It must not be forgotten in fairness to the National Government

Host: The South African night hummed low — the kind of silence that carries a pulse beneath it. The sky was vast and moonless, the air thick with heat and memory. In the distance, the faint sound of a train moved through the veld, its horn long and mournful, echoing like the voice of history refusing to sleep.

A small campfire flickered between two figures — Jack and Jeeny — sitting opposite each other beneath a thorn tree. Beyond them stretched the dark outline of land divided by time, by pain, by policy. The flames cast their faces in amber and shadow, each flicker making them alternately young and old.

Jeeny: “Harry Oppenheimer once said, ‘It must not be forgotten in fairness to the National Government that apartheid is not just a policy of oppression but an attempt — in my opinion an attempt doomed to failure — to find an alternative to a policy of racial integration which is fair to both white and black.’”
Her voice was quiet, careful — as if each word carried the heat of the fire. “He called it an attempt. That word fascinates me. He didn’t excuse it — but he understood that even evil often begins as someone’s version of order.”

Jack: “Order built on separation isn’t order. It’s fear in uniform.”

Host: The fire cracked, a spark rising and vanishing into the dark. The veld smelled of dust, woodsmoke, and the distant scent of rain.

Jeeny: “Fear, yes. But maybe also ignorance. He wasn’t defending apartheid. He was naming its roots — the illusion that fairness could exist without unity.”

Jack: “An illusion that still survives,” he said grimly. “Dress it differently — call it nationalism, security, protectionism — it’s the same lie. The belief that fairness can come from distance.”

Jeeny: “But Oppenheimer saw it would fail. He was a man of commerce, not politics — he knew that separation poisons economies as much as it poisons souls.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, he still spoke fairly of those who enforced it. That’s what bothers me. Fairness to the architects of oppression — it’s a strange mercy.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe a strategic one. Sometimes mercy is the only language power understands. He wasn’t forgiving them — he was exposing the flaw in their logic. Calling apartheid an attempt was like calling it a doomed experiment.”

Host: The flames dimmed, their light now a soft orange, flickering against Jack’s face. His eyes, grey and restless, caught the reflection of fire like steel remembering heat.

Jack: “You think understanding is enough? That if we just label things attempts instead of atrocities, they lose their weight?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe understanding makes the weight bearable. If we don’t understand how people justify cruelty, we’ll never stop repeating it.”

Jack: “Justifying cruelty isn’t understanding it.”

Jeeny: “But empathy can be a weapon, Jack — sharper than anger. Oppenheimer used intellect where outrage would have drowned him. He didn’t absolve apartheid. He dissected it.”

Host: The wind rose slightly, carrying dust through the air. The flames bent, their light stretching long shadows across the dry earth.

Jack: “You talk as if analysis can heal. But facts don’t cure pain. Only truth does — and truth needs confession, not comprehension.”

Jeeny: “But confession never comes without comprehension first. You can’t repent what you don’t understand.”

Jack: “Then what do we call those who understood and still chose the system?”

Jeeny: “Human. Frighteningly human.”

Host: A moment passed, heavy with things unsaid. The fire popped, sending up a brief shower of sparks — tiny stars that died before they reached the sky.

Jack: “I visited Soweto once. Years after the walls came down. I saw children playing soccer in dust, laughing — but their laughter sounded like defiance. Like joy that refused to be small.”

Jeeny: “That’s what failure looks like, Jack — not silence, but the laughter of those who were meant to disappear. Apartheid’s failure was written in every smile that refused to obey.”

Jack: “Still, it left scars. Deep ones. You can’t call that kind of survival a victory.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s a beginning. Oppenheimer wasn’t praising the system; he was predicting its collapse. He believed separation couldn’t hold — because life itself doesn’t accept walls.”

Host: The flames wavered, a single ember floating into the night. Far away, a jackal howled, the sound mournful yet strangely alive.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of foresight. To see a system burning before the fire starts. To call failure before the fall.”

Jeeny: “It’s not foresight, Jack. It’s conscience mixed with realism. Oppenheimer understood both the machinery of oppression and the mathematics of consequence.”

Jack: “And what about the moral cost? Can a man who benefits from a broken system still see its flaw clearly?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why he did see it. Because guilt sharpens clarity. You can’t love justice unless you’ve watched it vanish.”

Jack: “You think guilt redeems the powerful?”

Jeeny: “Not redeems — reawakens.”

Host: The fire burned lower, the coals glowing red, their warmth intimate. The night seemed to lean closer, listening.

Jeeny: “I think Oppenheimer was saying something larger — that oppression, no matter how it dresses itself, always fails because it misunderstands what fairness means. You can’t be fair to both sides when one side holds the whip.”

Jack: “And yet he tried to frame it with fairness. That’s the brilliance — and tragedy — of his mind. He spoke like a bridge builder while standing over a chasm.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes bridges start as words.”

Jack: “And sometimes words aren’t enough to cross.”

Jeeny: “Then at least they remind us there’s another side.”

Host: Jack’s hand brushed his temple, his eyes distant, as if tracing history in memory’s dust.

Jack: “You know what I think now? Maybe he wasn’t trying to comfort the government or the oppressed. Maybe he was comforting the future — reminding us that even systems built on fear contain the seed of their own undoing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because injustice, by design, collapses under the weight of its own logic. Apartheid couldn’t last because it demanded people stop being people.”

Jack: “And people never stop.”

Jeeny: “No. They rise — even when no one’s watching.”

Host: The fire sighed, its last flame curling like a question mark into the night. Above them, the stars emerged, slow and patient — countless, equal, unsegregated.

Jack: “So fairness… isn’t about balance, then?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “Fairness is about humanity — not halves.”

Jack: “And humanity, when denied, always finds a way back to itself.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The wind carried the last smoke into the distance. They sat in silence, the kind that feels like prayer — not for forgiveness, but for understanding.

The first hint of dawn touched the horizon, pale and fragile — light returning to land that had endured too much darkness.

And as the fire died, Jack and Jeeny remained — two figures beneath an open sky, speaking for a world still learning this old, hard truth:

that separation can build laws, but never peace;
and that every failed attempt to divide the human spirit
only proves, once again, that our freedom is indivisible.