my volwasse lewe aangeneem het. Die herinnering is aan ’n “oom”, soos ons kinders hom genoem het. Ter wille van anonimiteit sal ek hom hier Oom Baard noem. Hy was ’n vriendelike, gesette en saggeaarde man wat net te vrees was wanneer sy wedvlugduiwe teruggekom het van waar hulle ook al vrygelaat is. As ons, die kinders, ’n geraas gemaak het voordat hulle veilig na hul hok teruggekeer het en met behulp van ’n spesiale tydboks ingeklok is (’n uitheemse en ontsagwekkende kontrepsie vir my kinderlike verstand), sou ons in ’n ongespesifiseerde gevaarsone verkeer: Moeilikheid wat nooit volledig verwoord is nie, maar wat ek my voorgestel het ’n uitskellery of dalk selfs ’n pak slae sou kon ingesluit het.

Yet, one memory stands out against this backdrop, when I reflect now on what masculine violence has come to mean in my life. The memory is of a man, an “oom” as we children called him. For the purposes of anonymity, I will call him here Oom Baard. He was a friendly, portly and gentle man who was only to be feared when his pigeons returned from wherever it was that they had been set free. If we children made a noise before they were safely returned to their cage and tallied in a special timekeeping box (an alien and awe-inspiring contraption to my child’s mind), we would be in an unspecified type of trouble that was never fully articulated, but which I imagined would be a scolding or perhaps even some sort of a smack.

Ons as gesin het baie nagte op Oom Baard se plaas deurgebring en my herinneringe sluit die onbeperkte koeksisters in wat ons uit die vrieskas gesteel het, ’n ingeboude trampolien (destyds ’n buitegewone luukse), motorhekke wat senutergend was om oor te steek en talle, talle alkohol-deurdrenkte vleisbraaie vir die volwassenes. Dit was die tipiese (wit) Suid-Afrikaanse kuiergeleentheid, waar die mans om die vuur staan en vleis braai, brandewyn of “cane” en coke drink, terwyl die vroue in die kombuis doenig is om slaaie en “bykosse” te maak. Sy vrou (ek sal haar Tannie Bettie noem) was vriendelik maar vanuit my stadsperspektief, effens ongesofistikeerd – “plat op die aarde”, soos ons sou sê.

With my family, I spent many nights at Oom Baard’s farm and my memories include unlimited koeksisters that we stole from the freezer, a built-in trampoline (an outlandish luxury at the time), cattle gates which were nerve-wracking to cross and many, many, adult-attended, alcohol-enhanced braais. It was the typical (white) South African situation, where the men stood around the fire, cooking meat, drinking brandy (or cane) and coke, and the wives were in the kitchen, making salads and “bykosse” (side dishes). His wife, I’ll call her Tannie Betty, was kind and, to my city sensibilities, slightly rough around the edges. “Plat op die aarde”, as we would have said, translatable as “no-nonsense” or even “unsophisticated”. 

