Cry, the Beloved Country

This is a beautiful novel about South Africa, where the country functions as a subject, setting, and character. Paton grew up in South Africa and he clearly knows what he is talking about, but since he wrote the novel while not living in South Africa there is this strong sense of nostalgia, of longing for a home you can never go back to, of a place very dear to your heart. His description of the land is gorgeous, from the dry veld to the misty mountains. There are all these beautiful rural villages that are becoming increasingly unfarmable meaning more and more people are forced to move to the big city (all roads lead to Johannesburg) which if you are poor basically means the slums. And even though there is the hope that Kumalo's show more village will be saved at the end, you can't help but think of all the villages that won't be. The book obviously deals with the fact that Africa is a shit show because of white colonizers whose greed keeps white people richer at the expense of the natives who greatly outnumber them. One of Jarvis' essays explains that it isn't wrong that the European's colonized Africa, but what is wrong is that they destroyed their way of life without giving them a proper new way. This idea reoccurs in the novel- "The tragedy is not that things are broken. The tragedy is that they are not mended again." The problems and social issues seem to be in a vicious cycle, so there is a definite sadness to South Africa. But it's not just South Africa- this kind of thing happens all the time ie. issues with Canadians natives or crime in ghettos are still problems today stemming from similar factors. There's no easy solution- neither religion or politics prove to be entirely successful in this novel. What is important is family, community, and forgiveness. Kumalo's tale is SO SAD of going to find his son but learning his son is a murderer. So much of his grief comes across and the grief of the parents of the murder victim. But I like that the writing is quite simple and sparse. It's not flowery at all, but very direct. It hits very hard at certain points ie. "If I could come back to Ndotsheni, I would not leave it anymore." It's always hard to see someone convicted for what is so clearly a social ill. But though there is lots of sadness, there are uplifting, good moments too. The novel has many nice characters who do wonderful things. And I liked the part about how sorrow is better than fear, as fear is like a journey and sorrow the arrival. It's incredible that this was Paton's first book, as it is so well written and insightful. It's clearly about a subject close to his heart which is why it feel so inspired. Truly excellent. show less

This is the big daddy of all liberal South African protest novels, the first really high-profile international bestseller to draw attention to the damage done by the racism embedded in the South African system, even before the fiction of "apartheid" was created.

It's a simple, very classically-constructed novel, a tragedy built around a father's quest for his missing son, full of symbolic landscape description and stately, formal conversations, peppered with interpolated sociological observations that come at us from a Marxist-Anglican viewpoint, all of it very much more 1848 than 1948. But somehow that doesn't seem to matter: Paton gets away with it because of his obvious love for the country and the people who live in it and his show more passionate concern to undo the mess that it is in.

Paton sees the racism that poisons South African life in a straightforward Marxist way, as an ideology that has grown up to justify the need the capitalist system has to keep black people in poverty so that there will always be a pool of unskilled labour prepared to work at low wages to keep the mines and farms going. By taking away the best land and forcing people into inadequate "reserves", the old agricultural economy of the tribal system has been broken down, taking with it the social control and restraints on behaviour of traditional society. Young men have to leave their families to go and work in the cities — the system doesn't allow them to establish stable family homes in the cities, or to build careers or businesses once they are there, so those who are too enterprising or too undisciplined to cope with tedious work in mines and factories are more than likely to end up in crime.

For the moment, political opposition doesn't seem to offer a way out — in the absence of any real political responsibilities open to them, black leaders are vulnerable to being corrupted by the system. Well-meaning white liberals can make a difference on a small local scale, but in the end they are only giving back a part of what their community took away in the first place. The only real pillar of hope for Paton seems to be the (Anglican-) Christian church, which gives black people a new kind of community structure to replace what they have lost in the breakdown of tribal bonds. But he's clearly not expecting the revolution any time soon.

If this were a new book, it would be criticised because Paton is a white person writing from the point of view of a black protagonist, using elements of style that are clearly meant to give the book an African rhythm, but which can sometimes start looking rather Hiawatha-ish: Here is a white man's wonder, a train that has no engine, only an iron cage on its head, taking power from metal ropes stretched out above. Conversations that are supposed to be in Zulu are rendered in very formal, courteous English, which is perhaps an accurate representation of the way social relations in Zulu work, but starts after a while to look like a cliché of old-fashioned exoticising colonial fiction. It's clearly all well-meant, of course, and in the context of its time, we can't really use the "cultural appropriation" argument that Paton is stealing space in which black writers could have been selling their books. If anything, he's helping to create a demand for more African writing.

Of course, Paton wrote this for an international audience, during a stay abroad, and the book must owe a lot of its success to the self-satisfaction American readers got from discovering that there were worse things in the world than their own home-grown racism, and British readers from finding that it wasn't their responsibility any more. The South African authorities, of course, banned it. But Paton did go back home and continued to engage in South African politics, doing his best to swim against the tide and work for change.

