Students for Africa Call for Papers 2015-2016 Township ... for Papers 2015-2016. Township Jazz & Apartheid. ... whose play "Colourful World" was banned by the ... Matt Temple cites

Students for Africa Call for Papers 2015-2016

Township Jazz & Apartheid

My Uncle Guru, whose play "Colourful World" was banned by the South African government because it satirically attacked apartheid, encouraged us as children to read Shakespeare in order to understand the human condition. So he spun a yarn to localize Shakespeare. "Shakespeare was born Shaka Spear in ancient Zululand, just a few miles from us. All you kids need to know your local history and heroes. Not only was he a warrior but a famous dramatist, story teller, and living library of Zululand's history. His plays were sometimes comedic and sometimes tragic but always dramatic with a commentary or question about humans on the earth. He wrote poems too but I don't think South Africa really appreciated his depth. So he went to India, our ancestral home, to try out his plays there. He changed his name to Shasha Peer to fit in with the locals. The Indians liked his material but unfortunately he had to compete against the Ramayana and Mahabharata going back thousands of years. That was too burdensome to do ------ not to mention Diwali and the fireworks too. So he moved to the Middle East where he was known as Sheik Peer. His Merchant of Venice was quite popular there because it raised all kinds of questions about the Jews and Christians. There, too, he was unappreciated. So his global journey took him to England --------- that's why he named his theatre company the Globe, by the way. In England he was known as Shakespeare because Smith and Jones were too common. And he was missing home. But everything began in Zululand, just up the road." ~ Jayendran Pillay

Students for Africa: Call for Papers 2015 Township Jazz & Apartheid:

Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans

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Abstract: This research looks at the relationship between Indian South Africans and Black South Africans within the context of Township Jazz and its production and consumption during the second half of the 20th century. The leadership displayed by South African Indians in apartheid resistance is often overlooked when examining anti---apartheid movements. The power dynamics at play and the leadership roles that Indian South African record producers displayed when working with Black South African musicians marks them as "unsung heroes" of the antiapartheid movement. This research also explores the role of Indian South African music schools as vehicles that helped dismantle apartheid by promoting “multicultural” musical education, and the barriers therein, as well as the historical interaction of Indians and Zulus in South Africa. Research includes scholarly evidence of township jazz production in the cities of Durban, Johannesburg, Cape Town, and Soweto, as well as recordings of South African music and film from before, during, and after the end of apartheid, and interviews with South African Indians.

Township Jazz & Apartheid: Interaction between Indian & Black South Africans

While addressing parliament in 1964, South African Prime Minister P.W. Botha

shared these words endorsing South Africa’s apartheid regime: “There is no

permanent home for even a section of the Bantu in the white area of South Africa”

(Boddy---Evans). Botha goes on to assert that South Africa’s destiny depends on this

essential point: “If the principle of permanent residence for the black man in the

area of the white is accepted then it is the beginning of the end of civilisation as we

know it…”(Boddy---Evans). The preservation of apartheid, an Afrikaans word

translating to “separateness”, is dependent on Botha’s assertion that Blacks

coexisting with Whites would bring an end to the country ‘as we know it’.



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Interaction between apartheid government assigned racial groups both

sporadically and strategically subverted the system at its very core. Musical

interaction, intentional or coincidental, between the race categories of “Indian” and

“Black” (Zulu) South Africans especially made strides in corrupting this regime of

pure separation. Engagement between Indian South Africans and Black South

Africans, within the context of ‘township jazz’ and other protest musics worked to

dismantle apartheid and subvert its efforts to separate these socially constructed

racial groups. Sites of this interaction include recording studios, performance

venues, schools, radio stations, street corners, and both the Indian and Zulu

Township home. The continued interaction between these two racial groups of

apartheid, i.e. “Indian” and “Black”, is currently working to dismantle and correct

apartheid’s legacy, particularly in the cities of Cape Town, Durban, and

Johannesburg.

Throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s, protest efforts to dismantle apartheid

swept the globe, from international boycotts of South African goods, to marches,

police raids, riots, congressional meetings, political plotting, etc. Each of these

actions together brought an end to the apartheid regime in 1994 with the

democratic election of Nelson Mandela. These methods of resistance are often

credited as the primary and sole factors involved in ending the apartheid regime.

