Written by Chris Spies on 16 September 2024.
Chris Spies is an experienced conflict transformation practitioner, facilitator, and retreat leader, with a global footprint spanning Africa, Palestine, Southeast Asia, the Pacific Islands, Europe, and the USA. His work with the UN in Guyana and beyond has deepened his understanding of the dynamics that influence peacebuilding. Currently, he focuses on intergenerational accompaniment, mentoring young peacebuilders across Africa and beyond.
You’ve probably seen the old meme where the audience raises their hands when asked, “Who wants to see change?” But when the follow-up question comes, “Who wants to change?”, no one raises their hands. It’s a fact of life: many people want things to change as long as they themselves don’t have to change. This is despite the fact that everything in nature changes every day.
It seems to me that many people have an ingrained discomfort and resistance to things we can’t carry into our shells and digest. We’ll stick our heads out for a moment to explore the world around us, but quickly retreat back into our shells when faced with the unknown. Or, while we’re using metaphors from nature, we feel as vulnerable as a lobster that has shed its shell and hides away until the new shell provides enough protection.
Ethnicity, language, and culture are our proverbial shells. It’s where we feel safe and where we know that those whose shells look like ours will stand with us. We seek out those who are like us and expect them to stand together. People who look, speak, believe, and think differently are“not our k ind of people,” I often hear. They are a threat, a big boot that will crush our shells.
Articles criticizing Christo van Rheede of the De Klerk Foundation for raising legitimate questions about the Afrikaner agenda and movements’ motives make me think that some people believe the best form of defense is attack. Philip Spies’ letter in Die Burger, defending Van Rheede’s right to ask “particularly constructive” questions, is a welcome breath of fresh air.
He rightly points out that certain claims are being made “that don’t hold up historically.” Under the guise of culture and arguments about constitutional rights, the criticism of Van Rheede smells too much like a longing for “uniqueness” and the “good old days” when Afrikaners as a volk (people) still played the guitar and called the tune. According to Johann Burger, the Afrikaner agenda is about culture. The definition of Afrikaner identity, as only those who “consider themselves Afrikaners and want to be part of a self-defined cultural community of European descent,” drives the suspicion of a uniqueness delusion a few centimeters deeper. “Don’t touch me on my culture!”
It almost feels as if some people who call themselves Afrikaners want everyone else to understand them, but I don’t see many signs that such people are open to hearing how other Afrikaans-speaking people experience it when white Afrikaners, who used to call others “volkies,” now set the criteria for who qualifies as Afrikaners, as if Afrikaners are a unique people. Do they understand how it felt when families were torn in two and blood relatives were classified as “coloured”? Do they have any idea how they have denied, ignored, and rejected their own family members who were not classified as white over the years? Bo Pietersen’s recent performance, Pieces of Me, at the Baxter Theatre, painfully depicted the scars of denying our shared blood ties.
That trauma is intergenerational trauma, and many white people don’t acknowledge it. Let’s be honest: how many of us, who are white and privileged, make the effort to participate in conversations where stories about the wounds of apartheid are told? I hear people say they don’t want to feel guilty, and that it’s time to move on. But what if, for the majority of people in our country, it’s not yet time to move on because we, whose ancestors were directly responsible
for their pain, haven’t had the courage to listen to their stories? We don’t have to feel guilty, but we should feel ashamed of what was done in our name. As long as we hide in our shells and remain absent from conversations where people need to tell their stories in our presence, we prolong their pain and prevent healing. We know that the only way to overcome trauma is to talk about it, just as I still tell stories about my great-grandfather who died as a prisoner of war on St. Helena and my grandfather who survived the concentration camp. We don’t need to defend or attack; we just need to be present with an open mind, open ears, and an open heart. And, of course, we need to say we’re sorry for what happened.
What about the proposed national dialogue? What will be discussed? Will it lead to healing and change?
Raymond Suttner rightly asks whether the national dialogue will truly be national and truly a dialogue. I have my doubts.
If it’s truly national, we need to get the whole country talking, not just selected representatives. We’ll need to think together about how we can create a sustainable process and mechanism that will make dialogue a part of our DNA again, like the peace committees of the early 1990s. If it’s truly a dialogue, we need to clarify what we mean by that. Dialogue cannot be seen as just an event, a one-time occurrence. It’s a continuous cycle that builds momentum. I understand dialogue as a process of voluntary interaction (note, not just talking!) in safe and uncomfortable spaces where people listen to each other so deeply that they change based on what they’ve learned from one another. This change happens because people begin to understand together, trust each other, strengthen relationships, and take joint action.
As it stands, this is not what the national dialogue participants are preparing for. It seems more like institutions are preparing for negotiations and debates. If that’s the case, the so-called dialogue will fail. Unless participants are willing to listen so deeply that their conversational partners feel heard, the discussions will lead to nothing but further arguments. Louise Diamond rightly says: “The intention of dialogue is not to advocate, but to inquire; not to argue, but to explore; not to convince, but to discover.”
Dialogue happens in a circle, not from podiums. In a circle, there’s eye contact and body language that can’t be hidden behind tables. There’s no hierarchy. Everyone is equal, and no one’s contribution is more important than another’s. What is said belongs in the center of the circle, where it becomes part of the “we” instead of “us” and “them,” because a circle has no sides, only a center.
Don’t worry, I already hear people complaining that they’re tired of “talk shops” where nothing happens afterward. That’s not what we’re talking about. If it stays just talking, it’s a sign that nothing has shifted. So, back to the question of change: What makes people change?
I build on Adam Kahane of Reos Partners, who facilitated the first Mont Fleur scenarios in the early 90s,
and his understanding of how dialogue works.
1. We form a diverse team to prepare the process. (Note, preparation is already dialogue itself.)
2. We tell stories, listen deeply, and try to understand why things are the way they are. We analyze together how the systems work: What are the contributing and limiting factors that drive or reverse change? Where are the opportunities to influence the system, and who are the key people who can help make it happen?
3. Based on what we discover and learn together, we shift perceptions of and relationships with each other. We put ourselves in your shoes in such a way that you know we’ve heard you.
4. Because we’ve heard each other, we understand better, wrong perceptions crumble, we understand each other’s intentions, and we build trust. They now know what we know and vice versa. We’re hopefully aiming for the same things.
5. Because our relationships have shifted and we trust each other more, we can take meaningful action together to achieve our goals.
6. As we do things together, it strengthens our bonds, and we achieve something together that has never been achieved before.
7. Success motivates us to support other diverse teams who embark on the same journey with us.
The above is not a one-time, linear process. Think of it more as a spiral that sometimes moves up or down, forward or backward, but it keeps moving and building momentum. We might not always listen. Sometimes we get exhausted when we realize how complex things are. Relationships and trust, which take time to build, may go through difficult times. Questions about the other’s intentions die a slow death. The most important thing is to keep going, never give up, listen again and deeper, and never let go of each other.
We simply must pass the test. Our success will help others change too. Take, for example, the shifts made by former All Black supporters, especially Jeremy Veary. After many years of fanatical and unwavering support for the All Blacks, they have become Springbok supporters. The Boks’ success made them rethink their prejudices and sentiments. No one can deny that Rassie made world champions out of a diverse group of players. If the Boks had stayed in their language, culture, and race shells and refused to listen to each other’s stories, to truly become close friends, and to train together, they would have lost every match. They can never rest on their laurels. Neither can we.
The national dialogue is our first training camp. It cannot be a one-time event. We need to get the country talking and keep it talking. We will need to train and embrace change. It is our greatest test.
