I was a little caught by surprise this weekend when I saw an article about conscription in the Old South Africa, in which the author claimed that "conscription was a choice", and basically placed blame on young white South African conscripts who were forced to serve their year or two years, on them.
The author claimed that they could well have made use of the loopholes to avoid national service if they so desired, as he did.
There are some flaws in this theory of his, however, as I can attest. I was one of those white "men" who went to the army in January 1992, the very last compulsory intake. In fact, it was my intake that very nearly rioted when we heard after arriving at our training base that those who hadn't reported for duty no longer had to - and who had and were already there, had to finish our year.
I was an 18 year old child, straight out of school, confused about my my sexuality, my gender and about who I was - trapped and tormented by religious indoctrination, lost in a world of political turmoil and threatening violence, possible military coups and potential civil war, and living under the authority of the state, enforced by both parents and society.
I could not duck national service as some did, by spending years at a university studying - I was too poor. My mother was a single parent who could not afford to pay for studies. The money she had saved up to pay for my intended university studies was worthless by the time the policy matured - it was barely enough to buy our first color TV in 1993. And even if I had avoided going to the army, that would have meant I could not find work - as work in those days was even more hard to find than it is today - and I would simply have been yet another burden on my mother's finances. At least in the army I got a small stipend, and since I was away from home for a few months, my absence lightened the monthly budget some.
Why should I feel guilt for having gone?
I was as much a prisoner as I was supposedly a soldier. I was trained in a situation where we had no rights, not like military volunteers do today. I was faced with adversity, anger, hatred and prejudice daily - perhaps not for my skin color, but for my perceived sexuality and gender identity, and even for my language. I found the experiences I had there both developmental - and damaging. They didn't manage to break me, but they managed to f*** me up for a good long while. I got smart and learned how to use the system to my advantage. Emotionally, it took me years to recover. I was a bit of a rebel before the state got its hooks into me, and yes, I say this with a smile on my face. It took me years to get back to being myself again... None the less, I survived it, I turned the system to my advantage - and now, nearly 20 years later, I see my year in national military service as a personal triumph. I learned a hell of a lot from the experience.
It's the army folks, it ain't the boy-scouts.
As an 18 year old child, I was away from home entirely on my own for the first time in my life. I experienced prejudice and bigotry for the first time, and fought my own battles. I learned to look after myself in that place. I learned to love a telephone, or the "ticky-box" as we called it, bearing in mind that the calls were being monitored while I was pouring my heart out to my mother 700 km away, who kept telling me it was going to be alright, when it really wasn't.
I saw some amazing things.
I saw a whole lot of people like me, effeminate males, drag queens, gay men - being sent home after the first two weeks because they weren't welcome in the ranks of the "manne" (the "men"), and I wondered why I wasn't among them. For some reason, I was not discarded like they were, even though I really wished at the time, that I had been.
I saw the look on the faces of some of my former school mates when they were warned about the queer in the platoon - who turned out to be me - ten minutes after filling out a supposedly confidential medical questionnaire a little too honestly.
I saw a guy a little older than I was take an epileptic fit, bumping his head open on a rock because he stopped taking his meds just in order to get sent home. After his fit, he was taken away, his locker cleared out, and I never saw him again. Unlike him, I didn't have any medical conditions that would give me the option of such an exit.
I watched entire platoons of colored volunteers being shouted and sworn at so badly by their instructors, that I truly admired them for not quitting on the spot and walking out. While they had the freedom to do that, I didn't. I would have, if I could.
I saw the look of startled admiration in the eyes of my instructors who refused to present classes in English, when I translated the notes from Afrikaans into English for the rest of us "souties" in my platoon - and passed the exams in their language - and when they tried to break me because they didn't want a "moffie" (queer) in their platoon, and failed.
I saw butch Afrikaans men, who gave me dirty looks and avoided me in the showers, who despised me. I saw the same men, after three months, fondly calling me "Soutie" (slang for "Englishman") with a smile on their faces, and adding: "Jy's eintlik nie so sleg nie!" ("You're actually not that bad!")
When I look back, it's true, I am proud. Not for having gone, or because of being there, or for having been a soldier once, but of myself. I'm proud because of the strength and adaptability in me that I discovered through it all, because people had tried to break me, and I prevailed.
Growing stronger and surviving - and thriving. THAT was the only choice I had in the matter, Mr. Know-it-all.
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All material copyright © Christina Engela, 2019.
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