However, efforts often overlooked in discussions of apartheid resistance in South

Africa are that of the physical, social, and musical interaction between Indian South

Africans and Black South Africans.



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The apartheid regime ensured the immobilization of identity and self---

actualization of all ethnic groups in the nation. “The unique feature of South Africa is

that every physical space is defined by a single race category” (Hansen 7). This

structure, though no longer supported by the state, still dictates social, political, and

economic interaction between South Africans in 2015. The systematic oppression

built into the apartheid regime of separation was implemented in a pyramid---esque

structure of rights and privileges with the minority, White South Africans, i.e.

Afrikaans and British Whites, at the very top, and Black South Africans, i.e. a

multitude of ethnic groups, i.e. Xhosa, Zulu, Tswana, Venda, Sotho etc., at the very

bottom. In the middle of the pyramid there were government---designated

“Coloureds” and “Indians”, with minimal rights and privileges compared to Whites,

yet still ranked slightly above Africans.

The engagement between Zulu musicians and Indian South African record

producers and venue owners in particular contributed to the underpinning of anti---

apartheid movements; this engagement fostered the preservation of Black identity

in South Africa. This interaction and integration within the context of music

production and consumption subverted the separation efforts of apartheid’s leaders

by not only supporting the preservation of Black identity, but also by allowing the

Indian community to engage and identify with a music and a struggle outside of

their own assigned and culturally pre---defined population. Within the last three

decades of the 20th century, interaction between Indian South Africans and Black

South Africans within the context of music performance, music production, music



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distribution, music consumption, music venue, and music education, worked to

dismantle apartheid and its legacy, thus ensuring the preservation of a South African

Black identity and the freedom of self---actualization for the South African Indian.

There is little research on and recognition of the influence of South Asian

“Indian” musicians and producers in South Africa and even less to be found on their

interaction with Black artists in South Africa (Rabe). Rashid Vally, founder of Sun

Records, known in Arabic know as “As---Shams” Records, is one of the many

overlooked South African Indians involved in this cultural interaction. Vally began

his career working in his father’s general store in Cape Town, selling a small

selection of American jazz albums in the 1960s and 1970s. Vally attended a private

school set up by the Transvaal Indian Congress to combat the impact of racial zoning

of the city under the Group Areas Act of 1950 (Temple). The freedom to attend such

a school was a rare privilege awarded to young people of color at the time. Vally

later joined his father's cafe and grocery business, the Azad Café (Temple). In

addition to groceries, the Azad Café sold Indian film music, and Vally’s father often

allowed Qawali singers to practice in the grocery store, using bags of sugar and flour

as soundproofing (Temple). Vally’s father began recording more South African

Indian artists and Qawali singers and even made occasional album releases.

Rashid Vally began to pick up his father’s trade. As journalist and music archivist

Matt Temple cites in the liner notes of one of Vally’s produced albums, “When

(Rashid Vally) wasn't delivering grocery orders by bicycle, he was working in the

store and playing the latest jazz LPs”. Vally eventually connected with an American



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music dealer and started selling imported jazz records. His father’s cafe was

renamed Kohinoor, meaning mountain of light, and later came to be known as

Kohinoor Records in Johannesburg (Temple).

Kohinoor Records made a name for itself recording some of South Africa’s best---

known artists, including Abdullah Ibrahim known as “Dollar Brand”, and many

others. Vally built a name for himself as a producer and sound engineer and was

often sought out by locally popular jazz musicians (Kalamu). “The normal record

companies, your Gallo Records…what have you, were not interested in jazz per se.

They only were looking for hits, and when local artists came to me they had

complete freedom to record what they wanted”, says Vally (Matsuli). Vally wasn’t

working with these musicians because they were making money for him. Vally loved

the music and grew up with jazz and hard bop (Ansell). Vally gave his musicians

total freedom in the studio, unlike many white sound engineers and producers who

were more focused on financial profit and relevance within global ‘World Music’

markets (Meintjes, 2004).

Vally and Ibrahim’s collaboration, Underground in Africa, is named for

particularly embodying the struggle against apartheid in the 1970s. At the time of

the album release in 1973, the government was curtailing performances and

musicians were in increasing danger (Ansell 151). White---run record companies

were looking for fast products and chose not to risk recording musicians who would

be unable to tour or build names for themselves with relative immediacy due to

apartheid restrictions, e.g. Dollar Brand, Todd Matshikiza, and Kippie Moeketsi, etc.



