Liberty security: how much should be sacrificed? Winning essays from The Economist/Shell competition

Whole Earth, Winter, 2002

Pleasant though many of them were, with the cheese and crackers and such, I doubt I'll have much to say about the hours I spent on Superior with the sails furled, motoring in perfect safety through flat water and dead air.

Jack Gordon is a freelance writer and editor living in the Minneapolis suburb of Eden Prairie. He has worked as a radio and newspaper reporter, and as chief editor of business/trade publications, including Training magazine.

UBUNTU: CAUGHT UP IN THE BUNDLE OF LIFE

LIFE WALKS THE MAIN street of Phuthaditjhaba on a Sunday morning. Up and down green and orange hills to the horizon, the people of the town make their way to church in the bright sun. Lines of young African girls in white dresses and white caps, draped with blue and red sashes; solid, round-bottomed ladies in floral pleated skirts and matching hats shaded by umbrellas; an old couple carrying water for the journey, the woman bent and draped in dark shawls. Between them swaggers a tall, young African in black stovepipe trousers, his hat tipped over one eye. There are no cars, except for the occasional cherry-red minibus picking up those who will pay.

"I don't approve," frowns the Judge, setting down his sherry. "I would be very concerned for your security." In Australia, amidst the polished mahogany and deep red carpets of the United Services Club, I have just told my mentor that I am moving to South Africa at the end of the year. He is an intelligent man, not given to knee-jerk reactions, and his concern for my security is not without foundation. The statistics support him. I am moving from a country which in 1999 recorded a murder rate of 1.8 per 100,000 residents to a country which in the same year recorded a murder rate of 55 per 100,000. In 1999, 119 of every 100,000 residents of South Africa were victims of rape or attempted rape.

A senior Melbourne barrister tells me that it would be `thoroughly irresponsible' to consider raising children in such a dangerous country. His vehemence prompts me to do some research. In the course of looking up South African crime statistics, I come across some other figures. In 1999, the murder rate in Washington, DC was 56.9 per 100,000 residents. In the same year, 147.3 of every 100,000 residents of Minneapolis were victims of rape or attempted rape. I know that statistical comparisons are dangerous, but surely a move to either of these cities would warrant at least some of the comment my move to South Africa has attracted. Yet I have not heard anything to compare to the concern which a move to South Africa evokes. Is this disparity the handiwork of that breed of South African expatriates who so enthusiastically denigrate their country to all who have ears to hear? Or is it that we simply have greater fear of people with whom we have no connection or understanding?

In an uncharacteristic bout of taxi chattiness, I poured out my plans to a fatherly Belgian cab driver on the way home in Melbourne one night. At my gate, he turned off the meter, turned on the light and faced me over his seat, his thin line of moustache straight and serious. "I do not want to pour water on your dreams, but I must give you a warning. You must think very carefully before you take this step. You are young and you think everyone has a good heart. But these people, they are not like us. Taking a life means nothing to them. He leaned into the light and repeated, in his precise, careful accent, pausing between each word, "They ... are ... not ... like ... us."