Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Welcome!
Welcome!
Welcome!
…
and
what’s
your
name?
You
see,
my
name
is
Welcome.
My
parents
thought
this
name
would
help
me
in
further
life.
Did
it
help
me?
I
don’t
know,
I
really
don’t
know…
I
would
like
to
tell
you
about
a
special
encounter
I
had
last
Monday,
while
I
was
working
as
gatekeeper
and
security
guard
at
the
Small
Business
Centre
in
Philippi.
Philippi
is
also
the
place
where
I
live
with
my
wife
and
our
four
children;
we
have
three
boys
and
a
girl.
I
must
tell
you:
I
have
a
lovely
family
and
I
am
proud
of
it.
My
ultimate
goal
in
life
is
to
be
a
good
father.
I
try
to
be
one
and
sometimes
I
succeed,
I
believe.
It’s
hard
to
be
a
good
father
in
Philippi
in
these
days,
you
know…
My
normal
work
during
the
day
consists
of
checking
the
identity
of
the
visitors
and
opening
the
gate
for
their
cars.
‘Don’t
forget
to
close
it
again
after
each
car’
told
my
boss
on
hiring
me.
During
the
day,
this
is
a
rather
trivial
procedure,
unless
there
is
some
up-‐
heaval
in
Philippi;
then
I
have
to
be
very
watchful,
but
fortunately
almost
no
visitors
try
to
reach
us
then.
I
can
keep
the
gate
locked.
Every
other
week,
however,
I
am
supposed
to
work
during
the
night
when
gangs
and
other
riff-‐raff
are
taking
over
the
streets…
This
year
alone,
they
killed
two
of
my
colleagues.
Honestly,
my
boss
didn’t
tell
me
that
on
hir-‐
ing
me…
I
am
terrified
of
that
perspective,
not
so
much
for
myself
but
for
my
family.
In
spite
of
all
this,
I
have
no
other
choice
if
I
want
to
remain
a
good
father…
I
see
I
am
straying
from
the
subject
I
wanted
to
share
with
you.
Last
Monday,
a
delegation
from
the
Netherlands
came
to
visit
our
Centre.
One
of
the
guys
had
to
wait
for
another
bus
to
arrive
and
he
started
talking
to
me.
He
was
white;
whites
never
talk
to
a
gatekeeper
except
‘hello’
and
‘goodbye’.
Sometimes
Dutch
people
start
talking
in
their
language,
as
they
believe
I
naturally
speak
Afrikaans.
They
forget
gatekeepers
mostly
come
from
far
away
in
the
Eastern
Cape
where
people
speak
no
more
than
Xhosa.
I
learned
English
for
the
most
part
while
I
was
with
the
Military
Police;
people
who
know
say
I
am
speaking
‘Military
English’.
I
don’t
know…
That
guy
who
came
to
me
didn’t
speak
Military
English.
In
fact,
he
was
interested
in
me
and
I
became
interested
in
him.
Fortunately,
the
bus
he
was
waiting
for
didn’t
show
up.
The
guy
said
these
people
always
get
lost
and
he
gave
the
impression
not
to
bother
about
that;
he
seemed
to
be
a
good
guy
with
a
great
sense
of
humour.
Sometimes
I
couldn’t
fol-‐
low
his
humour,
but
he
said
that
was
also
the
case
with
other
whites.
We
both
couldn’t
help
laughing.
He
asked
me
about
my
youth.
I
told
him
of
my
life
in
a
small
village
between
George
and
Umtata.
I
was
the
oldest
of
6
children.
My
father
left
us
and
just
came
back
from
time
to
time
to
make
more
children
and
cause
more
problems.
Despite
all
this,
we
were
happy.
We
were
all
one
extended
family;
we
shared
what
we
had
as
well
as
what
we
didn’t
have.
I
went
to
primary
school,
my
teacher
told
me
I
was
a
good
pupil
and
I
had
to
study
fur-‐
ther.
However,
I
stayed
in
the
village,
out
of
solidarity
with
my
mother
and
my
brothers
and
sisters.
This
was
obvious
for
me.
The
white
man
told
me
about
his
youth
and
the
re-‐
lationship
he
had
with
his
family.
He
told
me
that
studying
was
self-‐evident,
his
parents
could
easily
afford.
He
was
a
good
student
but
also
a
steady
member
of
a
football
team;
in
fact
his
biggest
problem
was
choosing
between
study
and
football.
‘Don’t
forget
the
girls’,
he
added.
This
was
the
only
similarity
we
apparently
shared
about
our
youth.
I
told
him
that
he
must
have
been
very
thankful
to
his
parents
for
all
this;
very
much
to
my
surprise
he
told
me
he
wasn’t
in
those
days.
He
then
even
had
the
conviction
that
whatever
he
achieved
in
life
was
solely
his
own
merit,
he
considered
his
parents
primarily
as
a
mere
obstacle.
He
explained
to
me
that
this
was
a
very
common
opinion
among
youngsters
in
Europe.
I
really
was
stupefied
when
he
told
me
that
despite
this
he
was
convinced
he
had
a
happy
youth:
how
can
you
be
happy
when
you
neglect
your
father
and
mother?