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Rashid Vally was a rare asset in combating this pressure because his relationship to

the music and the musicians themselves brought a new level of support in the

studio.

The label Underground in Africa was released on was originally called “Sun” or

“As---shams” Records. It was renamed “Mandla”, an adaptation of the word Amandla,

meaning “power”, (Ansell 152), to further tie it to the anti---apartheid struggle.

However, the term had to be slightly varied from the word Amandla in order to

avoid any questions from the government (Matsuli). South African journalist Gwenn

Ansell notes, the album was rife with references to the “underground struggle” and

came out at a time when any artistic pursuit was under the eye of intense apartheid

scrutiny and musicians and producers were in increasing danger (Ansell 153). This

meant there was less money in production and called for more time and patience in

the recording studio, because there was no other outlet for this music. Creative

spaces were diminishing, and Vally’s studio became one of the few preserved places

in the country for these musicians.

Rashid Vally was recording and engineering a multicultural sound between

Blacks, Coloureds, and White musicians (Temple). Vally’s recording of Ibrahim’s

iconic song “Mannenberg” was the first track smuggled into Nelson Mandela’s jail

cell during his imprisonment, and became representative of the struggle (Rabe). The

influence and success of this ‘struggle music’ came from Vally’s willingness to take a

chance on a musician of color in a different racial subgroup of apartheid than Vally’s

own, i.e. Abdullah Ibrahim. “Mannenberg” specifically challenged apartheid. “It was



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a moment when those who had formerly had a modicum of privileges” referring to

Indians and Coloureds, “were disenfranchised from their inch---above---the---bottom

perches” (Temple). He goes on, “but also a time when leading elements among the

coloreds (and Indians) voluntarily crossed over and identified with the plight of the

larger black community”(Temple). Vally’s privileges as Indian South African, though

limited, gave him the opportunity to enter Black and Coloured townships

surrounding Cape Town to sneak musicians into his studio. Vally would drive into

these townships at night and bus musicians into his studio just to record (Ansell).

Vally risked his own freedom, not only in recording what was censored and

forbidden music by the State, but by also physically entering these restricted areas

to record Township Jazz.

Vally and his studio served as a site of opposition against not only apartheid, but

as resistance against the advancement of internationally established white record

companies and their international audiences. Vally’s independent label preserved

the integrity of South African jazz and prevented the false preservation of the

perceived “African”---ness therein, or a crafted “struggle music” sound, during this

time of heightened interest and establishment of the commercial genre “African

Music”. Ansell notes, “For everyone…the early years of the (1970s) saw a heightened

awareness of African identity and…cultural creativity that expressed it”(Ansell 151).

The Sun label, Ansell argues, was a site of creativity and was treated as a venue for

anti---apartheid release. This label served as proof of South Africans making good

music “inside” the country (Ansell 153), since many were leaving the country to



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pursue music in the United State, e.g. Hugh Masekela and Miriam Makeba, and

others who were exiled. Well---established record companies recognized that the

profit did not out way the risk for their own interests. These companies were

seeking perceived or globally constructed products of the assumed authentic

“African Struggle”; they weren’t looking to sell South African jazz (Matsuli). The

studio acted as a micro---political space within South Africa, combined with global

pressures of competitive international markets receptive to a stylized South

‘African’ sound (Ansell). Not only were musicians collaborating under the strictures

of apartheid, they now had to cater to increasing pressures of a global market and

address their position as musicians of the Global South.

In the years between 1990 and 1994 especially, the South African studio space

served as a microcosm of late apartheid South Africa. As South African

ethnomusicologist Louise Meintjes cites, though there are power dynamics at play

between sound engineers, producers, and performers, the space is still “dynamic

and open for empowering moves and creative innovation” (Meintjes 94, 2009). This

empowerment is entirely dependent on the relationship between the three though,

and the role of the producer as mediator is critical. There is opportunity for Black

South African self---actualization through music, but there is also opportunity for

corruption and sound manipulation via dishonestly of white sound engineers, as

exhibited by Gallo Records and EMI Brigadiers in particular (Dolce, S. Personal

Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).



