The old boys are organising a 40th reunion of the Highlands North Boys’ High School matric class of 1981. The effort elicits a wide range of emotions and responses; some are freely expressed on the WhatsApp group, some quietly discussed among allies while some remain private.

The class photo is being reproduced with current headshots and it is irresistible to delight in how we have all changed. Those who still have hair get applauded while others must humbly tolerate the stinging tropes about how they have aged. Photographs from the old days confirm the comradeship, the fun and the youthful abandon that many of us enjoyed at times. The reunion is bringing some good friends together and solemnly reminding us of those who have died. The occasion invokes nostalgia, introspection and for some it raises the spectres of a time they would rather forget.

It’s understandable why some of us are anxious. Our world and our lives, hopefully, and thankfully, have changed since 1981. We matriculated from a government institution designed to mould white boys into pawns of the apartheid government. The environment encouraged us to be sexist, homophobic and racist. Christian National Education normalised militarisation and prepared us for conscription into an army that was defending apartheid.

Our school was not exceptional; our experience is shared by tens of thousands of white South African men of our age. I know that it was not the school alone that fashioned our identity, behaviour and culture, but it was a powerful institution that bound us together, forever.

We should not gather again without addressing the herd of elephants in the room. We were all there.

Some of you escaped the Nationalist agenda and some even saw through it; you were the exception. Some of you benefited from an outstanding teacher or excelled on the sports field and were adored, awarded white blazers and given place of honour in the class photo; your experience was exceptional, too. Some of you embraced the school’s culture and identity which may or may not have helped you succeed in life. Then there were the boys like me.

I didn’t know it then, but my time at HNBHS was the most fruitless and unsatisfying five years of my life. When I arrived, I was not a sportsman or an academic and had little identity, besides being cute. I was terrified by the bullies and the culture of the school. From day one we were bullied. As we filed in from the back of the hall, we were hissed at by the entire student body. There was one boy, probably three years older, who had a frightening reputation for violence and openly threatened to hit me whenever we crossed paths. I don’t remember his name, but I remember his face well; bright-eyed, thin, small for his age. He could have been handsome, but his head was clean-shaven and the nicks, cuts and bruises made him ugly. I remember his mouth best of all; it was always mocking, never still and always spewing spit and visceral hate. It was a relief when he was expelled later in the year.

In order to survive, I dropped my better-behaved primary school friends and sought refuge with a group of tough kids who could give as well as they could take. I fell somewhere between being a mascot and a cheerleader to a loyal gang who demanded respect from the geeks and even made an impression on the violent, sometimes criminal, older boys.

After surviving the early years, we became the bullies. I remember well the mocking, the carefree cruelty, the ritual humiliation and causing of pain. We made others suffer. I was not the one that tied the fat kid up and left him crying for hours in a field or the one that physically abused the geek trying to get home past my corner. But I did walk and talk like a bully. I did chorus the insults and ethnic jibes.

We practised the archaic ritual of gate-crashing rival school parties on most weekends. I once threw the first punch at a total stranger for no reason but to start a fight. I enjoyed five minutes of fame among my peers. I know I’m a better person now, but, 40 years later, I can still be a bully. I still have to check and correct myself. The bully emerges when I’m feeling weak and can find no mature way to control my world.

We were sexist. We spoke and thought of women as though they were only sexual objects to be conquered. Sexual violence and the demeaning of women was a core foundation of our humour. We were trash. I see, from the WhatsApp Group, that this is still an issue many of us need to deal with. I don’t mean to judge you; I was there too. I still have to check and correct my trashy sense of humour.

And the homophobia? Gay people suffered our scorn, vitriol and violence even more than women and, dare I say, maybe even more than black people.

We were racist. I empowered, encouraged and enabled other racists. Is there anyone among us who can forget the term “k****r hunting”? I stood by and watched violent white youth gangs randomly targeting black men and then beating them with baseball bats till blood flowed. It frightened me and excited me at the same time. It stirred perplexing emotions in my confused and malleable mind. I remember my “friends” boasting about their violent, racist exploits. There was a grotesque monster that came with being white, that beckoned us to cross a line to prove that we belonged to a supreme club.

After the army I surfed our entire coastline, did a little university and finally settled into the creativity of film and television. Years after ’81 I found an identity I can be proud of. I met people who helped expand my mind and my world.

One night, a group of about six of us happened upon a drunk black man who was probably in his 40s. I remember that he was dark-skinned, with a woolly thin moustache and spotty beard concentrated around his chin. He was thin, tall and his cheeks were sunken. His eyes were bloodshot and teary. He must have weighed less than 55 kg. He had an easy smile and a high-pitched laugh.