How
can
you
be
happy
when
you
live
largely
apart
from
your
only
brother?
How
can
you
be
happy
when
you
only
meet
your
extended
family
at
funeral
ceremonies?
How
can
you
be
happy
when
you
never
sing
for
the
people
you
love?
Fortunately,
he
added
that
he
changed
his
mind
about
his
parents
in
the
meantime
and
that
he
was
very
concerned
about
the
health
of
his
father
who
was
now
in
the
intensive
care
unit
in
hospital.
Very
spontaneously,
we
hugged
each
other;
I
never
did
that
with
a
white
man.
I
told
him
that
I
highly
doubted
he
was
happier
than
me
in
his
youth.
He
didn’t
disagree…
I
told
him
I
finally
decided
to
join
the
Military
Police
Force,
because
my
family
needed
in-‐
come
and
this
appeared
to
be
the
only
possibility.
This
was
not
a
good
time;
it
was
the
very
last
period
of
Apartheid.
Above
all
that,
I
served
in
Gauteng,
far
away
from
my
family.
The
whole
atmosphere
was
negative,
I
couldn’t
sustain
any
longer
after
my
training.
I
was
obliged
to
stay
for
another
two
years,
I
was
deeply
unhappy.
I
had
to
fight
against
fellow
black
people
I
didn’t
know
but
I
understood
quite
well.
The
white
man
told
me
about
his
further
career
as
a
student,
he
even
went
to
university.
He
told
me
studying
engineering
was
only
a
part-‐time
activity
he
was
hardly
interested
in.
He
spent
most
of
that
period
with
friends,
making
love
and
drinking
beer.
I
don’t
understand
how
you
can
get
the
enormous
opportunity
to
study
and
you
stay
away
from
course
sessions;
why
you
only
open
your
study
books
in
order
to
pass
the
exams.
How
can
you
not
be
interested
in
what
you
can
learn?
How
can
you
only
learn
to
forget?
How
can
you
not
fight
for
a
better
life?
After
my
period
as
a
military
police
officer,
I
came
to
Philippi,
I
told
my
white
friend.
I
started
in
a
shack,
met
my
wife
and
we
married.
We
lived
in
that
shack
for
a
number
of
years,
as
initially
I
only
earned
200
Rand
a
month.
I
now
earn
much
more,
3000
Rand,
but
as
I
told
already
this
is
a
very
dangerous
job.
I
don’t
know
whether
it
is
wise
to
stay,
but
I
have
no
choice
I
am
afraid.
I
followed
an
elementary
computer
course
in
the
meantime,
but
couldn’t
find
another
job
in
Philippi.
I
want
to
stay
here,
as
this
is
where
my
little
house
is
now.
The
white
man
told
me
he
eventually
became
a
professor.
I
was
talking
to
a
university
professor!
Getting
that
job
was
straightforward,
he
told
me.
I
don’t
understand
how
you
can
get
such
a
job
right
after
completing
your
studies,
I
even
don’t
succeed
in
finding
an
elementary
job
in
the
computer
industry.
Maybe
I
followed
the
wrong
course,
I
don’t
know,
despite
the
price
of
the
course
was
very
high.
I
had
to
save
money
over
a
long
period
to
be
able
to
pay
the
3.000
Rand.
The
white
man
didn’t
tell
me
exactly
how
much
he
earned;
maybe
he
was
too
ashamed
for
that?
How
can
you
be
reluctant
to
tell
a
person
how
much
you
earn
if
you
earn
it
in
the
proper
way?
Did
the
white
man
think
I
wouldn’t
grant
him
his
income?
How
much
does
a
white
man
earn
in
Europe?
How
much
of
that
amount
does
he
share
with
people
outside
his
proper
family?
How
thankful
is
he
for
his
job?
Too
many
questions
for
a
simple
gatekeeper…
We
started
talking
about
our
dreams,
as
the
bus
still
didn’t
arrive.
Actually,
this
was
the
first
time
I
shared
dreams
with
a
white
man.
I
told
him
about
my
basic
dream
in
life:
to
be
a
good
father
for
my
children
and
to
prepare
them
for
a
proper,
thoughtful
life.
I
told
him
how
I
try
to
instruct
my
boys
that
they
respect
girls
and
how
difficult
it
is
to
keep
them
away
from
gangs
of
youths.
I
told
him
about
my
difficult
relationship
with
my
wife,
as
we
try
to
save
money
such
that
I
can
start
my
own
security
firm
and
she
so
desperately
needs
the
same
money
for
the
kids.
The
white
man
told
about
his
dream,
to
be
inspiring
in
life
and
sincerely,
I
didn’t
understand.
I
asked
him
for
some
explanation
and
he
started
refer-‐
ring
to
a
philosopher.
Could
it
be
that
white
men
have
lost
contact
with
real
life,
I
asked
myself.
Finally,
we
spent
some
time
in
silence,
listening
to
our
inner
voices.
Then
I
knew
for
sure:
the
white
friend
meant
he
aspires
to
talk
with
an
open
heart
to
everybody,
in-‐
cluding
simple
people
like
me.
I
was
happy
I
could
share
this
just
as
simple
insight
with
him.
We
looked
each
other
in
the
eyes
and
we
knew
it
was
OK.