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Many British and White South African sound engineers began to work in South

Africa because the job market “Overseas”, i.e. the US, was too competitive. Sound

engineers had “more control” in the studios in South Africa and oftentimes could get

work doubling as both sound engineers and producers. Put simply, there were three

key players within the recording studio: (1) the sound engineer, usually an educated

and technologically adept White man, (2) the producer, usually a multi---lingual Black

South African man able to mediate and translate between performers and the sound

engineers, equipped with traditional and contemporary South African musical

literacy, and (3) the performers, nearly always Black South African men and women,

often capable but not entirely proficient in English. The 1990s brought the potential

for a “South African---led African ‘renaissance’” that fueled a desire in musicians to

sound distinctly “African”. Alongside this influx of sound engineers, the early 1990s

were also a time of massive rise in Zulu nationalism within South Africa and a time

for Zulu self---actualization, particularly exercised through artistic endeavors

(Meintjes, 2005).

In a recent personal interview conducted with South African Indian

ethnomusicologist Jay Pillay, he comments on the phenomenon of White record

companies producing the works of Zulu musicians stating that these producers

“were just coming in, using these songs for beats”, to paraphrase. Pillay goes on to

explain this issue employing an example of a typical mbaqanga bass line. He says,

these producers would hear this bass line in a township jive song and use it as

background music for pop songs, e.g. Paul Simon’s ‘Call Me Al’ (Dolce, S. Personal



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Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). Little did the producers realize or care

though, that these bass lines were “coded musics”, often representing linguistic

phrases through the rhythm of the bass line (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview.

November 22, 2015). Zulu musicians and Zulu speakers knew that these particular

grooves were more than just “beats”. They correspond to spoken phrases and terms

that bear significance within the context of their music and within the context of

social life. Pillay cites that these producers would record musicians playing certain

coded phrases with matching Zulu text mocking these white producers. The

producers, none the wiser, would continue recording and would later air the music

over Black radio stations. The imbalance between distributions of songs using the

appropriation of “beats” versus songs including the mockery within “coded” musics

forces one to examine race and power within the studio, particularly between

producer, engineer, and musician.

Meintjes argues, it is the artists themselves who possess cultural capital. They

have a “precious commodity in the domestic and world music markets” (Meintjes

88, 2005). Meintjes writes, “Even if it is Peter who engineers a sound of “Africa”,

with purely electronic means, it is the musicians who claim it as theirs by naming it

as African” (Meintjes 89, 2005). This cultural capital and understanding of more

than simply “beats” is the product that sells and gets radio play. This authentically

“African” sound is what achieves commercial success among South African

audiences.



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However, possession of this capital without the technological prowess or

business savvy opens the door for exploitation and often times prevents the self---

actualization of the Zulu musician in the studio. The pre---imposed divides that

manifested within the studio under the apartheid regime led to manipulation of

sound and product by sound engineers (Ansell). Inaccessibility to technology and

resources of black South African performance artists prevented direct musical self---

representation.

Meintjes cites one example from her time in the studio as a point of disconnect

between engineer and musician: “Joana, a vocalist rather than an engineer, has none

of the knowledge nor the authority required to manipulate the electronic controls to

play back her voice of her own accord, let alone to further shape its timbral form”

(Meintjes 88, 2009). Joana later says “ ’Eyi, these are white people’s things!”

(Meintjes 86---7, 2009)”, pointing to a MIDI clock on the top deck, “as though she

could never possess the knowledge or skill to operate the recording equipment

herself”. Joana goes on to describe the equipment saying, “This thing…it is carrying

all different types of things in it, which are going to be recorded” (Meintjes 89,

2009). Meintjes unpacks this exchange explaining that the MIDI clock does not

actually house the recording as Joana states, but rather is the “central node” for

synchronizing the digitally processed sound. Meintjes continues, “for her (Joana),

there is a whole sonic world packed into that sleek machine…it is a world to which

Joana can point but that she cannot enter herself” (Meintjes 89, 2009). This

disconnect not only prevents Joana from crafting the exact sounds she wants, but



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further leaves the door open for the foreign sound engineers to manipulate the

sound they are looking for to please their respective markets. Though this time of

Zulu nationalism prompted musicians to push for self---defined and distinct

traditional sounds, they did not always have the technical capacity to execute their

visions. Meintjes cites another example in which a technologically adept Zulu

guitarist adjusts his amp to the setting he finds appropriate, but is later undermined

by a sound engineer craving what he defines as a more refined and marketable

sound, ignoring what is authentically Zulu entirely, without the consent of the

performer (Meintjes). Even musicians who were familiar with the technologically

could still be manipulated because, at the end of the day, white sound engineers

mastered the final recordings.