Een oggend het Tannie Bettie aan die ontbyttafel verskyn met ’n baie eienaardige kneusing aan die kant van haar ken. Sy was nie een vir grimering nie – plat soos sy was – en selfs die ekstra moeite wat sy hierdie spesifieke oggend gedoen het, het nie die merk verbloem nie. Ek kan nie onthou wie dit genoem het of haar daaroor uitgevra het nie, en of sy die voorkoms van die kneusplek aan ons verduidelik het om lastige vrae by voorbaat af te weer nie. Wat ek egter goed onthou, is dat sy gebyt het, ongemaklik, met haar boonste tande – in die rigting van die verkleuring om te demonstreer hoe dit gebeur het dat haar ken blou was. Dit was die vreemdste oomblik, want voor hierdie onbeholpe verduideliking (opvallend onwaarskynlik, selfs vir ’n kind), het ek nie twee keer aan haar bloukol-ken gedink nie. In my jong verstand was daar ’n menigte geloofwaardige redes wat so ’n kneusplek sou kon verklaar – ons was immers rowwe kinders wat gedurig geval en onsself gestamp of seergemaak het. Dat grootmense nie geneig was om hulself op dieselfde wyse te stamp en te kneus nie, het nie eers by my opgekom nie. Ek was verward dat sy iets so klaarblyklik vals sou sê om te verduidelik wat vir my in die eerste plek geen verduideliking nodig gehad het nie. Selfs meer eienaardig was die feit dat almal aan wie sy dit verduidelik het, bloot geknik en aangehou gesels het, sonder om uit te wei oor presies hoe tande so ver ondertoe kon reik. Later onthou ek die gemompel onder die grootmense oor hoe sy eintlik nogal baie gedrink het, rumoerig en weerbarstig kon word, en hoe, al het dit nie juis Oom Baard se gedrag verskoon nie, dit wel iets verduidelik het. Sy het hom klaarblyklik een keer te veel in die verleentheid gestel en ’n tipe dissipline was miskien nodig. Sonder dat dit vir my in hierdie terme uitgespel is, het ek verstaan dat dit die heersende en gedeelde sentimente van die volwassenes was.

One morning at breakfast, Tannie Betty had a very peculiar bruise on the side of her chin. She was not one for wearing makeup, plat as she was, and even the extra effort she made this particular morning, did not conceal the mark. I don’t remember who mentioned it or asked her about it, or whether she pre-emptively, prophylactically, explained the appearance of the bruise to us. But what I do remember vividly, is her biting, awkwardly, with her top teeth, in the direction of the discolouration, to demonstrate how it came to be that her chin was blue. It was the weirdest moment, because prior to this unlikely explanation (obviously unlikely, even to a child), I had not given her chin a second thought. There were a myriad of plausible reasons, to my young mind, that would explain such a bruise – we were, after all, rough kids who were constantly falling and bumping and hurting ourselves. That the adults were not similarly inclined to bump and bruise themselves had not even occurred to me. I was perplexed that she would say something so patently false to explain something that to my mind had needed no explanation in the first place. Even more peculiar was the fact that everyone she was explaining this to, nodded and chattered on, not wanting to dwell on exactly how teeth could reach so far down. Later on, I recall murmurs amongst the adults about how she did in fact drink quite a lot, becoming rowdy and unruly, and how, even if this did not exactly excuse Oom Baard’s behaviour, it did explain it somewhat. She had obviously embarrassed him one too many times, and a type of discipline was perhaps called for. Without it being spelled out to me in these terms, I understood these to be the dominant and agreed-upon sentiments of the adults.

Ek wil nie die effek van hierdie storie op my oordryf en hoe dit my indrukke van mans en hul neiging tot geweld gevorm het nie. Maar ek kan dit ook nie afmaak as heeltemal irrelevant en onbelangrik vir hoe ek oor intieme verhoudings met mans begin dink het nie: Waarop hulle geregtig is, waartoe hulle in staat is en dus wat ek as volwasse vrou sal moet vermy. Ek het sedertdien uit navorsing geleer dat vroue nie (soos hulle te dikwels gelei word om te glo) in die grootste gevaar in (verlate) openbare ruimtes verkeer nie, bedreig deur monsteragtige, gevaarlike mans (die “vreemde [swart] gevaar”-verhaal). In plaas daarvan, en miskien teen-intuïtief, is die grootste risikofaktor vir ’n vrou om geweld te ervaar wanneer sy in ’n intieme verhouding met ’n man betrokke raak.^{[1]Sien Nechama Brodie. 2020. Femicide in South Africa. Kaapstad: Kwela Books.}

