South African Childhood Broadens Understanding

Cape Town, South Africa, is home to many natural beauties reminiscent of Kraybill’s childhood. (Photo: Meghan Hershey)

When I was six, I clearly remember my family preparing for a big move. We spent a week planning a big goodbye bash to which all of our close friends were invited. Although young, or maybe because of that fact, I was excited about this big change that my parents had been talking to me about for weeks. I didn’t understand the tears and sadness because I was about to embark on the adventure of my life: my family was moving closer to my cousins and grandparents, “to the land where everybody eats hamburgers,” which was the description I gave to curious playmates. America.

All I knew of America was in stark contrast to Cape Town, South Africa, which I knew not as a “cultural experience” but as my home. Up until that point, the longest time I had spent in the States was a three-month trip, which was spent in my grandparents’ Pennsylvania home during an unusually snowy winter. To me, America meant family, snow, new babies (my youngest sister was born while visiting my grandparents), and, apparently, hamburgers.

In retrospect, I have a hard time understanding the appeal of this small bit of knowledge that formed my opinion of the United States. For the first six years of my life I lived a dream that I can only now yearn for. My dad was working on his doctorate at the University of Cape Town and was doing workshops on conflict reconciliation, which had brought us to Cape Town, at the very tip of the African continent. We lived in South Africa from 1989 to 1995, directly over the climax of apartheid. I clearly remember the day my parents celebrated their participation in helping elect Nelson Mandela to presidency. Although I was hardly aware at the time, Dad was playing an important role as a mediator and instructor of non-violence during these politically turbulent times.

In my young mind, life consisted of sunny days, often spent entirely outside, with no shoes and minimal clothing. Our backyard was my haven, with two orange trees directly in the center that were excellent for climbing and bore fruit in abundance. The back corner was home to a giant guava tree that hid our fort in its branches. Among other things, we had chickens and ducks that roamed the backyard, as well as a dog that endured much abuse from me and my three young siblings.

The front yard held a flower garden and a perfect, chest height (on a six year old, at least) white-washed wall and gate, on which I spent many hours watching neighbors, school children, and business people walking to and from the train station that was a three-minute walk up the road. This same train station was my mode of transportation to school every morning. Dad would take my older sister and I on the train with him and then walk us to our Montessori preschool (and later all-girls elementary school) before going on to his own office.

Those six years were wonderful. I didn’t understand the life-long impression that I was cultivating in those early years. Not only was I surrounded by the natural beauty of South Africa—Kirstenbosch botanical gardens, a daily view of Table Mountain, and extensive beaches—but I was being given a gift of the love of travel and a deeper understanding and respect for people of all cultures, languages and ideologies.

The day our plane took off from South Africa, dressed in an African print dress and sitting next to my mom, with tears streaming down her face, there was no way I could know what was to come, but I didn’t experience the same sadness because I knew I would return. It has been twelve years now, and I have yet to find my way back to that dream-like place I once called home. But that’s the thing about home: they say it’s where the heart is, and my heart lies in Africa. I know I wasn’t wrong that day as I watched the coast of Africa disappear into the clouds; I will return someday.