Whatever you think of it, it's an engaging tear-jerker and an important document of its time. show less

"the fear of bondage and the bondage of fear"
By sally tarbox on 10 October 2017
Format: Kindle Edition
Written in the 1940s, this is a tale of a changing South Africa - where apartheid exists and where the Black and White populations are poles apart, but where some Blacks are challenging the status quo, some violently. And where some Whites see their country's failings and are trying to do better, while others hang on to power, albeit increasingly fearfully.
A poor country parson travels to Johannesberg to fech home his ailing sister. While there he tries to find his son, who moved to the city but has lost touch. What he finds is far worse than he could have expected...
This novel really works because the characters are all so plausible. show more Such a story could easily 'take the side' of one race or the other: the 'Natives', oppressed, longsuffering - or violent, immoral. The Whites - cruel, racist - or victims . In actual fact, we see the flaws - and good side; and difficulties - of each. There are no easy answers, though it finishes on a hopeful note.
Beautifully written. show less

Madam, I have no wish to be cut off from you
I have no wish to hurt you with the meanings
Of the land where you were born
It was with unbelieving ears I heard
My artless songs become the groans and cries of men.
And you, why you may pity me also,
For what do I do when such a voice is speaking,
What can I speak but what it wishes spoken?
- Alan Paton, 'Could You Not Write Otherwise?'

This is a book with a very uplifting, though not superficial, message about racial attitudes from a man who knew all about living in a segregated society. It is a South African classic, which I approached with trepidation, fearing that I might actively dislike it. A superfluous fear! I enjoyed Paton’s story immensely, though I did have some problems with his show more writing and his conclusion. Not calamitous problems, but niggles, which I will get to later.

Father Stephen Kumalo is a preacher in deepest rural Natal. He has had a full life, guiding his flock and raising several children with his devoted wife. At the beginning of the novel, Father Kumalo (or “umalusi”, as he is respectfully addressed in Zulu) receives a letter from Father Msimangu, calling his attention to his sister, who has become ill in Johannesburg. Kumalo sets out on a journey to the big city, into which his eldest son, Absalom, has also disappeared. Kumalo’s deracination is expertly handled by Paton, who perfectly captures Kumalo’s alienation in Johannesburg. After eventually meeting Msimangu, he sets out on a journey to find his sister, which leads him into the seedy heart of the city. To his horror, he discovers that his sister has become a prostitute. He manages to save her from her situation, but much worse follows: Absalom is accused of murdering a white man. The rest of the story is concerned with the fallout from this horrible event.

Despite a glaringly convenient coincidence (the white man killed Absalom happens to be the son of a farmer from the same valley as the Kumalos) I found Paton’s story touching and worrying. Despite being published four years before my own father’s birth in 1952, this book contains warnings about South African society that were unfortunately not heeded until much later. In fact, I think that some of them have still not been heeded. An example: the book mentions a miners’ strike which is getting out of hand… if Marikana does not ring a bell, look it up for yourself. I will not get polemical in this review, so I will leave it at that.

Paton’s writing is often described as poetical, and just as often compared to that of the King James Bible. A not quite salubrious comparison, in my opinion. Just as reading too much of the KJ can be taxing, so Paton’s truncated dialogue and limpid prose can become a bit much. I found out short pieces of his writing better than the novel as a whole. Admittedly, it is a short novel, so not much of a problem. What did bother me more was Paton’s somewhat unlikely denouement. It seemed a bit too neat and final, especially considering the events that followed this era in South Africa. Paton’s dislike of capitalism was also a bit too polemical in the novel, too prescriptive rather than descriptive.

That said, I found the novel thought-provoking and rich. I do not think it is the best South African novel of the last century, but who am I to be setting up canons anyway? It made me realise how far South Africans have come since the Apartheid days, but also reminded me how far we still have to go. An exemplary tale. show less

The story of a country parson's journey to Johannesburg to find his son is told in the slow, stately rhythms of country life, and perhaps the Zulu language itself. I was moved by the ritual use of language: go well, stay well, yes, I understand, many other repeated phrases that become something of a hymn to the country and the lost culture. The characters are sometimes emblems: the girl, the demonstrator, the boy, the child, all without names. But the characters that are named are very present. The parson's brother John has long since relocated to Johannesburg, and adopted city ways and pace. Gertrude has been totally corrupted by the city after traveling there to find her husband. Jarvis and Parson Kumalo share the countryside and the show more terrible pain of loss. Msimangu is a loving guide through the inferno of the city, and a truly religious man.

Paton doesn't shy away from the politics and desolation of apartheid, but he shows its effect on behavior, on the way things must be done and must not be done. He makes it very personal, and all his characters sympathetic, no easy task.
And the book is filled with grinding poverty, unspoken fears, poignant hope.

We know now that apartheid has ended, reconcilliation has been attempted, people still live in poverty and separation. Amazingly, there was no war. But the fears between and among groups of different people resurge, and this book bears reading again. show less

This is one of those stories that works on many, many levels simultaneously. What all the levels have in common, however, is their exploration of man’s capacity for both selfishness and selflessness.