Though sound engineers exercise more technical control over musicians in the

studio, Meintjes argues that musicians lay claim to not only “cultural authority” as

mentioned, but a “multilingual virtuosity” (Meintjes 94, 2009). Musicians are able to

exert control over the engineer’s frequent inability to understand local languages

and essentially cut them out of the creative dialogue. Meintjes argues, “local

dynamics unsettle the conventional social and professional hierarchies of studio

practice” and can open space. South African studios were mediated by Black

producers, translating back and forth between White, English---speaking sound

engineers and Black, often Zulu---speaking musicians. Meintjes shares her work with

West Nkosi, a Black South African multilingual producer, calling to attention the

benefits of having a translator present in the studio. In this example, one particular



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lyric in a Zulu song needed to be lengthened in order to cut the track length. The

White English---only speaking sound engineer was unable to communicate this need

and was also unable to suggest a solution. West, the producer, however, was able to

walk right up to the microphone and suggest the word “icilongo” rather than the

original word “ibell” (Meintjes 92, 2009). This interjection not only took pressure off

the engineer, who was growing in frustration toward the musicians, but also gave

the musicians some authority over shaping their own song (Meintjes 92, 2009).

Meintjes writes, “West momentarily set aside his authority as producer in order to

stand behind a microphone” thus opening the possibility for the musicians to

“renegotiate their professional positions and concerns” (Meintjes 92, 2009). The

musicians were able to take a moment to personally craft their Zulu---ness and agree

or disagree with Nkosi’s judgment and suggestion on equal lingual footing. The

presence of producers and sound engineers in the South African studio space

equipped with language skills, like Nkosi and Vally, to communicate with musicians

is a necessity to preserving authentic Zulu identity through music. When the studio

space serves as a microcosm of apartheid, perpetuating race---based power dynamics

and manipulation, both the product and the people are trapped in that microcosm.

The majority of Indian South Africans speak some combination of English,

Afrikaans, and either Tamil or Hindi, as well as some Zulu or Fanagalo. Fanagalo is

akin to “Spanglish” in a way and is the “lingua franca between speakers of various

languages found in South Africa”(South African Languages). It is viewed as a pidgin

or creole, and is a simplified version of Zulu---related languages with adaptations of



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modern terms from English, Dutch and Afrikaans. This language skill is a crucial

advantage in interaction between Indian South Africans and Zulu South Africans

when compared with White and Black interaction.

The presence of Indians in South Africa began in 1860 with the introduction of

indentured labourers. “The year 1859 ushered in a labor crisis in Natal” creating a

shortage of workers in the sugar cane fields (Huttenback 4). The Government of

India enabled the India Act XXIII of 1860, establishing the “system of Indian

emigration to include Natal” (Huttenback 7). From the very beginnings of Indian

communities in South Africa, Indians were awarded more rights and privileges than

Africans. “The Indian labourer was not subject to the ordinary master and service

ordinance of the colony…He was guaranteed medical care, food, lodging, clothes,

and wages” and was guaranteed certain protections if superiors violated these

contracts (Huttenback, 6). Though, nearly all Indians living in South Africa today

were born there, since immigration of Indians was disallowed in 1913 (Pillay).

Resistance from the African Khoi---Khoi or Hottentot ethnic group as labourers

led to the transplant of indentured servants from Malay, Java, the Malabar Coast of

India, Mozambique, and Madagascar (Coplan, 1985) when South Africa was under

the authority of the British Empire. Some slaves and indentured servants were sold

for a better price if they were skilled musicians, particularly ones who brought the

“indigenous music of the East Indies” (Coplan). The ramkie was one instrument,

similar to the guitar, brought by slaves from the Malabar Coast of India that greatly

impacted indigenous South African music. The ramkie, combined with European folk



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instruments, was later adapted into the Zulu iqgongwe and was the first instrument

to later be adapted with Euro---folk sounds and African (Coplan). This initial musical

exchange between Africans, Europeans, and Indians formed the foundation for the

melting pot of South African indigenous styles and later influenced Township Jazz.

