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Prof Mcebisi Ndletyana

05 May 2021

Introduction

Universities are sites of contestation. The contestation revolves over access, belonging and representation. An academic year hardly starts without student protesting against exclusion and lack of funding. Often-time protests are violent, pitting students against university security and the police. Property gets destroyed, which has turned some campuses into fortresses guarded by private security companies. If not triggered by exclusion, conflict has been a manifestation of rivalry amongst student bodies over the right to form student government. One seeks to silence the other, purporting to be the only legitimate voice of the students. Such intolerance is not limited to divergent views or student associations. It also extends to race and gender. Students and staff are tormented and excluded, or forced to leave, on account of racial and gender differences.

For a 27-year old democratic country contestation is not unexpected. Today’s South Africa is founded on a fundamentally different ethos from 27 years ago. Some refuse to accept the new foundational values or comply with the legislative prescripts that seek to steer society towards the ideal state. For a public institution such as the university, contestations are inevitable. University communities are diverse, with different backgrounds. Whilst disagreements are not unexpected, racist incidents of humiliation and violence are still jarring for a university. The university’s intellectual pre-occupation and production of what should be enlightened graduates ought to obviate such ghastly occurrences.

This paper explores the afore-mentioned oddity. The exploration is made even more worthwhile by the fact that the government, as far back as 1996, undertook to utilize universities as instruments for transforming South Africa’s value system. That the country’s universities would still be sites of racism and intolerance begs the questions: how did the authorities hope to achieve this objective? What progress has been made, or not? The focus of the paper, however, goes back into the past, before 1994. It examines the character and role of universities under colonialism and apartheid. This background is useful in two-ways. Firstly, it gives us an appreciation of the challenges that awaited the democratic government as it undertook to re-orient universities, aligning them with the normative foundation of the democratic order and its attendant demands. Secondly, despite colonial and apartheid intentions, this historical overview shows us that it is possible for universities to serve as agents of socialization in order to transform society. Their nature (or pre-occupation) encourages persistent pursuit of the truth, which, upon discovery, renders any falsehoods intolerable.

Having looked at the history and experiences of the last 27 years, the purpose of the paper is to suggest possible interventions, programmes or activities to nurture a culture of tolerance, acceptance and impactful promotion of equity at universities. This is not meant to benefit universities alone, but society as well. Graduates leave campuses to occupy positions of leadership in society. The hope is that they exercise leadership in keeping with what they would have learned on campus.

This paper is structured in four parts: Immediately below is a brief discussion on nature and history of universities in general. Thereafter attention shifts onto South Africa, to show how that character and global history of universities panned out in this country. Of significance here is the manner in which universities evolved and were utilized to cultivate a complementary ethos and cadre to reinforce racial oppression, but also generated resistance that yielded a counter value-system and political activism towards liberation and equality. Following this historical background, the paper pays attention to the post-

apartheid order, with a focus on how the government aimed to reconfigure universities towards cultivating a value system in keeping with its foundational values, and on the challenges it encountered in the course of that pursuit. Then the paper concludes with recommendations of possible programmes and initiatives to realize that original intent.

Universities in history: role and access

The role of a university, together with its constituent community, has taken different forms since inception. The early medieval university of the 12th and 14th centuries focused on vocational training. It produced clergy, lawyers and administrative clerks. From the 15th to the 19th centuries, the focus changed somewhat from vocational training to education. Rather than training students in order to assume a job, students were encouraged to study for the purpose of acquiring more knowledge on whatever subject that caught their interest. It was an intellectual exercise aimed to discover and expand boundaries of existing knowledge. The university strictly pursued knowledge for its own sake, and was hardly concerned with how that knowledge impacted on society. This is was the ‘Ivory Tower University’.

The latter part of the 19th century, however, saw yet another change in the character and role of the university. It paid more attention to its role in society, especially contributing towards economic growth. This led to an opening up of a number of disciplines pursued both for their intellectual gratification, and contribution towards the development of society. This marked a meeting point of both intellectual pursuit and societal relevance. The latter aspect even encouraged more access and democratization of universities.

Essentially, the university has gone through three primary phases: vocational training, a detached institution purely concerned with the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, and lastly one that prioritises social relevance. These evolutionary phases reflected two dominant views – i.e. traditionalist and progressive (or pragmatist) – about the nature and role of universities.

Traditionalists maintained that the core function of universities was to teach and research. Progressives agree with the latter, but go further to make an argument for relevance. Whilst the new knowledge uncovered enlightens, it should also be geared towards improvement of society. It must have a developmental value (Barber, 1989 and Cabal, 1993).

South African University

The development of the university in South African has been no different to historic, global trends. From the establishment of the first ever university, the South African College in 1829 at what was then Cape Colony, South African universities were largely set up to meet market demands, especially the mining industry. Universities of Pretoria and Witwatersrand followed in the same way as the University of Cape Town, former South African College. Because it was also part of the ruling elite, the (imperialist) mining industry was not only concerned with technical skills, but also with the cultivation of a value system that was in concert with their ruling ideology.

