Out of Africa: a rabbi’s return and reflection

About 30 years ago, shortly after leaving South Africa, I wrote a poem titled Homelands. In it, I explored my simultaneous sense of belonging to Africa and estrangement from it because of my Jewishness. I reflected, too, on how deeply I had come to feel part of this continent while remaining strongly connected to Australia and to Israel. Here is an excerpt:

“But it burns, Africa burns:
this is the flame of some sharp Karoo night,
this is the ember of a star-sated sky.
This coal bears my imprint, yet it is not mine,
for I am the bastard son of this cunning continent.
I carry my father’s burden (still heavy with the terror of a cold Lithuanian night).
And, even now,
as I tread with love and unease in this land of long dreaming,
sometimes I catch a glimpse of Jacob wrestling his starry dark dreams into his homeland.”

I thought of this poem when I returned to South Africa this year to visit my ageing mother and family. Its themes of connection and identity, belonging, home, and the fragile uncertainty of being resonated with particular force this time.

South Africa is vastly different now. The dystopian order of apartheid has given way to a dysfunctional government marked by endemic corruption, crime, and violence. Potholes scar suburban streets, power outages are routine, and in Johannesburg at least, the water system urgently needs repair.

The Jewish community has changed – shrinking dramatically and changing in character. It is both more frum and more fearful. The epicentre of Johannesburg’s Jewish life is Glenhazel, and within its boundaries – patrolled by a highly efficient private armed force, a vigilant community security group, private guards, high walls and electrified fences – you can enjoy the beautiful Highveld winter, its azure skies, and a wide choice of excellent kosher restaurants.