I don’t want to exaggerate this story’s effect on me, and how it shaped my impressions of men and their potential to be violent. But I also cannot dismiss it as wholly irrelevant and inconsequential to how I thought about intimate relationships with men: what they are entitled to, capable of and therefore what as an adult woman I would have to avoid. I have since learned from research that women are not (as they are too often led to believe)^{[2]See Pumla Dineo Gqola Female Fear Factory (2021).} in most danger in (deserted) public spaces, from monstrous dangerous men (the “stranger danger” trope, mostly racialised). Instead, and maybe counter-intuitively, the greatest risk factor for experiencing violence is for a woman to enter an intimate relationship.^{[3]See Nechama Brodie Femicide in South Africa (2020).}

Wanneer ek die lyn vanaf daardie vormende herinnering van Tannie Bettie se kneusplek deurtrek tot by die stories wat ek nou oor mans ken – oor vriende, kennisse, wederhelftes van my goeie vriende, koerantberigte oor mans wat hul vroue, meisies, eksvroue, eksmeisies vermoor – weet ek dat geweld ’n groter bedreiging is in intieme ruimtes as wat ek soms wil erken, en dat dit gepleeg word deur mense wat ek ken. Trouens, daar blyk ’n gevestigde kultuur te wees van mans wat teenoor vroue optree op ’n kontinuum van fisieke, emosionele, sielkundige geweld sowel as seksuele teistering. Dus, om Nechama Brodie te parafraseer: Wanneer ek bekommerd is oor gewelddadige mans, praat ek nie net van mans wat vroue vermoor nie, ek praat ook van ander vorme van meer alledaagse geweld wat mans vroue aandoen. Dit gaan egter nie net oor mans wat vroue slaan, vroue se gedrag beheer, wat onvanpaste voorstelle of opmerkings maak, wat vroue “tewe” of erger noem – persoonlik of aanlyn – wanneer vroue nie teenoor mans optree soos mans wil hê hulle moet nie. Nog erger – al hierdie vorme van gewelddadige beheer vind meer binne familie- en gemeenskapsverhoudings plaas as wat dit van buite hierdie kringe sal kom.

When I trace a line from that formative memory of Tannie Betty’s bruise to the stories I now know about men – about friends, acquaintances, husbands of close friends, newspaper stories about men killing wives, girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-girlfriends – I know that violence is more ubiquitous in intimate spaces, and committed by people I know, than I often pretend. In fact, there seems to be a pervasive culture of men behaving towards women on a continuum of physical, emotional, psychological violence as well as sexual harassment. Thus, to paraphrase Nechama Brodie: when I am worried about violent men, I am not only talking about men who murder women, I am also talking about other forms of more everyday violence that men commit against women. Which does not only mean men who hit women, control women’s behaviour, who make unwanted advances or comments, who call women “bitches” or worse – in person or online – when women do not behave towards men as men want them to (and all of these forms of violent control are more likely to play out within family and community relationships than they are to come from beyond these circles).

Vir my gaan dit egter veral oor elke man wat hierdie soort gedrag sien en daarvan weet, maar wat niks daarteen sê of doen nie. My eintlike bekommernis is “omstandermans” of “waarnemermans”. Dit is mans wat, soos in die geval van Tannie Bettie, presies weet wat aangaan, maar nogtans nie optree of dit stopsit nie – want miskien, net miskien, het sy verdien wat sy gekry het. In my ervaring geld dit vir byna alle mans.^{[4]Vroue het ook ongetwyfeld ’n rol om te speel om hierdie soort gedrag aan die kaak te stel, maar aangesien dit potensieel gevaarlik is, veral vir vroue om te praat, is mans miskien beter geplaas – nie net om van die gedrag in die eerste plek te weet nie, maar ook om iets konstruktiefs en sinvol daaraan te doen.}

I moreover also mean every man who has seen and knows about that kind of behaviour, and who has said and done nothing against it. I am thus also concerned about bystander men, the male adults who as in the case of Tannie Betty must know exactly what is going on, but finally decide not to act to make it stop, because just maybe, she deserved what she got. Which, is basically all men.^{[5]Women too, undoubtedly have a role to play in calling out this kind of behaviour, but since it is potentially dangerous, especially for women to speak up, perhaps men are better situated – not only to know about the behaviour in the first place, but also to do something constructive and meaningful about it.}