These early universities were essentially segregationist, and their curriculum was similarly molded. Afrikaner inspired universities, beginning with the church-initiated Stellenbosch in 1859 and later Potchefstroom in 1869, were also in the same mold. They not only produced professionals, but also inculcated a value system that would constitute the ideological basis of the separatist Afrikaner nationalism. For the first 87 years university life in SA was exclusively white, predominantly geared towards theological work and serving the skills needs of mining industry, and in support of the ideology of the ruling elite (Lategan, 2008).

Opening Access

It was only in 1916 that Africans in gained access to university. The South African Native College, later re-named University of Fort Hare (UFH), provided this historic opportunity. Like its white counterpart, Fort Hare was reserved for

Africans, in line with the segregationist foundations of the Union of South Africa formed six years earlier in 1910. UFH’s role was also to prepare its graduates to accept their subordinate role in South African’s racial hierarchy. There were concerns within officialdom that those natives who had left the country for overseas education, from the 1890s, returned with a rebellious attitude towards white supremacy. On their return, they demanded equality. Officialdom feared that such demands would rub off on the rest of the native population, creating a potential to mobilise popular rejection of the emergent racial hierarchy. Such an uprising, officialdom and its liberal friends feared, would stoke racial conflict (Hobart-Houghton, 1911)

The decision to set up UFH, taken by the South African Native Commission in 1905, therefore, was intended to bolster racial segregation (that was to be the foundations of the Union in 1910). The native students were not only being prepared to accept servitude and white tutelage, but also to become advocates, beyond campus, of the same message of acquiesce to racial supremacy. Besides pacifying the educated elite, higher education was meant to achieve another objective: supplying skills to the labour market, especially the new formed territory of Transkei, under the quasi-independent legislative body of Bhunga. Transkei was the largest donor towards the start-up capital for the university and would later provide bursaries. Being the largest of the all the native contributors, Bhunga exercised enormous sway on the curriculum of the institution, guided predominantly by its own developmental needs. Fort Hare served the skills requirements of the Bhunga. The institution, just like its white counterparts, was created to consolidate the hegemony for the political regime and meet the needs of the emerging Bantustan labour market (Wotshela, at al, forthcoming).

Unlike its white counterparts, however, UFH could make exceptions in its admission policy. On account of their parents being staff at the institution, some white students were admitted. There were also coloured and Indian students, whose yearning for higher education appealed to the conscience of the university authorities. This created a space for trans-racial relationships, exposing each

other to their racially isolated worlds, thereby creating prospects for solidarity (Wilson, 1981). Equally noteworthy was that UFH accepted students from outside the country – not only from the neighbouring states in the region, but also from farther in the continent. In his 2003 lecture, commemorating the memory of Steve Biko, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, recalled:

As a Kenyan, an African and a writer, South Africa holds a special place in my social experience and intellectual formation. It was as an educational presence that I first became aware of this country. I had just started primary schooling when it was announced that one of our teachers, moreover from my village, was leaving us. He was going to Fort Hare for more learning. The image of Fort Hare as a Mecca of learning was reinforced when later, yet another from the same region, this time a minister of religion, followed suit (wa Thiong’o: 2003, 53).

In other words, UFH enabled identity-formation beyond the inscribed, parochial identities. It not only brought together locals from the various ethnic and racial groups, but also Africans from the across the border. This was particularly commendable in South Africa, for it challenged the segregationist logic of the Union. Seventeen years after inauguration, the Union had decreed Africans into multiple ethnicities through the Native Administrative Act. Each African was declared a tribes-person, belonging in a village somewhere under a chief. Having denied Africans citizenship, the Union was now laying further legislative foundations, following the 1913 Land Act, for territorial segregation that was to materialize fully from the 1950s onwards. Legislation gave a veneer of credibility to the colonial injunction that Africans were not only personae non gratae in the Union, but also had their own territories (Mamdani, 1996 and 1998).

Trans-ethnic interactions – such as ones that Fort Hare enabled – countered the ethnic divisions that officialdom sought to foster. From seeing oneself as a part of an ethnic group, their consciousness evolved into embracing a more inclusive and national black identity, and eventually a pan-Africanist identity that transcended national boundaries. UFH therefore created, a national and continental space that facilitated a sharing of experiences and a cultivation of a common consciousness, enabling the students to realize the commonality of their plight, as colonial subjects. Bonds of solidarity were forged and would later spur common action against similar problems, especially as the anti-colonial

struggles gained momentum in the region. Exiled cadres of the South African liberation movements would find homes in the various frontline states, some of which were now led by former classmates (Callinicos, 2004).

