Berkley Center

As the boat pulled away from port, I got the sense that we were going to a theme park. Salt and excitement swirling in the air, I pulled out my camera and began to hurriedly take photos of the quickly escaping Cape Town coast. With all this commotion, you wouldn’t think that we were going to the site of some of apartheid’s greatest crimes: Robben Island.

Under apartheid, Robben Island served as a prison for political prisoners who had organized against the oppressive regime. Perhaps most known for holding Nelson Mandela, the prison housed many of South Africa’s former and contemporary leaders whose crimes ranged from mere membership in subversive organizations like the ANC to organized bombings and guerilla warfare. It was on this island that people not only lost their lives, but were also treated worse than any animal ever could be. So why were we all so unfazed about visiting this place?

Arriving to Robben Island, we met our tour guide, Thulani Mabaso, a former prisoner who now helps to lead tours of the compound. Inviting us to explore his past, Thulani began telling us about his past as a radical organizer who was arrested and imprisoned for his public bombing efforts; how he was taken to Robben Island not on a ferry but under complete darkness in the hull of a ship; how the guards stripped him, searched him, and violated him; how for years they abused him, at times even going so far as to break his bones just to assert their superiority; and how the very same men who physically broke him are now wealthy industrialists whose more than sordid pasts have not inhibited their upward mobility in the slightest. He told us all this through bouts of tears. 

I don’t wish to use these parts of Thulani’s story to co-opt his narrative or inspire pity, that is neither what he wants nor my intention, but to reflect critically on what it meant for me to share that space with him and how bothered I was—and to a degree still am—about my initial nonchalance with visiting Robben Island Prison. This was not some cute beach day excursion or trip to the amusement park, but a visit to an historic site of terror whose scars still plague those it housed. That my position as an American tourist blinded me from entering the space with the appropriate level of deference is a shame that I have to remember when entering other such spaces along my travels around Cape Town and South Africa more broadly.

Instead of engaging in a brand of fast-paced-picture tourism that aims only to photographically capture a space without actually grappling with its weight, I’m trying to be more ethical and holistic in my approach toward the monuments and historical sites we visit. What is the history of this site? Who is still impacted? How can I do right by those whose lives and/or afterlives are still disturbed by this history? These are some of the questions I’ve started to ask myself when visiting the landmarks of apartheid. I don’t want to disrespect the legacies of those who lost their lives fighting for their rights or for simply existing in a space that was hostile to them. To me, that means honoring their legacies by knowing their stories and respecting the sites that perpetuate their narratives into the contemporary moment.