I admit that I, perhaps like like many of you, am disillusioned and frustrated with the very people who liberated this country. In my view, there is little difference between the nationalist government of old and the new ANC party. Both were/are divisive, unethical and self-serving. I might not be indigenous to South Africa, but I am very much a native, and my family have been for generations before me. I love this country passionately, and I am grateful to those who changed things so that we could live in freedom and that we could live in this crazy, intense, melting–pot of cultures, languages, colours and beliefs. I love the opportunity each day brings for building bridges, serving, uplifting and learning.
Today I want to share a story about one of our patients. Actually, I want to talk about his father because I see this man’s spirit in our patient every day as he commits to a difficult recovery. It’s extraordinary when you see generational courage. The father and son did not have the same type of battle to fight, but both struggles were and are real, and require bravery, sacrifice and determination.
So here goes my story about Mr Nanabhai, who was a humble freedom fighter and the dad of a patient who is close to my heart.
Shirish Nanabhai was born one of eight siblings on 1 March 1938 at 51 Commercial Rd, Fordsburg (Yes, there by the Oriental plaza). His dad (who fought against British rule in India) was from tiny village in Gujarat, making Shirish the first generation born in SA. He grew up in a segregated, cruel society, where the focus of the Afrikaner was very much to uplift only their own, mainly focusing on recovering from the war they lost to the English. (Yes, I see the irony. The enemy of my enemy should be my friend, but clearly, the regime was more focused on the colour of people’s skin than logic, and so, dismissed an incredibly academic and hardworking group of people).
There is little documentation of Uncle Shirish’s childhood and teenage years, but I can only imagine that the unjust society in which he grew up must have led him, at age 17, to chalk a political symbol on a wall at the Red Square in Fordsburg (ironically, where the Oriental Plaza was eventually built) which resulted in his first arrest. He was kept at the police station, given a few slaps and sent home.
He got an opportunity to study Aeronautical engineering in London, but returned to South Africa. Why not stay there, in an equal society, or why not go to India where colonialism has ended, I wonder? Something must have drawn him back to Africa. Upon his return, he immersed himself in political work. He did not blow people up, make speeches or hunt down the secret police. Instead, he was the guy who showed up at the Indian aunties’ homes, collected food and took it to the detainees who would have otherwise starved during the declared state of emergency. He was arrested because of this and spent months in prison, most of it in isolation. Upon release, with the memory of the brutal prison wardens fresh in his mind, he joined Umkhonto we Sizwe.
He was arrested while planting explosives at a railway signal box near Riverlea. A trusted friend turned out to be a police informant and betrayed him. His legal council advised him to plead guilty to sabotage, which in those days, could have resulted in the death penalty. He was imprisoned as a “dangerous terrorist” and sent off to Robben Island as one of the first political prisoners. Uncle Shirish, like the other prisoners, were not allowed to wear shoes or long pants. They worked in the quarries and had no privacy. After spending just over a decade on Robben Island, Shirish was released, but promptly put under house arrest, and he had to report to the police station weekly. Somehow, despite all these restrictions, Shirish managed to fall in love and get married. His involvement with the fight for freedom didn’t stop. He would risk his life by hiding activists in an upstairs room a few metres from John Voster Square, where he worked. He and his wife and had a beautiful son, but she was killed soon after, and he never married again.
I never had the good fortune of ever meeting Uncle Shirish, but I spent some time today paging through a booklet about him that lists his achievements, the medals he earned for his contribution to the struggle, and photos of him standing next to other brave men who chose lives of sacrifice to fight and die for what they believed in. But this is not what struck me most. What resonated for me were the tributes made by young people whose lives Uncle Shirish touched. They speak of how he cherished memories, not things, how he lived frugally but shared what he had, how he would tell stories and always travel lightly. I see the way his son speaks about him, long after his death, with such tenderness, love, pride and appreciation.
This morning I woke up, and after swiping through a bit of social media, I felt hopeless. I looked at the new leaders taking the stage these days: men who are harsh, unaccountable and unforgiving. Everywhere we see politicians scrambling to stay in power in our corrupt kleptocracy. Businesses seem only to look at the bottom line and forget the human element. Doctors rush through patients, only thinking of statistics and success. Our all–consuming consumerism and greed is swallowing us and our beautiful planet whole.
I needed to hear the story of Uncle Shirish today. I want to believe that there are still people who are willing to make incredible sacrifices for the greater good; those who are good fathers, friends and mentors, whose stories live long after they are gone, because their simple, humble lives continue to inspire. Maybe I should just look around me, as I meet inspirational people all the time, not just daily, but hourly: my staff, my colleagues, my patients, my guests, my family, my friends and of course, Uncle Shirish’s very own son.