The founders of UFH did not succeed in turning graduates into apolitical beings. Although admitted for vocational training to serve the burgeoning Bantustan economy, their mere presence at a university could not help, but stir-up intellectual curiosity into other (unauthorized) directions. Towards the late 1930s, and against the wishes of university authorities, students became curious to study politics and history. Their curiosity in these disciplines was sparked by the injustice of their political environment. They sought to understand their world better and figure out ways of changing it (Roux, 1948).

In other words, whilst the UFH curriculum was apolitical, experiences both inside and outside campus had a politicising effect on the students. Educational elevation bred aspirations towards a much higher station in society. Racism, however, limited the height to which blacks could climb up the social ladder. And, they did not have to await completion of their studies to encounter racial snub. They experienced it whilst still on campus. For a predominantly African university, Fort Hare was not considered fit to set up a medical school. Officialdom rejected its proposal in the 1920s to that effect, and opted to support Wits University instead.

Rather than have UFH train Africans as medical doctors, officialdom had the institution produce medical assistants. Students with aspirations to pursue a medical career could either go overseas, settle for a less prestigious career as a medical assistant, or go into a different career path altogether. It is only after the outbreak of the WWII that white universities – i.e. Witwatersrand in 1941; Cape Town in 1943; and Natal in 1951 – agreed to accept Africans for medical education.

That the ANC Youth League was formed by Fort Hare graduates, in 1944, was inevitable. Like the older generation more than thirty years earlier, they too

would not accept unequal treatment and sought to do something about it. The founders of the ANC in 1912 were distinguished members of society. They were relatively educated, had professional jobs and embraced some Western values. Officialdom considered them civilized and, in return, promised them equal treatment. That was Cecil Rhodes’ slogan in the 1890s as he canvassed for votes amongst native voters: ‘Equality for civilized men’. And ‘civilized natives’ did enjoy some equal rights, such as franchise, from the mid-1850s in the British colonies of Natal and Cape (Mandela, 1994 and Odendaal, 2012)

Equality, however, did not extend to life in general. They faced discrimination not only from ordinary settlers, but also from officialdom. The law exempted them from carrying passes, but they were constantly stopped by the police and instructed to present one. When they didn’t, they would be fined, unless a respected white person vouched for their exempted status. As the number of native voters increased in the late 1880s, officialdom turned against African franchise. Formerly beneficiaries of native votes and self-named ‘friends of the natives’, Liberals joined forces with Cape-based Afrikaner politicians to promulgate legislation that increased voting qualifications, thereby reducing the number of native voters (Ndletyana, 2008).

That was a betrayal of the liberal tradition in the Cape, prompting some African leaders to shun cooperation with whites. They had become distrustful of whites who purported to care for their welfare and wanted to speak on their behalf. Others had experienced racism even within the church. Feeling betrayed by their brethren, some African priests in the 1890s, for instance, formed their own churches where they could realize their full potential, taking up leadership without European tutelage. That is why, on forming the ANC in 1912, the native elite denied membership to whites and insisted on leading and speaking for themselves.

More than thirty years later, the African elite that came out of Fort Hare would experience the same level of disillusionment with officialdom. Unlike their predecessors, however, they employed new ways to register their protest.

Rather than send letters and delegations to plead their case, the 1940s generation would nudge the ANC towards mass mobilisation. They embarked on strikes and initiated defiance of apartheid laws. They wrestled the leadership of the disfranchised native masses away from the older generation. Their intention was to force concessions out of officialdom, not plead. In doing so they involved every sphere of black society, including students at the Fort Hare campus. Robert Sobukwe, one of the influential YL leaders at Fort Hare in the 1940s, explained their embrace of leadership as follows:

You have seen by now what education means to us: the identification of ourselves with the masses. Education to us means service to Africa

… You have a mission; we all have a mission. A nation to build we have, a God to Glorify, a contribution to make towards the blessing of mankind. We must be the embodiment of our people’s aspirations. And all we are required to do is to show the light and the masses will find the way (Karis and Carter: 1973, 333).

Fort Hare was not unique with political activism on campus. There was already a presence of political activism in both English and Afrikaans medium university campuses. Fort Hare was actually the novice, as the other campuses had started with the formation of the Afrikaanse Studentebond in 1917; and the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS) followed in 1924. Their activities were not confined to campus, but were influenced by the two ideological strands that characterized white politics in general: Liberalism and Afrikaner Nationalism. They were effectively student wings of the Progressive Party and the National Party respectively. Universities, especially the Afrikaans-medium ones, not only trained their students in the dogma of their mother-body, but also prepared them for leadership in a segregated society. Membership in the NP-aligned student body was a pre-condition for career advancement upon completion of studies (de Klerk, 1999).

By the close of the 19th and early 20th century, therefore, both the objective and role of universities were clear. They were created to meet commercial and hegemonic ends. The mining industry wanted technical skills for its emerging mining industry, whilst the missionary societies and politicians – both Afrikaner Nationalists and the Liberals – sought to cultivate popular acceptance for their

own value-systems. This was to be achieved through creating a pliant, African elite class that would spread Christianity and a Euro-centric worldview. Educated Africans were to be a collaborative class, to legitimise colonial rule. The students were molded through a combination of various instruments: curriculum, careful and selective exposure to particular messaging and the promise of employment.