Arguably, the most influential Indian presence in South Africa was that of

Mahatma Gandhi. The presence of Gandhi in South Africa from 1893---1914,

established South Africa’s history of non---violence, for it was there in Natal that

Gandhi developed his philosophy of Satyagraha (Huttenback, Pillay). Gandhi

originally visited South Africa practicing as a lawyer working to represent Indian

indentured servants in Natal. He ended up staying much longer than intended after

witnessing the treatment of Africans in Natal and worked defending both

populations from white labour interests. Gandhi defines Satyagraha as “soul force”

and states, “brute force had absolutely no place in the Indian movement in any

circumstance” (Gandhi 113). Gandhi states, “In Satyagraha there is not the remotest

idea of injuring the opponent…Satyagraha postulates the conquest of the adversary

by suffering in one’s own person” (Gandhi 114). This philosophy “set the tone of

resistance in South Africa” (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).

Scholars and South African citizens alike place Gandhi on par with Nelson Mandela’s

influence on South Africa’s policies of non---violence and forgiveness, often comparing

his development of Satyagraha to Mandela’s legacy of post---apartheid Truth and

Reconciliation. This early interaction between Indian and Black South



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Africans laid the foundation for later cultural and engagement under the apartheid

regime.

Returning to musical engagement between Blacks and Indians in South Africa,

traditional and popular Zulu musics alive in the 20th century include Isicathamiya,

Mbaqanga, Marabi, and Kwela, to name a few. These genres form the foundation of

what came to be know as “Township Jive” or Township Jazz” (Ballantine). These

popular South African musics were influenced by American Jazz bands, Christian

mission bands, American swing bands, Cape Klopse, traditional Zulu genres like

Maskanda, and traditional Boere or Afrikaaner folk musics (Ballantine, Pillay). The

Group Areas Act of 1950, which called for the forced removals of all persons of color

from newly deemed “white” areas, forced some people out of the country entirely.

Musicians lost band members and venues; entire careers and dreams were

shattered. Scholar Ballantine references the Group Areas Act of 1950 a turning point

in large dance---band culture, since it brought about the separation and destruction of

previously formed groups and bands. This led to the exodus of many Black

musicians, who in large part turned to the US for their musical freedom. It also led to

the formation of divisive radio stations such as SABC, airing distinctly religious or

distinctly popular jive musics only. The removals forced others to abandon popular

music altogether and stick to religious and “safe” radio stations out of fear. In spite

of this fear and fleeing though, the Group Areas Act bred an anger and passion that

fostered the growth of South African protest music. In the second half of the 20th



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century, South African popular music became a mass of multicultural genres that

then went on to be consumed internationally as songs of the struggle (Ballantine). .

Genres such as Isicathamiya were “inseparable from the history and struggles of

the Zulu---speaking working class” (Ballantine). This music is innately political since

it is rooted in migrant culture that Black South Africans were forced into in the

beginnings of the apartheid regime. This music of migrant labour culture stems from

the underground, “seedy culture that Marabi and Isicathamiya fostered in shebeens,

ghettos, etc.”, i.e. a largely urban Black male centric community (Ballantine). The

establishment of shebeen culture was rooted in a concentration of workingmen

looking for an outlet at the end of a long and often demeaning workday. White

superiors would often call these grown Black working men “Boys”, “emasculating

them” while they were away from their “women folk” ((Dolce, S. Personal Skype

Interview. November 22, 2015). Shebeens served as performance venues, similar to

American dance halls, and often included drinking, singing, and dancing. Shebeens

were often owned and operated by Indian South Africans, some of whom even

brewed their own beer for these Black migrant workers (Dolce, S. Personal Skype

Interview. November 22, 2015). This more sporadic yet direct contact between

Indians and Blacks under apartheid underpinned cultural connection to these

struggle musics in their early development and popularity.

