Throughout the years, my sister, Christine, and my parents, Johan Jansen and Ena Myburgh-Jansen, have been my most loyal and loving support.
My contact with Wits University Press, through the agency of commissioning editor Roshan Cader, has, from the start, been inspirational. It is enormously important to me that an updated and in many ways reworked English translation is now available. Without Lynda Gilfillan’s sensitive and insightful editing this would have been impossible. Working with her and project manager Elaine Williams, all of us on different continents, all polishing Like Family, was an exciting adventure. The ultimate responsibility for possible errors and flaws is, of course, my own. Thanks to WUP’s commitment to my book, insights gained from South African history and literature may now contribute to global debates about domestic workers.
Ena Jansen
Cape Town and Amsterdam, January, 2019
Note for Readers
Reference to ‘race’ is unavoidable in a book such as this. Official terms such as black, coloured, white, Indian and Asian are used.
References to geographical areas in South Africa are tricky due to name changes. The eastern Cape Colony was a region during the nineteenth century. The Eastern Cape is one of the nine provinces created post-1994 and I use this term to refer also to the area during most of the twentieth century pre-1994. Other new names which are used include KwaZulu-Natal (for Natal) and Mpumalanga (for the eastern Transvaal).
For the sake of argument and clarity, Like Family contains several fairly long quotations from novels and other texts, many of which may not be readily available to the reader.
All translations from Afrikaans texts that have not been published in English are my own, unless otherwise indicated, for example, works that Ingrid Winterbach and Eben Venter translated at my request.
The bibliography includes some titles relevant to Soos Familie and Bÿna familie which may be of interest to readers of Like Family.
Introduction: Searching the Archive
The archive – all archive – every archive – is figured […] and requires transformation, or refiguring.
Carolyn Hamilton et al. — Refiguring the Archive (2002)
Shortly after their arrival at the Cape in 1652, Maria and Jan van Riebeeck, the Dutch ‘founding father’ of South Africa, employed a Khoi girl to take care of their children. Krotoa, who was about ten years old at the time, would be ‘part of the family’ for the ten-year period before the Van Riebeecks moved on to Batavia in 1662. She learnt to speak Dutch fluently, and Van Riebeeck soon realised she could act as an interpreter during bartering expeditions and negotiations with the locals. A few men, such as her uncle Autshumao (Harry), were already active as interpreters between the Dutch and the Khoi, but Van Riebeeck apparently trusted Krotoa (Eva) more to further the interests of the VOC, the Dutch East India Company. Of course, he could never have been sure of her loyalty, and so researchers have, quite rightly, considered the likelihood that Krotoa used her postition and language proficiency to advance her own interests too. Not simply a pawn in Van Riebeeck’s strategy to gain the upper hand at the Cape, Krotoa had agency.1
The fact that Krotoa was both the first black nanny to work for a white family at the Cape and an important go-between figure, made me realise that the millions of black women who have worked in white households through the centuries since then are in their own ways also intermediaries, pivotal figures in the interracial South African contact zone.2 Like Krotoa, they are ‘outsiders within’; people with an exceptional knowledge of both black and white cultures. My premise is that present-day domestic workers are an important sociological and economic ‘institution’ that started at the time of Krotoa and slavery at the Cape, and continues to this day.
The lasting importance of domestic workers in post-apartheid South Africa is poignantly demonstrated by a character called Eve Sisulu who, more than three hundred years after Krotoa-Eva’s death, was to become the main character in an often hilariously funny and politically relevant cartoon strip. The concept of Eve and her Madam was born when American Stephen Francis together with his South African-born wife visited his in-laws in Alberton in Gauteng. Francis was fascinated by the dynamics between his mother-in-law and her maid Grace. The ‘yelling and complaining of both parties’ sparked an idea, and in the early 1990s he joined forces with two pioneers of satire in South Africa, historian Harry Dugmore and graphic artist Rico Schacherl. A few years later, the million-dollar title Madam & Eve was launched.3 The Weekly Mail (now the Mail & Guardian) published the cartoon for the first time in 1992, in the interregnum between the release of Nelson Mandela and the first democratic elections. Currently, it is carried in a multitude of local and international newspapers. ‘Domestic servants are ubiquitous in South Africa,’ says Harry Dugmore on their website. ‘If you have money, you have a servant. It is the South African way.’ To this day, Madam & Eve contains sharp comment not only on domestic situations but also on political events. Sassy Eve has a Western name, but also an isiXhosa surname that links her to the widely-respected anti-apartheid heroes, Walter and Albertina Sisulu.4
Through the centuries, the relationship between employers and women like Krotoa-Eva and Eve Sisulu has been the main meeting point between white and black people. The lives of practically all South Africans have been touched by the institution of paid domestic work: either because of the presence of an often motherly carer and cleaner, or by the absence of a mother who does paid housework for others. Suburbs and houses were even built with the expectation that the average middle-class white family would have a live-in black maid and would therefore need servant’s quarters in the backyard.
I am particularly interested in how the often close, but also always distant, domestic arrangements are represented in the South African archive.5 The nature of this archive is, as in the case of many archives, particularly in colonial settings, a vexed one, as Carli Coetzee reminds us: it is dominated by a white perspective.6 This is, of course, in keeping with the fact that white South Africans have always enjoyed far better education, resulting also in white authors having easier access to publishers and a reading public than black writers could in the past hope to achieve.
The liberal social and economic historian CW de Kiewiet had already suggested in 1946 that the deepest truth about South Africa lies in the realisation that the continued demand for land by white people was the cause of the entanglement between black and white which lead to exploitation and hostility. Parallel to this hunger for land ran the need for workers. ‘Precisely as this dependency grew, so whites tried to preserve their difference through ideology – racism.’7 Black people became landless and extremely poor, which led to even greater mutual involvement and interdependence. Because of this, servants are often described as an ‘issue’ or ‘problem’, while no one speaks about the ‘master and madam problem’. The migration of black women to cities and the work they did in the private spaces of white households led to a special kind of entanglement, and, in particular, to the racist assumption by even the youngest white child that black hands do the dirty work. The relationship between black domestic workers and white families over generations has inevitably led to patterns of decorum and behaviour which convey much of the historically-grown entanglement between black and white. Oral history interviews and research by sociologists such as Jacklyn Cock and Shireen Ally stress the fact that black people are often saddened, angered and disgusted by the restrictions and discrimination that result from racism and limited work opportunities.8
A complicated image of entanglement is held in the collective South African memory, and during the past couple of years research has shown that white people often construct their memories of apartheid around domestic workers, realising that the ‘learning’ of white dominance hinged on their contact with black women in the home. Melissa Steyn was a trailblazer with her study Whiteness