Albeit severely restricted, access to higher education provided some upward mobility for natives. Colonial society generally did not provide Africans with opportunities for advancement. Instead, colonial conquest, through land dispossession, impoverished Africans, forcing them into wage-labour. The only stratum of the African community that escaped the ranks of the unemployed and working-class was largely made up of Christian converts and chiefs. Settled on missionary stations, converts (also known as Amakholwa or Amagqoboka among Nguni speakers) attended school and were provided plots of land for subsistence. Their education, elementary as it was, enabled them to become employed as teachers, clerks, priests and even journalists. From working off the land grants, some even became successful commercial farmers. This segment became the elite in African society, whose social status was bolstered even further by law. They were generally exempted from the discriminatory effect of Native Law. This meant they could do business and buy land outside the designated African townships, also known as native yards (Vundla, 2013 and Southall, 2017).

The African elite was able to reproduce itself by sending their offspring to school which in some cases led to inter-marriages to reinforce their value system and inheritance. Income was pivotal for accessing education. Government hardly funded African education. Settlers were hostile to native education. They felt that education made natives ‘cheeky’. Educated natives demanded equal treatment, instead of availing themselves for employment in the colonial economy as labourers. Part of the reason for the decision to set up Fort Hare, as noted earlier, was to control the natives, not really provide for their advancement (Burchell, 1976 and Wotshela, et al, forthcoming).

With only a minute number able to pay fees at the few missionary schools concentrated in the Cape and Natal, and later at Fort Hare, the number of the African elite remained negligible compared to the rest of the population. The country’s first census in 1911, for instance, reported that only 6.8% of the African population was literate. Between the period 1901 and 1934, 253 Africans matriculated. By 1935, only 49 Africans had BA degrees and two BSc, and 370 had received certificates as teachers, priests, clerks and agricultural demonstrators. Of the African population in 1936 only 11, 067 could be described as professional and salaried personnel. This number increased to 18, 165 in 1946 (Southall, 2013).

By the second half of the 20th century, the nexus between access to education, the curriculum and leadership in society was crystal clear. The ruling elite – i.e. politicians and capital – created institutions and the curriculum that produced a cadre that would reinforce their influence and interests in society. In light of the racist foundations of the Union (and the later the Republic), the curriculum both at secondary schools and tertiary institutions was inescapably racist. The curriculum was reinforced through lived experience both at universities and in society generally. Life both inside and outside campus was segregated to give credence to the ideology of irreconcilable races or separate development. Segregated lives fanned racial stereotypes about each other.

Upon completion of their studies, graduates from such segregated universities – especially the Afrikaans-medium ones – went on to assume leadership positions in society, where they were generally guided by, and practiced, such ideas. Whilst the English medium universities generally followed a liberal curriculum and admitted some black students, they too remained largely segregated. Students mixed in classrooms, but were segregated socially. Their student bodies, such as NUSAS, whilst purporting to be opposed to racism, were nonetheless found wanting when it came to renouncing privileges they received on account of being white. The split within NUSAS and the eventual formation of the South African Student Organisation (SASO) was triggered by the realization

that predominantly white organisations could never be sincere instruments of democratic changes (Biko, 1978).

SASO rejected the ethos that the apartheid curriculum sought to cultivate. Rather than accept their supposed inferiority and submit to apartheid rule, the black- only organisation adopted the ideology of Black Consciousness. Their teachings resisted the ideological onslaught by the apartheid state. The inauguration of the National Party earlier in 1948 had seen an intensification of racial propaganda, institutionalised racism and segregation. After wresting control of African education from missionaries, the Nationalist government introduced Bantu Education in 1954 with the sole purpose of ensuring that Africans had an inferior quality of education that would keep them subservient to whites.

Already recipients of an inferior education, from 1959 onwards African students were further encouraged to identity themselves in ethnic terms. Fort Hare University was reserved for Xhosa-speakers, and new universities were built for other ethnic groups. The University of the North was built for Sotho-, Tsonga and Venda-speakers and Engoye for Zulu-speakers and many other ethnic-based universities would follow in subsequent years. Coloureds and Indians, in keeping with racial segregation, were too built their own universities, Western Cape and Durban-Westville respectively. Placed at the helm of such institutions were National Party loyalists (or Broederbond members) accompanied by similar minded teaching staff, to ensure that the curriculum and activities accorded with the ideology of separate development (Reddy, 2004).

SASO rejected apartheid both at an ideological and practical level. It did not recognize apartheid’s diminution of identy to ethnicity. The organisation not only mobilised across campuses throughout the country, but also encouraged African, coloured and Indian students to identify themselves as black. The label ‘black’ was all encompassing and placed accent on political experience as the basis of identification, not race or ethnicity. Blackness applied to all those who were politically oppressed – i.e. African, coloured and Indian – regardless of complexion or ancestry.

