Initiation deaths under the spotlight
Without the support of extended families initiation rites only endanger lives
IREAD the story of 18 young boys who lost their lives undergoing the transitional ritual from boyhood to manhood (Cape Argus, July 7) with sadness because my own experience was so memorable for me. The tradition itself, with circumcision being at the core but just part of it, is what Xhosa boys look forward to all their teenage years.
Boys in our culture get dismissed too easily at a time they would like to hang out with younger men.
They can’t eat at the same traditional tray, they can’t sit in the same room and their opinions don’t count for much.
Most boys can’t wait to finally cross over into manhood, just so they can claim the respect of, and finally be regarded as equals with, others. The tradition itself is therefore going to live on. The first thing that happened in my case is that my own father and his brothers (my uncles) took charge when the season had finally come for me.
And here I find myself lamenting the lack of fathers in most households and the reality that uncles and the burden of nephews on them is no longer what it used to be.
We have gone more inward, with each family nursing its own challenges and offering far less to others.
My father had no interest in losing a son, upon whom he had high hopes, but was equally not interested in raising a wimp, who would be unable to stand his ground among other young men, who would not have received the important teachings from others, who could not pick up sticks and square off with other boys both to learn, and to defend his own.
I therefore had a group of men who ensured that I was in an environment that would build me up into manhood, but would not harm me in any way.
Our tradition was always based on certain assumed prevailing circumstances. That it takes a village to raise a child; that fathers would come back from wherever they had been toiling for their families when the time came for their boys to undergo the transition from boyhood to manhood; that young sisters would be there to take the dry food where the boys hid, in part also to see the condition of their brothers; and that older boys would visit these hideouts to share their own experiences and to witness the transition of the younger boys.
Traditionally, more people were involved in the transition, ensuring that everyone back home was comfortable with it.
It would be foolhardy for us to acknowledge that everything else about our society has changed but continue to insist that this noble tradition can still deliver what it was meant to deliver.
Recently, a lecturer at university asked a class of over 300 kids how many of them came from single-parent homes. Over 70 percent of the class raised their hands. These were not just kids whose fathers were away working.
These were kids who did not know who their fathers were, whose fathers had left whilst they were young and those whose fathers had died.
Who was left to ensure that the young boys would go through the transition into manhood in the absence of a father and uncles?
I remember the first set of boys I ever witnessed coming back from entabeni, as we call it.
My entire small town stood to receive their pride – the young boys who came from wellknown families in the town.
A community that had been involved in sending out these boys; a community that had been waiting for their return with great anticipation.
It would have sent a dark cloud across the town had any of the boys not returned.
Today, this tradition is enacted in obscurity, with little attention paid by the local community, so that the only time we even hear of it is when someone has died.
There are certain things that are difficult for the government to regulate, among these being culture, morality, behaviour and even, sadly, domestic violence.
The government cannot come into people’s bedrooms and tell them how to behave; it cannot tell people to seek manhood in more safer ways; it certainly cannot put a cop between every husband and wife to prevent domestic violence.
These things depend on individuals, on parents and on the community at large.
This explains why, year after year, we keep losing boys as they undergo this transition, despite laws that seek to punish this recklessness and the deaths that should scare these young boys to be more careful in their choices.
At this stage, we have to be brutally honest because no tradition is worth the life of a single young man in our country.
There are fundamental elements that are missing in order to ensure that our tradition delivers for our communities what it was meant to: young men ready to shoulder their responsibilities in their communities.
The family unit is no longer what it used to be; the village no longer takes responsibility in raising its children; uncles have been stolen by the quiet epidemic that is alcohol. Our boys are on their own. Where does that leave our tradition? All our traditions were meant to strengthen families and communities.
Given that we no longer have families and communities, at least in the manner in which we used to, where does that leave this tradition?
It may be time for us to suspend this tradition in its raw sense and focus on fixing our families and our communities.
Yonela Diko works in the communications office of the ANC in the Western Cape.
THE FAMILY UNIT IS NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE; THE VILLAGE NO LONGER TAKES RESPONSIBILITY IN RAISING ITS CHILDREN; UNCLES HAVE BEEN STOLEN BY THE QUIET EPIDEMIC OF ALCOHOL