HOW WE REMEMBER
JONNY STEINBERG: For the young, fabric of history must fall
I am nearly 47 years old and a university teacher and am thus witness in my daily work to the sensibilities of people more than a generation younger than I am. Every so often, from nowhere, our world views collide, and I am exposed to an unsettling chasm between us. Recently, for instance, I shared with a class a story from Deputy Chief Justice Dikgang Moseneke’s recently published memoir, My Own Liberator. Early in the book, Moseneke recalls from his boyhood the life and career of his maternal grandfather, Makubande Dickson Makhaza. Papa, as Moseneke remembers him, was a chef in a hotel in Pretoria and left his home in Atteridgeville long before dawn each morning to light the kitchen stove at his place of work. But Sundays, Papa’s day of rest, were quite different. He would wake early, put on his white chef top and prepare a full lunch for his family. Then, his pots simmering on the stove, he would change into a white shirt, a black coat and tie and the bright red waistcoat of the ...
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