Cognisant of the link between epistemology and identity, SASO supplemented the official curriculum. Black students were encouraged to read beyond what was prescribed in the classroom. Doing so would not only enable them to pass, but also to become knowledgeable thereby molding themselves into self- respecting individuals. They would become independent and assertive as they sought to realize their full potential. In remaking their own world, blacks would not seek to please or spite white sentiments, but would be guided what they considered best. They not only learnt in order change perceptions of self, but also engaged in practical activities to implement their ideas and demonstrate competence to whoever was still in doubt.

SASO advocated involvement in community building. This was despite the remoteness of black universities away from their communities and stringent rules on movement in and out of campus. Authorities sought to instill a wedge between black students and their communities to avoid any influences that might interfere with apartheid designs to turn black graduates in self-absorbed and pliant elite. SASO subverted the plans. In the same way that colonialists and apartheid ideologues used epistemology for subjugation, SASO used it for mental emancipation in order to trigger a rebellion towards freedom. It was to regain and assert the humanity of blacks (Badat, 2009).

White students were just as impacted by the Black Consciousness ideology as their black counterparts. White students had hitherto believed that merely verbalizing opposition to the apartheid was a sufficient form of protest. They did not have to renounce apartheid privileges nor embark on actual resistance activities. Biko called them out as insincere, paternalistic with a misguided notion that they held ‘trusteeship’ over blacks. This rebuke led to some introspecting over what role they should assume in order to make a difference towards a new society. One of those white students was Geoff Budlender, a Nusas member. Asked to reflect on the ‘Steve’s legacy for South Africa’, Budlender wrote:

Steve Biko spoke primarily to black South Africans – but he also spoke to white South Africans. He spoke particularly loudly to white students in the National Union of SA Students. NUSAS was inevitably dominated

by white student concerns and perceptions – through numbers, through the language used by the organisation, and as a result of accumulated benefits and privilege …

Most black students withdrew from NUSAS. The organisation was left to face the spectre, within itself, of white power and privilege. This caused great pain. It led to a fundamental rethink by students in NUSAS. The black students’ challenge coincided with a deep disillusionment about the politics of protest, and particularly the ritualized forms of protest which had become the norm.

And so NUSAS started to shift. It moved from protest towards projects

– from words to action. Students tried to find ways in which their skills, resources and energy could be made available to black people in a way which did not lead to white domination. The result was a generation of white activists who tried to find new ways of engaging white power – through support for nascent black worker organisations, and through their activities as journalists, lawyers, academics and community workers (Mangcu: 2012, 147-148).

Whilst restating a familiar nexus between knowledge and political action, SASO shone a spotlight on the importance of the curriculum to produce the requisite cadreship to re-configure society. Theirs was effectively education for civic engagement. Just as Sobukwe, an ANC Youth League leader, had done at Fort Hare in 1949, SASO leaders in the 1970s reminded their peers that knowledge imposed a responsibility of leadership for the improvement of society. ‘We black graduates’ Onkgopotse Tiro told the audience at the 1972 graduation ceremony in Turfloop, ‘by virtue of our age and academic standing are being called upon to bear greater responsibilities in the liberation our people … Of what use will be your education if not linked to the entire continent of Africa: it is meaningless’ (SA History Online).

However much they tried, therefore, the successive repressive regimes could not mis-educate black students into compliance with its segregation scheme. Knowledge informed the students that their responsibility went beyond earning a salary to lead a middle-class lifestyle. They also had a societal, leadership role to fulfill. Once they stood up against the might of the apartheid security forces in June 16, 1976, blacks students never retracted. Campuses remained a hotbed of political activism. Whilst political protests were concentrated in predominantly

black universities, for which students suffered violent repression, English- medium campuses saw some flare-ups of protest. These were led largely by progressive scholars and the progressive student bodies – i.e. Azanian Student Organisation (AZASO), Azanian Student Movement (AZASM) and NUSAS. Some of their graduates joined the emerging trade union movement. Segregation and a distorted curriculum did not succeed in making all students indifferent towards justice and creating an inclusive society (Reddy, 2004).

University Life and Purpose: Democratic Order

Of the colonial and apartheid legacy bequeathed to the democratic South Africa in 1994 were two lessons: Firstly, the university curriculum matters for economic growth, in affirming the value-system that underpins a society and to yield the kind of leaders, or cadre, desired for that particular society. Secondly, whilst the curriculum is useful for fashioning particular outcomes, both the intellectual nature of the university and its production of an educated elite are equally capable of yielding unintended results. Both these lessons were encouraging of what the new government intended to do. It must have offered a high degree of confidence that it could have universities serve as producers of a complementary value-system and leadership. The values that would undergird the new society, amongst others, were equity and tolerance of difference.