Ek dink daar is twee interessante temas wat hier na vore kom. Eerstens, dat geweld oor die algemeen op ’n kontinuum plaasvind, wat begin met kleiner, minder skadelike oortredings wat dan telkens eskaleer wanneer hierdie gedrag nie uitgedaag word nie. Die vae gevoel van gevaar wat ons gehad het rondom Oom Baard se terugkerende duiwe moes vir ons reeds ’n aanduiding gewees het van sy potensiaal vir geweld. Tweedens, en aansluitend by die eerste, speel omstanders (wat hierdie tipe gedrag óf kondoneer óf uitdaag) ’n belangrike rol in óf geweld voortgesit word en eskaleer, óf dat dit gestuit word. ’n Tweeledige strategie kan dus nuttig wees vir die voorkoming van manlike geweld: Eers moet ons almal daarop ingestel wees om vroeë verskynsels van wangedrag te identifiseer, maar om dit terselfdertyd openlik uit te wys en uit te daag om die verdere uitkring daarvan te verhoed. Brodie^{[6]Brodie 2020:211.} stel dit treffend wanneer sy skryf:

To my mind, there are two interesting themes that emerge here. First that violence generally occurs on a continuum, starting with smaller, less harmful offences that arguably/potentially escalate every time these behaviours are not challenged. The vague sense of danger we had around Oom Baard’s returning pigeons must already have been a clue as to his potential for violence. Second, and connected with the first, the role that bystanders play – allowing or challenging the behaviour – plays an important part in either perpetuating and escalating, or de-escalating violence. It would seem then, for the prevention of male violence, a twofold strategy might be useful: first we need to become collectively attuned to and thereby identify early warning behaviour,^{[7] If, as Laura Bates has argued, violence against women occurs on a continuum, the earlier we nip it in the bud, the less likely it is to escalate, then perhaps we need to, collectively, talk against, make strange and de-normalise the many instances of controlling behaviours in intimate relationships that make the commitment of violence so much more likely. See also Pumla Dineo Gqola’s Female Fear Factory (2021) wherein she describes interruption strategies to combat violence by disrupting its scripts.} then, simultaneously, we need to openly call it out and challenge it in order to thwart its proliferation/escalation.  Brodie puts it brilliantly when she writes:

If (as a man) you are not actively fighting against violence against women, if you are not taking full responsibility for your own behaviour (no cat-calling, no groping, no leering, no trying to have drunk sex with your female friend who has said no five times but is now just tired), if you are not calling out every male you see behaving this way towards a woman, if you are not stepping up with your male body and voice when you see a woman being abused in a public space, if you are not stepping up when you see a woman being abused in a domestic space… if you are not doing all of these things, then what you are is the lookout. You are the lookout at the door, making a safe space for the man inside the room who is doing all those violent things .

(Nechama Brodie, 2020: 211)

Ek dink terug aan Tannie Bettie, en die talle waarnemers en omstanders in haar lewe wat niks gesê en niks gedoen het om haar te help nie en wat hierdie mishandeling nie as vreemd beskou het nie. Dit is daardie persone wat ’n veilige ruimte vir die gewelddadige man onder haar dak help skep en in stand gehou het. Die swygende medepligtigheid van omstanders is baie belangriker as wat ons dink in die handhawing van ’n gewelddadige kultuur. Oortreders (of enigiemand wat “sleg” optree, wat die grense toets van wat as “aanvaarbaar” of “behoorlik” beskou word) kyk gewoonlik (tensy hulle psigopate is) na die reaksie van omstanders om te besluit of hul gedrag aanvaarbaar sal wees of veroordeel gaan word. As omstanders nie optree nie, word hierdie passiwiteit gewoonlik deur die oortreder geïnterpreteer as stille goedkeuring en ondersteuning. Hierdie omstanders word dan “kywies” wat meehelp dat wandade gepleeg word – “kywies” is daardie lede van die groep wat nie self die dade pleeg nie, maar waghou by die deur om te waarsku as gevaar dreig en in die proses eintlik medepligtiges word. Die werklike dader voel dus dat sy optrede geregverdig is en gelegitimeer word omdat omstanders en die sosiale konteks dit toelaat. Mans met ’n geneigdheid tot seksuele teistering word sterker aangespoor as hulle hul in situasies bevind wat tolerant en ondersteunend is van sulke gedrag.

