The Innocence of Oranges.

“Meanwhile, the sunsets are mad orange fools raging in the gloom.” Author, Jack Kerouac

It was never about the oranges—beautiful globes of orange, bright against glossy dark green leaves, tightly packed on compact trees. I ate them ferociously. Distractedly peeling them at break time before joining a game of “sting,” which meant dodging tennis balls aimed at bare legs. Or running, red-faced and gangly-legged, from our high school hockey field on those dry, sun-filled autumn days, to grab cut orange quarters and suck the juice through our teeth. Sweet juice that made grubby fingers sticky and burned our parched lips. 

I was proud of Outspan oranges. I knew where they came from. They grew in the neat rows of cultivated orange orchards in the Sundays Valley on the road between Grahamstown, now Makhanda, and Port Elizabeth, now Gqeberha—groves of oranges, a welcome break from the Eastern Cape's aloe-covered, acacia-scattered rolling hills. 

The heady scent of the tiny, white, speckled blossom caught the dry, hot breeze that blew into the car's open window; my sister and I, trapped in the hot backseat, wished the drive over.

In my early twenties, I did a stint in London, where I lived and worked for a year. It was 1985. I was struck dumb at a dinner party when a sophisticated young woman with clipped consonants and elongated vowels vehemently spat at me: “I refuse to buy Outspan oranges from South Africa.” 

Ms. Sophisticated’s clipped consonants and elongated vowels stretched across my friends' long, scrubbed table, a budding London architect and his Peruvian wife, as I sat stiffly, filled with shame. But it was never about the oranges. I was ashamed of the political ideology of my homeland and its racist government that enforced brutal inequality, destroyed vibrant communities to make room for “Whites Only” suburbs, imposed economic hardship, restricted job opportunities and land ownership, and metered out harsh, and violent crackdowns on any form of resistance suppressing the majority of the population. “It’s not me,” I wanted to protest feebly. 

I thought of the innocent oranges lying amongst winter apples in the big flat grass woven basket on the shoe cupboard that languished in the passageway of my parent's house back in Croft Street, Grahamstown, now Mhakanda. How we ran, barefoot, in and out of the house, snatching a hurried piece of fruit. We were allowed to eat as much fruit as we liked. Apples and oranges in winter, peaches, guavas, grapes, bananas and plums in the summer – all were fair game.   However, biscuits, known as cookies in North America, were a different story—only two each. Surprisingly, we strictly adhered to this rule, stuffing ourselves with fruit. 

Unbeknownst to me, the sanctions against Outspan oranges started in the summer of 1973  in Holland. This extensive consumer boycott against the South African government caught fire internationally. It was the forerunner of a wave of restrictions against the South African government and ALL South Africans, regardless of colour or political leanings.

"Don't eat Outspan oranges," the Netherlands, 1973. Anti-apartheid poster promoting the boycott of South African outspan oranges as part of the international boycott, sanction and divestment campaign against the Apartheid regime.

Earlier, in 1964, South Africans had felt the first bite of apartheid-driven sanctions, excluded from international sporting events such as the Olympic Games. International rugby and cricket fixtures followed next, as did cultural boycotts and restrictions on travel. Iconic international performers refused to play in the apartheid republic, and stores internationally refused to sell South African products. 

In 1985, I travelled the stuffy undergrounds of London like a mole, popping my head above ground in startled confusion at a newly arrived destination, scrambling to get my bearings as I paged through the A-Z of London map book with gloved hands. It was a bleak year, and I longed for the long sandy beaches and sunshine of home. It was also the year that foreign banks called in South Africa’s loans. Slowly, driven by the activism of many brave South Africans, the strangulations of international and economic isolation, alongside the internal unrest and underground civil war, apartheid was soon to be brought to its knees after a thirty-year struggle. 

On August 14, 1989, F.W. de Klerk ousted hard-line Prime Minister P.W. Botha, repealing a string of repressive laws. De Klerk spent the year stripping away the apartheid laws and making way for Nelson Mandela, who walked out of prison in February 1990. 

The morning of August 14, 1989, I danced on the streets in downtown Johannesburg. I danced with my work colleagues. I danced with strangers, and I danced with my fellow South Africans. We danced for three days until exhaustion and responsibility returned us to our desks. I was 28 years old. Enthused with hope, with wonder, with joy. 

Six years later, in the afternoon of June 24, 1995, my husband, friends, and I screamed at the top of our lungs while our seven-month-old baby lay in his crib, stunned into silence. It was our first Rugby World Cup after readmission into the international sporting world. In a fairytale ending, South Africa won, beating the more popular New Zealand All Blacks in overtime. That my baby sat through it quietly, surrounded by adrenaline-infused adults, was miraculous, let alone seeing President Nelson Mandela present the William Webb Ellis Cup to the South African captain, François Pienaar.  What a moment. Afterwards, we stood on the stoep of our Parkview home in Johannesburg, listening to an explosion of firecrackers and celebration. We had truly turned a page in history, and witnessing it, celebrating it, was magnificent.

And Outspan oranges were no longer pariahs in foreign grocery stores. But it was never about the oranges.

A few days ago, in my adopted home and country, Vancouver, Canada, I slowly turned over fresh produce in my local supermarket, scrutinizing the countries of origin and picking fruit for my daily smoothie. I love oranges—their rough, easy-to-peel skin and retro colour. The way they divide into perfect segments, the tiny vesicles bursting with juice, vitamin C, and sunshine. I put back the USA-grown oranges and dug along the bottom shelves and bins until I found that precious label: Outspan—oranges from South Africa. How times have changed?

I was born in apartheid South Africa. So entrenched was the racist government that Nelson Mandela’s release from jail was something I never thought possible.  But, just like that, we went to sleep on August 13, 1989, and woke up the next morning to the wheels of change spinning faster than we could ever imagine, proving that miracles happen and there is no reason to ever give up hope.

I am proud of the bravery and sacrifice of the many Black, Coloured and Indian South Africans who were bullied by white supremacists, physically abused, thrown out of windows by police officers, and even shot in the middle of the night. Separated from their families, cast into horrific poverty, and constantly harassed for the “sin” of being born “non-white" as I slept curled in the comfort of my white privilege.

I am also proud of the many White South Africans who stood up to apartheid and were imprisoned without trial, banned, placed under house arrest and, yes, even at times, murdered. Amongst my inner circle in Grahamstown, I witnessed close friends, Rhodes University students and peers of my parents harassed and detained. From the myopic vision of my small-town world, I was well aware of the revolution sweeping through my country. I admire and laud these men and women who did their part during the Struggle Years. I will always honour their patience and bravery with my gratitude.

It’s never about the oranges. Now is the time for good people to speak up and out, like my posh British friend, a vague shape at a dim dinner table, a long-forgotten name, who didn’t buy South African Outspan oranges. 

We all have something important to say. 

If we are brave, we can say it in one or two significant ways, like the heroes of our time. We can risk our lives like Nelson Mandela, Alexei Navalny, or Volodymyr Zelenskyy. 

We can say it by risking unjust detention without trial or brutal persecution like many ordinary South African civilians did. We can turn up at protests. We can vote. We can speak up at dinner parties. Or, we can simply not buy U.S.-grown oranges. 

* The brand Outspan represents South African oranges marketed by Capespan.