Among the objectives of the new higher education system, therefore, was to produce the requisite skills to revive the country’s ailing economy. The unemployment rate in 1994 stood at 32%, and South Africa rated amongst the most unequal in the world. Per capita income for Africans in 1993 was R2 717 a year, compared to R32 076 for whites. Unemployment and inequality not only stood at odds with the country’s sought to become, but also threatened its stability. That the country was now part of an increasingly globalizing world also meant that the country did not need just any competencies, but technical skills would enable the it to compete with other, developing countries.

The other objective was to have universities socialize students in the value- system that underpinned the new society. Humanities and social sciences were earmarked to:

make a major contribution to social problem-solving and socialization of new citizens with high level social-problem solving skills.

By developing a culture of critical discourse in the broader community, higher education can help strengthen civil society and promote critically constructive citizenship needed for reconstruction and modernization (National Commission on Higher Education: Discussion Document – A Framework for Transformation, 9 April 1996, 33-34).

Widening access to promote prosperity and strengthen democracy

The pursuit of both equity and economic growth necessitated widening of access to higher education. Access was to enable social mobility, which would, in turn, lessen levels of inequality. University enrollment amongst the African population in 1993 stood at 6, 3%, compared to 54, 4% amongst whites and 62% amongst Indians. And, black students were concentrated at Historically Black Universities (HBUs). This meant that they had a limited choice of courses for which they could register. In 1991 less than 35% of the black students enrolled for professional degrees such as business, computer science, agriculture and engineering; and more than 70% of the students registered for natural science degree were white (Department of Education and Training, 2014).

Universities have registered notable success in increasing the rate of registration amongst blacks. Between 2005 and 2017, for instance, enrolment amongst blacks increased by 60.4%; and in 2017 blacks made up 84.8% of the total enrollments. Amongst black students, African enrollment increased by 73.7%, coloureds by 39.9%, whilst Indians’ decreased by -8.2%. Though seemingly impressive, the rate of participation per age-cohort in relation to the rest of the population group, showed that Africans and coloureds still lagged at 18% and 15% respectively, compared to whites and Indians at 56% and 47% respectively. The gains in African enrolment are further offset by significantly high drop-out rates. Of the first year students that enrolled in 2000, by 2004 65% had dropped out and only 24% graduated (Essop, 2020).

Obstacles to successful completion: alienation and exclusion

A number of factors account for the relatively low levels of enrolment amongst Africans and coloureds. These include poor schooling background, lack of funding and an alienating environment. To be sure, government has been impressive in enabling access by providing funding for tuition and several student needs, including residence, books, meals and transportation. The unpleasant experience that black student encounter speaks to the character of the teaching staff. It has historically been predominantly white and male, both in HBUs and Historically White Universities (HWUs). A year before the democratic breakthrough, for instance, 65% of the research and teaching staff was white; 68% male, and 32% female.

Whilst there was a smattering of progressive scholars, the bulk of the staff were conservative and tended to get such placements on account of their embrace of apartheid ideology. Such prejudice persisted into the democratic order. Some staff could simply be ignorant or insensitive to challenges encountered by some were poorly prepared for tertiary education. Whatever the cause, academics of that sort make university experience unbearable for black students. They either dismiss or stereotype them as stupid, and taunt them that certain courses are not meant for blacks or women. Their audacity to engage in such behaviour indicates a level of confidence that they will not be held liable. This points to an agreeable institutional culture.

It is the same institutional culture that makes some universities relatively unrepresentative and push-out black academics. Admittedly some progress has been made over the past years in terms of equity. A 2019 report, for instance, shows that in 2017 Africans made up 36% of academic staff, compared to 19% in 2010. Notwithstanding the increase in numbers, black academics are still on the margins. Most are junior lecturers, whilst whites and males dominate the professoriate. They make up more than 50%, and Africans below 20% (Higher Education and Training. Ministerial Task Team Report, 2019). The uneven levels of representation are not accidental, but manifest institutional discomfort with

meaningful diversity. According to Grace Khunou “double-standards” are commonplace. When black academic speak out against racism, Peace Kiguwa tells us, they’re labeled over-sensitive and paranoid (Khunou, et al. 2019). Asked to explain why black academics leave, university authorities never take responsibility. They blame exits on them “wanting more money”.

Whilst some racist practices are subtle, others are blatant, shocking, and infuriating. That is what most South Africans felt on 26 February 2008 on seeing a video, made by a group of white UFS students, that was circulated in social media. The video showed the students forcing a group of elderly black workers to eat food they had urinated onto. Whilst they knelt on the ground eating as dogs would, the students were laughing. They later entered that video into a competition supposedly for the best initiation ceremony, and won the first prize. Their peers obviously felt that the video was the best. The video was not only intended to humiliate the workers, but also to protest a recent policy decision to integrate student residences. This was revealed by the one of the students in the video:

The Boers (Afrikaners) lived happily in Reitz until the day that the previously disadvantaged discovered the word integration in a dictionary. Reitz was then forced to integrate and we started our own selection process (Department of Education and Training: 2008, 23).

