Voting Day

(5-minute read) – It was voting day. The lady was still writhing and jerking on the concrete ground as Angie and I slowly passed her in the queue. Four good people had given up their places and were crouched around her. One of them had his jacket under her head to protect it from the hard concrete. Another had his coat over her to keep her as warm as possible in the early Johannesburg chill.

The ambulance arrived a little while after we passed her. The whispers up the queue confirmed she’d had an epileptic seizure. She’d been alone in the queue. The four people that helped here were total strangers. As she came around, the first thing she said was, “I have to vote”. But the medics wouldn’t let her. They took her away on a stretcher in their ambulance.

I wondered who she would have voted for. Did the elected leaders of that party appreciate how important it was for this one brave woman to vote for them? Did they appreciate that she’d braved the queues on her own with a condition she must have known could strike at any time? Here she was, lying vulnerable and exposed on the ground in front of a hundred strangers. And all she could think of was voting.

It struck me that I had witnessed democracy at its best. It was the simple principal of duty and responsibility to society exercised through the right to vote. This was democracy at its purest, untainted by the corporate lobbying, the corruption and the power mongering of its capitalist kin.

I had seen the joy of pure democracy more than twenty years ago. In those long-ago queues there had been optimism and friendliness on faces so bright they outshone the morning sun – a morning sun that was the dawn of South African democracy. All the colours of love beamed around our land of the south on the souls of the rainbow nation.

But the ideal of pure democracy had waned in our collective mind since then.

Gradually the expert capitalists had soiled the good intentions of liberated freedom fighters. So many of those who had won the freedom of a nation, capitulated to the greed and pride of their base selves. They’d been unable to withstand the barrage of sly offers and back-handed deals. Slowly but surely their hearts had hardened to the site of their constituents without running water, without electricity and without classrooms.

The faces weren’t as optimistic and friendly now, years later in this similar queue. Now there seemed to be a spirit of resolute commitment. The lady writhing on the concrete epitomised this commitment. Despite waking up alone that morning, she had pulled herself out of her warm bed and braved the solitary queue. Despite the cold realism of the concrete dashing her hopes, she still wanted only to vote.

This was pure democracy showing a different side. It was the face of commitment – an aspect of love just as wonderful as the joy and friendliness of twenty-two years ago.

Despite the disappointments we’d had to bear since the dawn of our democracy, we were still here doing our thing under the clear winter skies of Johannesburg. Despite all the media hype and political point-scoring involving race, we were still standing side by side and front to back in a queue of hope. We were still standing side by side with people – people who struggled with and revelled in many of the same hopes, fears and loves – regardless of race or political preference.

The queueing and voting process took about an hour, which wasn’t bad considering the turn-out and the fact that so many people fast-tracked past us. Angie and I laughed quietly that we’d never seen so many pensioners and disabled people in our neighbourhood. One man passed us in his wheelchair. Then he looked back down the queue, saw my South African flagged, beanie-clad head sticking out, and said to me, “Hey brother, they can’t pass you if you let their tyres down man.” Everyone laughed as he added, “I’ve got run-flats baby.”

What an indelible spirit he had. And why not, I thought, he’d skipped the queue… and he was on his way to make his indelible mark.

Eventually, I made my mark. I felt relief and satisfaction that I’d done it. Not just because I could go home and spend the rest of the day drinking coffee, reading and writing in the sun – although that was a major part of it – but because I had the opportunity to have my say.

Not to demand change nor to exert my will. I had not cried out indignantly from the town square what I’m entitled to. I did not fight and force anything, like a young gun disrupting civil proceedings, threatening and hateful.

No. That’s not what pure democracy is about. Pure democracy is about the worth and value of each individual in a society. It is about the value of mutual respect and regard for one another, where each and every person, with each and every voice, counts.

I had humbly and quietly exercised my duty and responsibility to society. I had humbly and quietly paid homage to the lady who’d long since been whisked off in the ambulance. And the millions like her, who kept the faith, who stayed committed to their communities and their societies. To the millions like me who would humbly and quietly have their say on voting day.

I wondered how the lady was doing as Angie and I walked out to our car. Would she still be able to vote? I hoped so.

As I absent-mindedly wondered, I tripped on a sinkhole in the tarred pavement. The area was in dire need of maintenance. Whoever won these elections, one thing was sure, the political leaders would all get the message – the people of this country are still here and we will continue to exercise our rights to vote. Sinkholes will be repaired bit by bit, one way or another.

I smiled as I pictured the funny guy in the wheelchair trying to negotiate this pavement. I was sure he would make his way around that hole by hook or by crook and that he’d still have a sense of humour about it. Angie smiled too. We held hands and went home. It had been a memorable voting day.

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