On one level, this is the story of the disintegration of a family. An elderly South African pastor travels to Johannesburg to track down members of his family who have vanished into the maw of that ravenous city, never to return. Heartbreakingly, he discovers that all of them have been marked and warped by their brush with soulless urbanism: his sister has become a prostitute, his brother a radical politician, his son, a thief and murderer. In the course of trying to cope with these heartbreaks, the aged, gentle Umfundisi (Zulu for show more “pastor”) is aided by a host of sympathetic strangers, both black and white. The juxtaposition of their generosity and capacity for kindness with the corruption and apathy of the city is deeply moving.

On another level, this is the story of the destruction of a way of life, as drought and ignorance of sound agricultural/land management practices threaten to forever destroy the beautiful valley of the Umfundisi's memory, leaving behind a dry and desolate plain. With characteristic equivocation, Paton challenges us to consider the extent to which we humans bring our evil with us – in the form of plows and tribes and customs – regardless of our intent.

On still another level, this is the story of the evils of European colonialism and the devastation wrought upon an unprepared native population by greedy mine owners, capitalists, and politicians. Paton doesn't shy away from blaming colonialism for the ruin of the corruption of the Umfundisi’s family and the loss of South Africa’s soul. And yet, again, he chooses the path of ethical ambiguity over the much easier path of moral righteousness, juxtapositioning acts of soulless exploitation with acts of stunning philanthropy.

Finally, this is the story of the transition of men from innocence to understanding. In ways both subtle and deeply ironic, the core tragedy of the tale forges an unexpected bond between the Umfundisi and a grieving white African businessman, kindling in both men a deeper wisdom and, unexpectedly, a faint stirring of hope that illuminates the final few pages of this complex and moving tale.

All this, Paton achieves via a wholly distinctive, lyrical narrative voice that mimics the rolling, repetitious rhythms of South African speech. At first I found this use of repetitive phrases and exchanges (for example, the staple farewell ritual of “stay well” and “go well”) a little self-conscious. By the end of the tale, however, I understood the extend to which these simple exchanges could communicate as much depth of feeling and pathos as a whole chapter of Dickens.

Readable, poignant, relevant … can we ask more from any book? If the definition of a “classic” is a tale that still has things to say about the human condition, then this one definitely deserves its spot in the pantheon. show less

Cry, The Beloved Country saw its first publication in 1948. How can a 21st century reader find interest in a book that is over 70 years old? First, let me simply observe that any book remains “new” until one has read it. Secondly and more important, indulge me by noting these words from pages 110 and 111 of the novel:

“[How shall we fashion] a land of peace...? For we fear not only the loss of our possessions, but the loss of our superiority.... Is it not better to hold what we have, and to pay the price of it with fear? … We shall live from day to day, and put more locks on the doors, and hold on to our handbags more tenaciously; and the beauty of the trees by night, and the raptures of lovers under the stars, these things we show more shall forego.... We shall be careful, and knock this off our lives, and knock that off our lives, and hedge ourselves about with safety and precaution … and we shall live with fear....” I cannot speak for you, good reader, but this sounds pretty 21st century to me.

Set against the controlling background of apartheid, Cry, The Beloved Country draws its readers quickly and deeply into the life of the black Umfundisi (parson) who desperately searches for his son Absalom and his sister Gertrude, both of whom have separately vanished into the teeming city of Johannesburg. As told in the Hebrew Bible, Absalom rebelled against his father and was killed during the Battle of Ephraim's Wood. Will the Absalom of the novel follow his biblical namesake, or will the love and devotion of his father save him from a similar fate? If, as I suspect, those reading this review have already read the novel, then you already know the dark answer to the question. Besides, attempting to draw biblical parallels with the novel may be an erroneous path to follow, yet the question of achieving peace, justice and equity in South African society simmers just below the surface, and the Hebraic meaning of the name Absalom is “father of peace,” sadly ironic in terms of both the biblical story and of the novel.

The pervading tone is, I think, dark, and how could it be otherwise given the culture of apartheid in which our protagonists struggle? The reader encounters much that is indeed dark: poverty, theft, death, prostitution, despair. Yet, there is hope, for we also encounter friendship, support, benevolence, and, most of all, near the end of the novel, a shining hope for the future in the person of the young grandson of Jarvis, the wealthy white planter who lives above the parson's impoverished village of Ndotsheni. Avoiding this book because one does not enjoy dark themes would be a dreadful error because then one would also miss the golden promises of brighter days to come.

The destructiveness of apartheid is adroitly expressed: “Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood.” Still, within that house are many good, worthy individuals, such as the young white man who works at the reformatory. Their efforts do not always achieve their goals and desires, but that fact does not tarnish the luster of their progressive and egalitarian lives and actions. So, yes, there is a terrible darkness in Cry, The Beloved Country, but there are also stars that stubbornly insist on shining through that darkness, and they bring a promise of succor, of freedom, and of fraternity to come.

Cry, The Beloved Country may be fiction, but it is surely based upon truth, and Alan Paton's skill with words conveys those truths to his readers while engrossing them in the story and forging a real link between them and the characters. I am parsimonious with Goodreads and Amazon stars, but this book deserves all five and even more were they available. If, good reader, you have cared nothing about South Africa until now, once you have read this book, you will. show less