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sarahlogan's review against another edition
4.0
A story of state-sponsored crime set amid the death throes of the Apartheid security state and the Afrikaner fear of losing power. The protagonist embarks on a dark, lonely journey for justice, and the reader's only consolation is the knowledge that Apartheid eventually fell. A story of bravery and a pursuit of justice, summarized by: “There are only two kinds of madness one should guard against. One is the belief that we can do everything. The other is the belief that we can do nothing.”
juliechristinejohnson's review against another edition
4.0
I was introduced to the dream and nightmare that was South Africa around the same time A Dry White Season was published: 1979. I was ten, a 5th grader in an isolated, rural western Washington town. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence, for A Dry White Season was a bestseller upon publication in the United States, but I recall our class watching a cartoon film of black African children, each drawn with tight black curls and toasted almond skin, holding hands and singing as they paraded through streets made of simple gray lines. The words they sang never left me: "We are marching to Pretoria. We are marching to Pretoria, Pretoria, Pretoria. We are marching to Pretoria Pretoria, Hooorah!"
Of course, it would be years, decades, before the irony of those lyrics hit me. What that film was, why it was shown in our classroom, why we learned the lyrics to British military marching song (or a Boer independence marching song, or an American Civil War marching song-for all are claimed as the song's origins) are mysteries never to be solved. I can only assume my teacher hopped on the same bus as The Weavers, who sang the song for years without bothering to learn what it was about, and once they did, turned it into a protest song.
But of course, it's easy to protest another country's political tyranny with folk songs from thousands of miles distant, when it isn't your life on the edge, when you don't risk family, job, property or your life to stand up and do the right thing. For Ben Du Toit, a white schoolteacher in Johannesburg, doing the right thing never occurred to him, until suddenly it became the reason for his existence.
As this story unfolds in the late 1970s, apartheid is the accepted way of life. Blacks are segregated in township ghettos, a condition Afrikaners and other white South Africans treat with reactions ranging from mild concern to dogmatic approval. But nearly all are oblivious to the effect racial segregation, injustice and abuse has on the human beings who clean their homes, tend their gardens, and who are disappeared by the authorities for crimes real and, mostly, imagined. It isn't until Gordon, a janitor at Ben's school, pleads for his help in locating Gordon's missing son that Ben wakes up to the reality around him. Ben follows protocol, solicits an attorney, and restricts himself to the usual channels of inquiry. At least in the beginning. When Gordon is detained by the police, Ben is drawn into a much darker drama, beyond the borders of his reasonable, tidy life.
This is a political story. Ben remains something of a cipher- a mild-mannered, oddly passive husband, father, teacher, who is motivated not so much by affection or concern for Gordon and his family, but by a blossoming sense of social justice. In that, this is not so much the story of a man, but of a nation of men. It is no surprise that
A Dry White Season was banned in South Africa soon after its publication there, for it is a strident call to action by a white man to his fellow white citizens. It is an appeal to resist, defy, expose, even when fighting back seems futile agains the might of a wealthy, armed regime. It is the shedding of ignorance, innocence, passivity. It is a story of betrayals and loss, of courage.
There are some awkward stylistic choices-insertions of Ben's diary that seem to want to lend more humanity and color to an otherwise monochromatic personality-but the prose is refined and confident and careful. I squirmed a few times at the drifting of Ben's narrative toward the White Savior, but I wonder how much of that is my own baggage and an armchair reflection of this history, nearly forty years later.
I am so glad to have read this book, a classic indictment of apartheid that has not lost its power or relevance in a time when race dominates our national conversation and international imperatives.
Of course, it would be years, decades, before the irony of those lyrics hit me. What that film was, why it was shown in our classroom, why we learned the lyrics to British military marching song (or a Boer independence marching song, or an American Civil War marching song-for all are claimed as the song's origins) are mysteries never to be solved. I can only assume my teacher hopped on the same bus as The Weavers, who sang the song for years without bothering to learn what it was about, and once they did, turned it into a protest song.
But of course, it's easy to protest another country's political tyranny with folk songs from thousands of miles distant, when it isn't your life on the edge, when you don't risk family, job, property or your life to stand up and do the right thing. For Ben Du Toit, a white schoolteacher in Johannesburg, doing the right thing never occurred to him, until suddenly it became the reason for his existence.