The mere act of racism was itself not shocking. This is South Africa, after all. The children’s racism, the Department’s 2008 report on racism noted, should also be understood within the context of their own family backgrounds as well. They come from secluded families that are opposed to changes happening in the country. Racial prejudice and mistreatment of domestic workers and farm workers is commonplace. They’re socialized in such hateful environments and simply act out such beliefs on campus. What was particularly shocking about the incident was that young people, who are university students, orchestrated it. The incident posed the question:

as to how an institution of higher education, which is supposed to be about broadening young people’s minds and preparing them for engaging with social and intellectual differences in people, could produce this level of narrow-minded, mean-spiritedness? (Ibid).

That the incident happened at a university was highly unexpected. As the Committee noted: a “university, it has to be emphasized, is fundamentally about helping people to grow beyond their misconceptions and prejudices”. Its role is “is to challenge the prejudices of students and to understand and explore these as a basis for overcoming them. The fact that this did not happen is a sign that the institution has failed the students” (Ibid, 86). The source of failure most likely lays in the curriculum, for the Higher Education Transformation Framework, as noted earlier, had envisaged humanities and social sciences making “a major contribution to social problem-solving and socialization of new citizens with high level social-problem solving skills”.

Failure of epistemological transformation

Some changes were made both institutionally and on the curriculum. The number of universities was reduced from 35 to 21 and reconstituted them into three categories: universities, comprehensive universities and universities of technology with a focus on professional programmes, both professional and vocational programmes and vocational programmes respectively. Whilst allowing for some level of specialization, it increasingly became clear that all three categories of universities placed priority, as Nonnie Botha puts it “on education for the professions” over education “to ensure the development of all aspects of the human being” (2008, 161).

The economic objective of higher education, considering the country’s economic challenges, took precedence over all other objectives, especially the molding of the citizenry for a democratic society. Humanities and social sciences, therefore, assumed a secondary role. In some universities department of history or sociology have disappeared and there is hardly any staff to teach these subjects.

Already sidelined in favour of natural sciences and vocational degrees, humanities and social sciences themselves were reluctant to introspect over its suitability for the new democratic South Africa. The first illustrative sign of that reluctance was the dispute that broke out at UCT in 1997 over the content of an

African studies course. It involved, Mahmood Mamdani, who had been employed in 1996 as Professor of African Studies and other academics and the university administration. Asked to design a new course on African studies, Mamdani returned with one whose scope encompassed pre-colonial history, the entire continent and drew heavily from, and referenced, African scholars (Mamdani, 1998).

The university administration, with the support of other academics, demurred at Mamdani’s proposed course. They objected to the scope, its intensity and choice of scholars. To them, the course was simply foundational and needed not be too wide. Their conception of Africa, according to Mamdani, did “not go beyond the Limpopo” and they did not find it worrisome teaching African studies without referencing African intellectuals. Rather than allow an expert to design the course content, whom they had employed exactly for that purpose, they chose to have academics without any discernable scholarship on the subject to override Mamdani.

The resistance to Mamdani’s new course betrayed both institutional and intellectual resistance to revising the content of the curriculum. Even the employment of Mamdani was not a genuine attempt to revive African studies.

He only had one staff member at the African Studies Institute and no students to teach. They preferred to have a course that focused “mainly on Bantu administration, customary law and Bantu languages and anthropology” (Mamdani: 1998, 4). The course lacked historicism of Africa and centered around settlers and their impact on Africa, especially South Africa, projecting the country as if it were disconnected from the rest of the continent. That kind of course was not too dissimilar to Bantu education, as it placed prominence on settlers and placed Africans on the margins in the history of their own country and continent. This made the old course woefully inappropriate for higher education in a democratic South Africa.

Institutional resistance to reforming the content of the curriculum, however, did not prompt the Department to Higher to take the lead. The reforms that would

follow in the subsequent years, according to Lis Lange (2017), were pre-occupied with preparing graduates for the world of work. It has been about competencies and skills that contribute to economic ground. Human capital theory became the guide, focusing largely on making graduates marketable in the labour market. Admittedly, they mentioned, now and then, Africanising the curriculum, but that never translated into a serious engagement with the knowledge that constituted the curriculum itself.

It was no surprise, therefore, that when the FeesMustFall movement erupted years later, in 2015, decolonising the curriculum became one of the animating demands. Black students did not see themselves and their own history in the curriculum. Their invisibility, or sense of alienation, was enunciated by the relative lack of black staff and exultation of colonial icons such as Cecil Rhodes at UCT and Rhodes University. The curriculum and makers of colonialism and apartheid perpetuated the sense of exclusion, not belonging, whilst leaving white students feeling that they owned such spaces, that they were natural inhabitants (Chikane, 2018).