One of us punched him in the face, so hard that he lifted off the ground and landed unconscious on his back, on top of a neatly trimmed lavender hedge. As he landed, his penis popped out of his open fly and he urinated in a perfect arc. It was all beautifully backlit by a bright sodium vapour street lamp common to the neighbourhood.

In the silence that followed, the world seemed to stop and I remember a feeling of utter self-revulsion, which I immediately cloaked in fake bravado. The man recovered quickly, then laughed and taunted us in a language we did not know. We walked away in silence. Gradually our voices returned as we remembered the characters we were meant to be playing and the lines we were meant to deliver. The night was anticlimactic and we drifted apart. I don’t think we spoke of it again. I haven’t, until now.

After school, I was conscripted into the SADF for two years where I gravitated towards a small group of like-minded young men who became lifelong friends. We were the outsiders then and mostly we learnt that surfing, smoking weed and ducking the system was the only reprieve from the lunacy. I know I was lucky to be conscripted to a largely ceremonial unit in Cape Town; there are many old boys who suffered more in the army than at school.

After the army, I surfed our entire coastline, did a little university and finally settled into the creativity of film and television. Years after ’81 I found an identity I can be proud of. I met people who helped expand my mind and my world.

In the late ’80s I dedicated myself to the struggle against apartheid, harboured and loved an MK cadre and finally celebrated the birth of our democracy. I continue to advocate for a non-racist, non-sexist society and dream of a socialist world where we are all equal, secure and free to enjoy our lives.

I know I’m a much better person now but, 40 years later, try as I do, I can’t shake off my past behaviour. The monster still lurks in the shadows. At critical moments I still forget the oppressive power that my privilege has over many black people and how it distorts my understanding of their worldview. Occasionally it gets me into trouble with my comrades and colleagues. I will probably get into deeper trouble for writing about it. I know some people will want to punch me in the face. I am sorry if this confession shames my wife, children, family, friends and colleagues. I am dreadfully ashamed of my racist behaviour. I want to apologise to the black man we punched, and beg for forgiveness.

I’m also deeply ashamed of my sexism, my homophobia and my bullying. I want to apologise for that too. I am sorry that I was brought up to be like that. I am sorry that the school class, which we are proposing to celebrate, contributed significantly to these despicable qualities.

I know fun was had, we learnt valuable lessons and some friendships were made, but we shouldn’t allow our reunion to turn into a display of collective amnesia or an orgy of back-slapping and nostalgia for the good old days. I hope we don’t celebrate the disgusting culture that so many of us embraced. Let’s have a reunion, but let’s agree that many of us have much to admit to and much to apologise for.

Talking about who we were, who we are now and how the world has changed will go a long way to making this reunion worthwhile. I know there are some old boys on the sidelines who are still traumatised by their experience at HNBHS. I think it would benefit us to explore our feelings, emotions and opinions.

And what of the school that started this? Normally, these events should be organised through the school. A reunion should be a celebration of the alumni by the alma mater. Does Highlands North want to celebrate us 40 years later? I don’t think they give us much thought. Their challenges are so far removed from ours that the school is ours in name only. Normally, the class of 2021 would include some of our sons. Today it most likely includes the sons and grandsons of our domestic workers from the time. Let’s not pretend this is a normal reunion.

Let’s make sure our reunion contributes something positive to all the old boys and the school. There is much we can do to turn the tragedy of our school years into a happy ending. We could contribute financially to the school. Let’s set a target of R350,000.

We should start a dialogue with the school and the class of 2021. We’re from the same school, yet we know nothing about each other. I think the class of 2021 should know whose chair they are sitting in. I know we could learn a lot from today’s matric class.

I’ll start by pledging R5,000 to the school and volunteer to open the engagement. I ask that you start by being honest.

With love, respect and hope, Ben Horowitz. DM

Postscript: I posted this letter on the HNBHS Old Boys’ WhatsApp group on Saturday 2 January 2021 expecting some resistance from the 60 participants. To my delight, 30% of them responded very positively, supported the spirit of the letter and made pledges. We had, by the end of the weekend raised over R100k in pledges. The pledges and support are still coming in. There were also many proposals of what to do with the money, some of them very progressive. We are appealing to other old boys from other classes and other schools to join this movement and would like to partner with experts in the field who can help manage the process and make the investment sustainable. I can be contacted at [email protected].

Ben Horowitz, 56, is a freelance writer, 1st AD and line producer in the South African and Scandinavian film and television industry. He has a number of projects in development and dreams of making his own movies. He is a family man with many grown children, a 7Q GO player, enjoys backgammon, poker and klaberjass and can even play Mancala. He also enjoys fishing. All he ever wanted to do was be an actor.