As this story unfolds in the late 1970s, apartheid is the accepted way of life. Blacks are segregated in township ghettos, a condition Afrikaners and other white South Africans treat with reactions ranging from mild concern to dogmatic approval. But nearly all are oblivious to the effect racial segregation, injustice and abuse has on the human beings who clean their homes, tend their gardens, and who are disappeared by the authorities for crimes real and, mostly, imagined. It isn't until Gordon, a janitor at Ben's school, pleads for his help in locating Gordon's missing son that Ben wakes up to the reality around him. Ben follows protocol, solicits an attorney, and restricts himself to the usual channels of inquiry. At least in the beginning. When Gordon is detained by the police, Ben is drawn into a much darker drama, beyond the borders of his reasonable, tidy life.
This is a political story. Ben remains something of a cipher- a mild-mannered, oddly passive husband, father, teacher, who is motivated not so much by affection or concern for Gordon and his family, but by a blossoming sense of social justice. In that, this is not so much the story of a man, but of a nation of men. It is no surprise that
A Dry White Season was banned in South Africa soon after its publication there, for it is a strident call to action by a white man to his fellow white citizens. It is an appeal to resist, defy, expose, even when fighting back seems futile agains the might of a wealthy, armed regime. It is the shedding of ignorance, innocence, passivity. It is a story of betrayals and loss, of courage.
There are some awkward stylistic choices-insertions of Ben's diary that seem to want to lend more humanity and color to an otherwise monochromatic personality-but the prose is refined and confident and careful. I squirmed a few times at the drifting of Ben's narrative toward the White Savior, but I wonder how much of that is my own baggage and an armchair reflection of this history, nearly forty years later.
I am so glad to have read this book, a classic indictment of apartheid that has not lost its power or relevance in a time when race dominates our national conversation and international imperatives.
drsarahp's review against another edition
3.0
As an account of apartheid era South Africa , this is brutal and damning - small wonder it was banned in SA after its publication.
A shame then that the author is so focused on the female characters' boobs. Seriously. If you've ever seen the hashtag #breastedboobily you'll know exactly the kind of writing I mean. I feel like there was a description of the boobs of every single female character, alive or dead. I'm not joking about the dead boob description either. Pointless and off putting, and sadly probably the main thing I'm going to remember about this book as it annoyed me so much.
A shame then that the author is so focused on the female characters' boobs. Seriously. If you've ever seen the hashtag #breastedboobily you'll know exactly the kind of writing I mean. I feel like there was a description of the boobs of every single female character, alive or dead. I'm not joking about the dead boob description either. Pointless and off putting, and sadly probably the main thing I'm going to remember about this book as it annoyed me so much.
featherbooks's review against another edition
4.0
A compelling story of a man determined to do the right thing to his own detriment in apartheid Johannesburg where his coworker, a black man, has been found dead in his prison cell at the end of a trumped-up period of brutal interrogation. Du Toit investigates and slowly as he learns more about the cruel methods of the Secret Police, his own life disintegrates with intimidation and searches of his house and work. He too will learn the consequences of interfering with the Special Branch as the Stasi-like Afrikaner-run police division is known. It is a gripping story and a upsetting view of South Africa as it was run forty plus years ago, as well as an examination of racism and morality in its face. "If I act, I cannot but lose. But if I do not act, it is a different kind of defeat, equally decisive and maybe worse. Because then I will not even have a conscience left...[or] a possibility, however negligible or dubious, of something better, less sordid and more noble, for our children. They live on. We, the fathers, have lost."
What kind of optimism does one need to proceed as Du Toit does. A cynical individual would not attempt the legitimate queries he makes on behalf of his friend's widow, the risks he takes. I fear mine is the more cynical outlook and not the hopeful view of a world changer, a true revolutionary. I'm heartened by the films we saw in the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg of those who did change the country such as Mandela and Biko and Tambo. Just watching the movies and the young and eager faces fills one's heart with hope erasing for a moment the old cynicism.
What kind of optimism does one need to proceed as Du Toit does. A cynical individual would not attempt the legitimate queries he makes on behalf of his friend's widow, the risks he takes. I fear mine is the more cynical outlook and not the hopeful view of a world changer, a true revolutionary. I'm heartened by the films we saw in the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg of those who did change the country such as Mandela and Biko and Tambo. Just watching the movies and the young and eager faces fills one's heart with hope erasing for a moment the old cynicism.
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