Somasundarum Pillay, father of Jay Pillay, was an Indian South African working in

Zululand with these black migrant labourers. He was “the grandchild of indentured

laborers on Natal's sugarcane fields” working as an accountant for a mining



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company in Mandini, Zululand. He too left his home and family to work with the

labourers and kept busy “teaching Indian and Zulu kinds Tamil” helping with their

homework and keeping them out of trouble. Though the differing race groups had

privileges over one another, they were each stuck in this culture of migrant labour

and had similar class restrictions. Points of interaction, e.g. Tamil language classes,

chess matches, soccer teams, and “ingoma ebusuku singing competitions” were ways

to rebuild otherwise destroyed communities. Pillay was able to “convince his white

corporate bosses to accept his plan” for the creation of soccer teams and singing

competitions, arguing this would “tackle men’s violence and rape against local black

women domestic workers”. His status as an Indian South African brought a certain

credibility among white bosses that otherwise wouldn’t have been awarded to Black

men trying to establish the same creative and physical outlets for themselves. Pillay

went on to serve on township boards furthering the development of infrastructure

for Indians and Africans, helping reshape the Indian township of Chatsworth in

particular (Dolce, S. Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).

The role that Somasundarum Pillay played among Zulu migrant labourers is not a

rare one among Indian South Africans. Though “some Indian landlords would call

the Police on Isicathamiya singers in dance halls” (Erlmann 83) to avoid trouble, for

the most part, these were kindred communities, and were not looking to get one

another into trouble with the law. However it is necessary to point out this “socio---

political fact of life”, i.e. “in apartheid era South Africa there were well defined and

stringently enforced racial categories. No “one drop makes you black” shenanigans



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going on there”, meaning, “any mixed race, or ‘coloreds’ were separated from both

the whites and the blacks” (Matsuli). The few spaces of overlap occurred in creative

outlets such as music and dance halls and sporting events. Buses were segregated;

beaches were segregated; schools were segregated; the list goes on (Dolce, S.

Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). Jay Pillay recounts one vivid

memory of seeing an injured Indian man on the side of the road. He watched as a

Whites---only ambulance drove by the man, ignoring him, and then recalls a Blacks---

only ambulance also passing the man because he of course deserved “Indian---level”

care and couldn’t be taken to a Blacks---only hospital. The injured man died there on

the side of the road, caught amid the sheer lunacy of apartheid’s strictures.

In spite of this lunacy though, Pillay recalls memories of waiting at the bus stop

and hearing Black women singing, memories I too can recall from my brief time in

South Africa. To paraphrase, Pillay says, “If you knew the song, you sang along, no

matter who you were. If you didn’t know the song, you clapped or danced

along…that’s just the way it was.” Song was always bringing communities together

in South Africa, on every street corner, in every hotel lobby, down every street.

The interaction of Indian and Black South Africans that dismantled apartheid

happened in social or community spaces which in turn served as directly creative

and directly resistant spaces, e.g. from music studios, to shebeens, to hotel lobbies, to

street corners, to bus stops, to grocery stores, and to cafés. Institutions were not

always cites for interaction and engagement, but rather small, sporadic community

centers were. As major record companies were focused on international distribution



21

of Black South African music, smaller labels and individuals focused on local

distribution. Pillay cites, record distribution was “always linked with food” in the

Indian community. Similar to Rashid Vally’s recording studio using flour and sugar

bags as soundproofing, Indian bootleggers would often sell records under the guise

of the restaurant business. It was not uncommon to purchase bootlegs of songs

from the struggle, even after this music was censored and banned by the

government, alongside an order of “samosas and bunny chow” (Dolce, S. Personal

Skype Interview. November 22, 2015).

These sites of sporadic interaction were often due to accidents in urban planning.

Sophiatown, for example, was essentially that. In 1897, the land for Sophiatown was

purchased by a White South African investor to be settled by low---income Whites

who wanted a lifestyle close to an urban center, i.e. Johannesburg (Coplan). The

land was poor and infertile though, so eventually settlement was opened up

indiscriminately, creating an unintended cultural melting pot that eventually

subverted race relations across the board (Coplan). Sophiatown is notorious for

being a cultural center and musically creative capital. As Sophiatown was

developing, the influence of American jazz was strong. This compelled the creation

of a necessary African Jazz identity, around the start of the Second World War

(Coplan).