What South African has then, twenty-seven years into a democracy society, are institutions of higher learning that have failed to live up to the promise of its legislative regime. The bulk of its student population is not imparted with knowledge that rids them of prejudice that still lingers on in the general society, nor educate them about their past so that they are sensitized to the demands of the moment into order for the country to become a just and non-racial society. The few students that are in humanities and social sciences are still taught a curriculum whose knowledge is incomplete, thereby perpetuating racial myths and stereotypes.

Harnessing the promise of associational life for democratic citizenship

Less barbaric than racial prejudice, but equally worrisome has also been political intolerance. Campuses are vibrant spaces with a number of student bodies. Some contest for student government, whilst others attend to social issues.

Associational life is constructive for students. Involvement in organisations serves as an incubator of values that are required for democracies to hold. Members have to reach collective decisions, which requires a process of deliberation characterized by listening to each other. Concurrence, or compliance, with decisions becomes a function of persuasion, not coercion. Membership is itself a manifestation of activism, or agency, which indicates not only curiosity and care about one’s surroundings, but also eagerness to act. These all are basic requirements of citizenship for a democratic society.

Some of the incidents that have played out on campuses, however, defy what is expected of associational life. Some protests have turned violent, destroying property. Gatherings have been disrupted with others being prevented from speaking. Rather allow an expression of a contrarian view, then persuade others towards one’s view, some students have taken it upon themselves to other shut others down. They are intent that views, and theirs alone, should prevail and that others be coerced into compliance. These practices are at odds with a democratic citizenry. If left to thrive on campuses, which is a platform that trains future leaders, upon graduation students are likely repeat such behaviours when they assume leadership positions elsewhere.

Areas that require intervention and possible initiatives

Universities are socializing agents and incubators of leaders. They instill knowledge into students, thereby molding their character and identity. Being a graduate distinguishes one from the rest in society, making one eligible not just for high-level occupation, but also positions of influence and leadership. Leadership is not just a function of education. Higher education also fills one with a sense of purpose, that years spent learning and acquiring knowledge should not go to waste. Imparted with the right knowledge, leaders in various organisations, both public and private, small and big, across sectors of society, can lead in a way that both exemplify and reinforce tolerance and promote equity in our society.

Government leaders are cognizant of the potential for higher education to transform society both economically and normatively. These were some of the objectives set up at the inception of the democratic order. Policies were formulated and commitments made towards these ends. In the course of implementation, however, accent was placed more on economic development than transforming the value system in order to aid the populace to become a better a citizenry for a democratic society. Institutions prioritised professional and vocational programmes. Producing graduates that get employment and add value to the economy became the rallying cry.

During that urgency to fast-track the country’s economic march, the question about what citizenry was required became less important. Epistemological transformation hardly happened. Government bears the blame for not providing policy leadership, but universities are not entirely innocent either. Instead of using the space and the opportunity to revise their curriculum, some university leaders resisted epistemological transformation. Some did not know better, whilst others embraced the prejudice and exclusion of the old, pre-1994 curriculum. Reforming the content of the curriculum would have challenged what they have always believed about their place in the ‘pecking order’ of humankind, and forced to review their thoughts about ‘the other’.

The result of the neglect was Rietz, intolerance of different views and the general ease to destroy property. Violence on campus and racist barbarism has rightfully elicited shock. This indicates general unanimity that such ghastly acts do not belong in higher education. University education refines minds enabling them to unmask myths about the other, and campuses are a common space for individuals of different backgrounds to meet, and possibly engage in collective actions. In that interaction, students should be able to find one other, and develop practices that strengthen the country’s democratic ethos.

It goes without saying, therefore, that humanities and social sciences, as envisaged back in 1996, should take the lead in epistemological transformation. The disciplines themselves must start by reforming the content of the

curriculum. A reformed curriculum, however, should not just be for the benefit of students in humanities and social sciences only. The entire student population, across disciplines, must benefit. The point of higher education, as South Africans have now come to realize to their own horror, should not be strictly about employability. It should also make students better human beings.

Changing the curriculum, however, also requires consenting leadership and knowledgeable academics. Particular care must be taken to place transformative leaders at the helm of universities. The profile of the academic must also reflect the new knowledge imparted at universities. It must be diverse in race, gender and thought. What students see at universities also form part of their education. They learn better when lecturers are familiar with their backgrounds and empathise with them.

Neither should it be assumed that there are texts readily available to inform the new curriculum. Mamdani’s experience, and others who have sought to expose students to other knowledge, points to a lack of texts on decolonized curriculum content. Some care must be taken to produce new texts and train academics to develop this new material.

In sum, universities must prioritise improving, and imparting, knowledge to make South Africans better citizens. This demands prioritizing diversity in staff profile and schools of thought. A changed curriculum should also be coupled with activities or programmes that reinforce the content. This should be aimed more towards interactions with others and how to improve deliberations amongst students. Such programmes should not just happen on campuses, but also at residences. Some universities have introduced initiatives towards equity and integration. It would be worthwhile probing what has worked, and has not.

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