Elections 2009: Hold your nose and vote?

A friend sent me an sms as she was going into the voting booth on April 22^nd. “Going to hold my nose and vote”, she said. She was voting for COPE nationally and ID provincially only because she was sure they would not be in government. She detested many of the personalities in Cope, disagreed with aspects of policy and felt that they represented too broad an arrangement of agendas to stand for something coherent. However, her logic was that it might shake up the ANC and make them take criticism more seriously if their majority was somewhat dented. The decision who to vote for was not one she or I came to lightly. This election was not like any other.

It was not like any other for many reasons. When I reached the voting station in Rondebosch East, the contrast from previous elections struck me. There was something banal about the voting station. We walked past chattering cops sipping on their coffee. A dog licked the legs of voters waiting in line (a short line). There was no party memorabilia. No shout of ‘Amandla!’ No local campaigners standing outside the gates, excitedly debating RDP vs. GEAR. Even the ink mark on my thumb was more like a trickle than the impressive, bruise-like patterns on my friends’ nails. My dad exited the voting booth looking relieved. “I nearly voted for CAPE!” he said, “I bet they will get inflated results because people think they are voting COPE!” He may have been right.

It was the first time I have ever voted in a national election. In 1994, I was seven years old and in my first year of school. I remember the teacher asking the class what day it was. A few of us in class excitedly replied that it was the first ever democratic elections. My mom had taken me to a rally a year earlier where Mandela had been speaking. She had hoisted me up over the heads of the singing, dancing crowd to see him. My brother (three at the time) and I had covered our doors and pencil cases with ‘Mandela for President’ stickers. I didn’t fully understand what this first election was about but I understood the excitement. I remember having a sense of being part of a broader movement. I grasped that my parents’ excitement came not only from anticipation of a better era to come, but also from their interactions with other people who shared their hope and engagement in building the country.

In 1999, again there was excitement. At the polling station, my parents greeted old friends, handing out ANC stickers and flyers, wearing political t-shirts. In 2003, as signs of Mbeki’s autocratic leadership style were showing and his AIDS policy was having damaging effects, there was some uncertainty. But not enough to shake my parents’ will to vote ANC.

This election was not like the others. Growing up, I was always so sure that I would have no doubts when I voted, so secure was my faith in the ANC. But here I was, a few days before the election, questioning that certainty. For years, I have been looking forward to the time when I could vote. There was no question of not voting. From a young age, my parents have spoken about the importance of voting in order to have a say in government and the significance of having the opportunity to vote, when so many fought so hard during the struggle against apartheid to win this right.

My parents, who have always voted ANC, and who, together with many others, at home and in exile, sacrificed a great deal during the struggle against apartheid, were questioning seriously for the first time whether to vote ANC or not. One of my parents’ friends burst into tears as she recounted what they had struggled for from within the ANC. Another who had been imprisoned for a long stretch during the struggle responded with words: “I can’t stand COPE. But I want to say ‘up yours’ to the ANC”.

At the threshold of our passage, on the way out the door to leave for the voting station, my parents and I were still discussing voting, still wracked by feelings of disbelief and uncertainty that we had reason not to vote ANC. In the weeks and days leading up to the elections, my friends and I had been agonising over voting. We spent an afternoon before the elections scrutinising parties’ policies. We discussed the gains government had made and dissected why we needed to be critical of government despite these gains. We questioned issues of service delivery. We debated economic policy. We wondered how the rest of the South Africa would vote. We wondered whether government was committed to equity, “to each according to their needs”, and we wondered whether this could ever be achieved. We questioned Jacob Zuma’s statements on various public platforms – for example, about bringing back Christian education or the death penalty, or questioning the rights of gay people – statements which contradicted ANC policy as well as the constitution. Could we dismiss these statements as a political game? Should we take these contradictions seriously? There was no doubt that we wanted the ANC in government. There was no doubt that most of us were ANC supporters, in the broad sense of the term. But was it possible not to vote ANC and to remain an ANC supporter? Was that a betrayal? Many of us left the meeting sure we would vote ANC, or was it Cope, or was it ID, or even AZAPO (there were one or two muted and very embarrassed mutterings about the DA). Many entered the voting booth undecided. Throughout Wednesday morning, I received text messages from people about to vote. “About to go to the booth. Democracy!” wrote one friend. “Here I go. Doesn’t feel good,” wrote another. He too was holding his nose.

Now that the election results are in, I am cautiously optimistic. This means recognising all the merits of our government. But it also means continuing to be critical. We should continue to debate, discuss, agonise, lobby and take action. And we should not do this only every five years. The democracy 1994 brought us can be deeper than that, but only we can make it so.