SOUTH AFRICA: A LAND LOSING HOPE : A historic black-white accommodation seemed so near. Today conditions remain bleak and the country appears on the brink of civil war.

In 1970, when I was eight, my family left South Africa. My parents had decided to move to Canada, a place as far away as possible. They were not political prisoners, but ordinary citizens who refused to submit to apartheid’s numerous indignities and wanted a better future for their children. After 20 years of living abroad, I recently decided to see for myself if a new South Africa was truly dawning.

Drastic change is indeed occurring. Apartheid is dying. During my first night in the first black home in an all-white suburb, I could not help marveling at this. Only a few years ago, blacks had swept into white residential areas in Johannesburg and refused to budge--much to the dismay of whites and the authorities. Today, these “gray spots” are permanent features in downtown areas like Hillboro; evidence that racial harmony--or tolerance--is possible even in close quarters.

But frustrations still abound for blacks who wish to own land, build homes and live in safe areas. Blacks who want to buy homes in white areas must often do so through a middleman--putting at risk their legal claims to ownership. In new developments like Spruitview, where blacks are, for the first time, “property and land owners,” this victory is diluted by the inconvenience of second-class citizenship. This means having to wait a year or two for phone lines to be installed; making do without such public services as garbage collection, and unreliable electricity and water supplies. Most blacks live with these frustrations, but to my Western expectations, they seemed unacceptable and unendurable. In numerous conversations with friends and relatives, they expressed fear and concern that even in a post-apartheid society, the enormous black demand for housing would drive up property values, benefitting whites but paralyzing blacks.

But lest the world think everything is changing, life in the townships remains depressingly the same. Daveyton, where I spent my early years, is one of many blacks townships surrounding Johannesburg. It is home to 375,000 people who travel 90 kilometers a day to work in “town.” Returning 20 years later, I expected to find change. Instead, enveloped in hazy black smoke from coal-burning stoves, I saw the same unpaved, dusty streets where we played as children; the same matchbox houses, ours more dilapidated than before; the same small, dingy stores above which my father’s clinic still exists, now occupied by another doctor.

Saddest was the local “creche”--or day-care center--that my sister and I had attended as preschoolers. Inside, everything was instantly familiar. The same grayish walls and small desks, the same faded aprons at mealtime, the same starchy, unappetizing food. The principal complained of overcrowded classrooms, of book shortages, of parents who could not afford the fees. But they were proud of my having gone abroad. They made much of my university degrees--as though my achievement was theirs.

From Johannesburg, it was on to my grandparents in the Transkei. The Transkei is one of the so-called independent homelands created for the Xhosa peoples. Like the other homelands, it is supposed to be self-governing. The only evidence of this is the foolish requirement that foreigners need a visa. Otherwise, it is a distinction not worth debating.

Unlike the barrenness of Johannesburg and the Transvaal, Umtata is scenic, gently rolling hills dotted with colorfully painted rondavelles (mud huts). The setting of Alan Paton’s “Cry The Beloved Country,” it appears tranquil. Beneath this picturesque surface, however, lies a tragedy of human waste.

In the face of young people, especially, expressions of boredom and frustration spoke of purposeless years attending shabby schools. Many dropped out. Others managed to escape to Johannesburg and work. But, as someone remarked, sex and alcohol were the two favorite youth pastimes--there was nothing to do. The damage was visible in the mindless stares that told of quashed dreams and an ever-present restlessness. After three days, I felt choked by the desire to leave, panicked by an irrational fear that I too would become a prisoner of Umtata.

From the Transkei I headed for Durban, capital of Natal Province. Natal has occupied a prominent place in the news lately--most of it bad. Fierce fighting between rival groups representing Inkatha, the Zulu-based movement, and the United Democratic Front, an affiliate of the African National Congress, has claimed many lives in what the foreign press calls “black-on-black” violence. In some cases, this conflict has been painted in tribal terms, giving it a kind of primitive hideousness but also distorting the truth. Both groups embroiled in the Natal violence are mostly Zulus--since Natal is the Zulu “homeland.” Therefore, the fighting is motivated by political differences rather than tribal animosity.

My most memorable hours in Durban were spent with a group of young “comrades.” They began by assailing me for not being able to speak my native language, Xhosa. I tried to explain that having left South Africa at 8, my parents had decided for all us kids that English would be our language of communication at home and outside.

Their dissatisfaction seemed to confirm their strong black nationalist feelings. They asked repeatedly why my parents had left South Africa, not caring so much for the reason, as questioning how anyone could abandon the excitement of the struggle. For the struggle was life to them. They were the “young lions.” Defiance and danger seemed as natural to them as fear and humiliation under apartheid. They spoke of their fierce determination, their pride in their leaders, Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu. They spoke of a new South Africa that would resemble neither West nor East, defining itself according to the “people’s” wishes.

But beyond the rhetoric and the slogans lies a confused political landscape where violence and intolerance can derail the hopes of all South Africans, black and white. Many I spoke with felt the worst was yet to come. They pointed to the growing right-wing menace--white neo-Nazi and fascist organizations had already begun to launch attacks against blacks. They pointed to the recent spate of coup attempts in the homelands of Bophutatswana, Ciskei and Venda. They pointed to the growing culture of violence as a means of resolving political differences.

Others pointed out the immense economic challenge facing a post-apartheid government. The task of rebuilding an economy battered by sanctions, divestment and international isolation. The need to provide jobs for millions of unemployed and underemployed blacks. The desperate need for housing and decent infrastructure in urban and rural black communities. And the need to address the immense land disparity between blacks and whites.

And then there is the education crisis. In an earlier campaign of defiance, black children became accustomed to disruptions in schooling. As a political tool, boycotts and stay-aways produced some benefits--but at great cost. The result is a tragically high failure rate among black matriculating students and a tragically low number of university entrants. During my visit, the National Education Crisis Committee asked that teachers work on Saturday to help students make up lost time. The teachers I spoke with felt even this would not be enough. One sadly said she had lost all hope. She foresaw another lost generation.

When I think of the lost generations of youth, I am haunted by the children of Soweto. Those brave, defiant and determined youngsters who literally took a nation’s destiny in hand and refused to succumb to apartheid. They are the children of my generation, my heroes and my teachers. Each time I think of their sacrifices and their struggle, I am forced to think of my own life. What if my parents had remained in South Africa? What would have become of me?