I think back to Tannie Betty, and the numerous lookouts in her life who said nothing and did nothing to help her and who did not make strange this abuse, those individuals who created a safe space for the violent man under her roof. The silent complicity of bystanders is far more important than we think in upholding violent/controlling/inappropriate norms and behaviours. Perpetrators (or anyone behaving “badly”, who is testing the limits of what is deemed “acceptable” or “proper”) generally (unless they are psychopaths) look at the reaction of bystanders to decide whether their actions are accepted or condemned. If the bystander remains inactive, this passivity is usually interpreted by the perpetrator as silent approval and support,^{[8]Alette Smeulers did an extensive study on the role of women perpetrators in mass atrocities and this is one of her findings (2015: 209).} and he therefore feels that his actions are justifiedand legitimised, because the social context allows it. Similarly, it has been found that men with a proclivity to sexually harass are more likely to do so if they are placed in a situation amenable to such behaviour.^{[9]The so-called Pryor test was developed to test whether men would commit sexual harassment and it was found that, controlling for certain personality traits, a “permissible” context was reliably predictive of whether the test subjects sexually harassed or not. (John B. Pryor, Sexual harassment proclivites in men, in Sex Roles, a Journal of research, Volume 17, pg. 269-290, Sep 1987).}

As ons ons opvatting van skuld verbreed, impliseer dit dat omstanders wat nie sulke oortreders uitdaag nie, bydra tot die pleging van wandade. En uiteindelik word ook ek gekonfronteer deur my eie stilte. Die kognitiewe en retoriese skuiwe wat ek gemaak het om Oom Baard se gedrag te “verskoon” (die boere is anders as ons stadsgesofistikeerdes; dit was ’n ander tyd; Tannie Bettie het te veel gedrink en haar man in die verleentheid gestel) oortuig eenvoudig nie as ek nou om my kyk nie: My vriendin se man wat onbeheersd kwaad word as sy hul motor beskadig; die vriendin se man wat haar en hul kinders met geld beheer; die vrou wat saam met ’n man gaan uiteet om ’n saketransaksie te sluit, in sy kantoor verkrag word en nooit vir haar man vertel nie, want hy kan haar verkwalik dat sy haarself in die eerste plek in daardie posisie geplaas het – en talle ander soortgelyke stories.
Is dit nie alles vroeë waarskuwingstekens nie?
Wat is die implikasies van stilbly en nie-optrede?
Weet ons?
Wil ons weet?
Kan ons ophou om die “kywies” te wees vir al die Oom Baards wat ons ken?

If we broaden our conception of culpability, bystanders arguably contribute to the commission of crime by not challenging perpetrators. And I am confronted by my own silence. The cognitive and rhetorical moves I made to “excuse” Oom Baard’s behaviour (the farmers are different to us city sophisticates; it was a different time; Tannie Betty drank too much and embarrassed her husband) do not hold up when I look around me now: my friend’s husband who became inappropriately angry when she damaged the car; the friend’s husband who controls her and their children with money; the woman who went for dinner and drinks with a man to close a business deal, was raped in his office and never told her husband because he might blame her for placing herself in that position in the first place.
Aren’t all of these early warning signs?
What are the penalties for disobedience and for calling out such behaviour?
Do we know?
Do we want to know?
Can we stop being the lookouts for all the Oom Baards that we know?

A version of this piece appears in Afrikaans in Geweld Teen Vroue: Dit is Tyd Dat Mans Praat (2023).