“Those rooms were so small you couldn’t even change your mind in them, let alone your clothes.”

He was a little man named Noor and the tour guide at District Six Museum. We arrived early on a Sunday morning, only to find that our tour hadn’t actually been booked. Graciously, he still took the time to talk to us. A man with many memories, you could see the impact of Apartheid in his eyes. His grandfather had thirty children and four wives, all born from the same house on what was then Caledon Road in District Six. Despite owning twenty-nine other houses in the area, the family has yet to be recompensed with one, forty-six years later.


“It’s not my children I’m worried about…it’s the grandchildren.”

There was a sadness in her eyes, one that I couldn’t ignore as I left the train. I felt guilty for being white. Guilty for being privileged. In South Africa it seems that the two cannot be separated – not yet at least. I left the station only to have a black (for lack of another word) man spit at me. It seems he knew what I was thinking. Apartheid isn’t over – not yet at least.