At the foot of the University of Cape Town's upper campus is a bronze statue of Cecil Rhodes -- prominent South African politician, brilliant businessman, and notorious racist. Elbow on knee and head in hand, Rhodes gazes northward, entertaining a late 19th century European conquistador's dream of lassoing Africa into a single, submissive kingdom.
On occasion, the vision is veiled by a layer of silly string. Or his chest constricted by an undersized bra pulled around the statue by an irreverent student. Save the sporadic acts of vandalism, the presence of the Rhodes' statue in this post-apartheid "new" South Africa goes largely unchallenged by the recently integrated, seemingly progressive student body. So do buildings bearing the names of other colonial heroes.
To any outsider, the silence surrounding immortalization of men who caused such widespread misery across Sub-Saharan Africa seems peculiar. To a Penn Stater, the outward apathy of UCT students contrasts with controversy over an on-campus memorial last spring.
Penn State's proposed 2007 senior class gift, a garden in front of Rec Hall paying tribute to Martin Luther King Jr., Thon, and Penn State athletics, was announced in mid-February of that year. The Black Caucus condemned the garden, decrying the plan for racial insensitivity and chastising the gift committee for equating sport and charity with a consciousness raiser of King caliber. A separate salute was due, they reasoned.
The reactions of two student bodies -- which seem as distant in ideology, ethnic composition and history as they are in location -- to on-campus representations of vastly different values is ironic. Students at a predominantly white, moderate, university were up in arms about the specific placement of a memorial honoring a champion of civil rights who passed away 49 years before. Meanwhile, the enemy of all that is equal was permitted to maintain his watch in Cape Town, a hotbed for liberal intellectualism and home to fiery democratic revolutionaries during the uprising not even two decades ago.
The initial construction of the Rhodes statue is sensible: The millionaire gave a substantial land grant to UCT upon his death in 1902. But what place does it have at a public institution today -- nearly 20 years after the oppressive white regime crumbled -- which uplifts constitutional equality and strives for non-racial existence in this budding democracy? And how could so many heritage-proud students pass by this flamboyant symbol of white colonial power, a territorial phenomenon that gave way to the segregation of their forefathers, without batting an eye?
Sociologically speaking, UCT seems like a breeding ground for ideological tension and racial resentment. Sons and daughters of liberation soldiers sit in lecture hall with those closely descended from those who orchestrated apartheid.
The students are one generation removed from South Africans whose formative life experiences were framed by a social system mandating the separation of skin shades. Their own lives remain embroiled with the legacies of the past.
Why then are concerns about these enduring histories or the statues that embody them, only vocalized in shallow editorials in the twice-monthly student-run newspaper? Or more rarely on posted fliers hyping a panel discussion on diversity?
A mere month spent on the UCT campus will clear up any such confusion. The discontent is there, but most dissent comes in whispers rather than rallies. Frustrations are sounded behind close doors among people who look the same, cautiously shielded from the ears of outsiders. The roots of this silence are varied.
Some say they are too exhausted from the weight of past anger, others are preoccupied with schoolwork. Some feel the effort is useless, while others are straight up apathetic. They are complexities deserving of a dissertation, not a column.
What can be offered here is praise. At Penn State, the rights to speech, assembly and press enshrined in the First Amendment are not abstract political concepts. They are tools for change. We have far less to complain about than students in South Africa, a nation in development continuously stumbling over debilitating poverty. But our voices are much louder.
Whether your issue is diversity, sweatshops, or sexual assault awareness training, the rest of our campus knows about it. Penn State is no Berkeley, but at least our students don't go down without a fight.
Like South Africa, we have a long way to go on the road to harmonious multiculturalism. Anger along ethnic or racial lines often flares, thwarting relationships between individuals or campus groups before they blossom. But it's only progress disguised as backslide. Tension is much healthier than repression.
Alyssa Owens is a senior in journalism and political science and is The Daily Collegian's Thursday columnist. Her e-mail address is alo5014@psu.edu.