In spite of these unregulated sites of community engagement between races, the

apartheid regime certainly did its best to keep racial divides strong. Venues for

political protest and artistic expression, e.g. the Pelican Landmark Hotel in Kwa---Zulu



22

Natal and the Dorkay House were being pushed out (Ansell 189) under the late

apartheid regime, causing not only a loss of performance space for Blacks, but also a

loss in business venture for Indians. This divide was particularly strong within the

South African school systems. In his work, “Indian Music in the Indian School in

South Africa: The Use of Cultural Forms as a Political Tool.” from 1994

Jay Pillay unpacks the multi---faceted effects of mandating “traditional” Indian music

education in Indian schools under the apartheid regime in the late 1980s. Pillay

counters the assumption that music is always a tool used for social integration. The

implementation of mandated Indian traditional music, largely North Indian Classical

music education, in Indian schools only served to further uphold the apartheid

regime. Apartheid aimed to preserve cultural segregation and enforce a singular

definition of each racial identity. Though Indians of an older generation wanted to

pass along any and all traditions in any way possible, it wasn’t worth the enforcing

of immobile identity.

Many older Indian South African parents defended the government’s choice in

favor of any preservation of Indian culture at all. One parent argued, “My son has

lost the basic Indian values which have made us strong as a community…maybe

forcing him to do Indian music will put him back on track” (Pillay 291). Other

supporting arguments for Indian music education called upon the history that had

been denied to Indians for so long in South Africa. Parents argued “what this

government offers our children today is far more than we ever had” (291). Most of

these parents were unable to attend school at all and were spat on in the streets



23

because of their race. Some parents could not understand the students’ protest and

identification with black struggle music. Most Indian South Africans students were

identifying with radio music, i.e. largely the African pop stations and Township Jive,

and the influx of American pop and Jazz music. (291).

At the time, no African music education was allowed for Indian South Africans

(Pillay). While teaching the song “Nkosi Sikeli iAfrika”, which now serves as the

post---apartheid South African national anthem, Pillay was arrested and beaten by

apartheid spies. Government spies were often sent into schools to regulate

education and make sure African musics, and most especially apartheid---resistance

music was not being taught. Pillay stresses this particular “veiled threat” to the

Indian student: “You are Indian, not African. Therefore there is no cause for you to

join the black struggle” (292). Pillay asserts though, “The harsh truth of the

introduction of compulsory Indian music in Indian schools is no doubt a matter of

politics.” (291). He goes on, “The motive is to divide by means of stereotypes”,

meaning government defined ‘Indian’ music for Indians, and government censored

‘African’ music for Africans (292). This is a threat to not only Black identity, but a

direct threat to self---actualization for the Indian South Africa. Pillay resisted this

regime and taught what he defined as critical to an Indian South African music

education.

Any and all resistance to these regulations within education worked to

dismantle apartheid. Everything from extreme protests in the classroom such as

Pillay’s teaching of African songs, to students and parents tuning into black radio



24

stations in their kitchens, worked to defend this cause. The government went to

great ends to interrupt these musical exchanges, from arresting individuals to

accusing parents of communism to raiding, to murdering, to rioting on school

campuses, etc. Though the reality of it was, Indians were resonating with the black

struggle, because it was no longer, if ever, a solely Black experience.

Since the introduction of Indians to South Africa through indentured servitude,

Indians have acted as “cultural brokers” between Africans and Europeans (Dolce, S.

Personal Skype Interview. November 22, 2015). This role has been enacted through

the presence of lawyers and political leaders like Gandhi, as well as record

producers like Rashid Vally, and musicteachers like Jayendran Pillay. This role of

cultural broker is unique and calls for an adaptation of multiculturalism and

profound leadership in mediation. Apartheid as pure separation was the backbone

of South African society and has since been replaced with the philosophy of

nonracialism or mutually dependent Ubuntu, i.e. “I am because you are”. The spirit

and soul of Ubuntu is built on the bedrock of multiculturalism and cultural hybridity.

Indians serving as cultural brokers for centuries in South Africa is inherent to this

foundation. Indians helped re---establish and preserve Zulu ethnic identity in South

Africa by giving space, outlets, money, and voice to their stories, thus ensuring the

preservation and re---establishment of more than just Zulu identity but their own

“South African Indian” ethnic identity; moreover, this leadership ensured the

freedom of self---determination for themselves within not only an African context but



25

an overarching global context in the Indian Diaspora as well.



26

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Question, 1860---1914. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1971. Print. Kalamu Ya Salaam. "Breath of Life » ABDULLAH IBRAHIM / "Mannenberg Is Where

It's Happening"" Breath of Life » ABDULLAH IBRAHIM / "Mannenberg Is Where It's Happening" Breath of Life, 17 Mar. 2008. Web. 26 Nov. 2015.

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