Enclosed spaces fascinate me. They offer safety, but threaten to trap us. As a child I thought often of Anne Frank, whose enclosure was her safety and her demise. I think of Steve Biko, who died in captivity. I think of Nelson Mandela, whose imprisonment fostered his strength of spirit and helped to liberate my country.

Like most others, the average Johannesburg leafy suburb I fall asleep in every night is a silent war zone. Suburban homes in South Africa have become maximum security compounds, with electric fencing, laser alarm systems, regular armed patrols. Entire suburbs are fenced in with spikes. Security guards control access at strategic points. How exotic, you might think as a tourist. How very bizarre to feel at home here.

Home is the place we feel the safest. It is where our deepest longings reside; it is where we come from. I am a white man from South Africa. Who am I? Who are my people? Home is also the place you most seek to protect. Today, the mark of white South African ethnicity is its culture of security.

Why 'white'? Surely colour is no longer an issue in South Africa? But it is the middle classes who mostly occupy the suburbs, and that still overwhelmingly means white, due to the economic inequalities of Apartheid. After a long day at work, we return to our gardens, tiles and televisions to find a semblance of spiritual peace. But we do not on the whole feel very safe. I sought to document, as invisible markers of the 'normality' which we hold so very sacred, South African suburban security fences, the designs of which go back to colonial times and have changed little since then.

The bars across our windows imprison us as much as they keep out intruders, but we no longer notice them. We are very safe with the idea of our endangeredness. This feeling of segregation is a grave danger for those who fall outside the margins. They are easily made into victims once they enter our private worlds.

Throughout my sheltered suburban childhood, I had fingers and questions pointed at me. My father grew up during the Holocaust. My mother lived through Apartheid. My father is German, my mother Afrikaans. Many whom I met over the years hoped to find me living with some kind of guilt about my heritage.

The hidden accusation is not easily laid aside. If not myself or my parents had some hand in history, what about my grandmothers and grandfathers? They too lived in times they at least considered 'normal', enjoying the safety of violently oppressive political systems which did not target them because they belonged to a moral majority. Their spiritual beliefs too justified their complacency.

These are my (in)securities.

Kai Lossgott

January 2004

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the UNISA staff, in particular Wendy Ross and Gwen Miller for their time and dedication. 

A big hug to Celia De Villiers, course co-ordinator, lecturer, and most important and challenging - thank you for being my mother. 

My father, Kurt Lossgott, for making me do it myself, and for helping me.

Karine Ribbens, Tony Auditore and Albert Kramer from Canon for the loan of video cameras.  Svenja Eichhorn from Aluglass for kindly sponsoring the shower door.  Mandy Conidaris for advice and support.

Cher, Liezel, Felix, Richard, Bianca, Daydri, Kelly, Emma, Avri, Nina, Reza, Camel, Sandy, Andre and all those whose spirit has touched mine and got me through this year of crash landings.

May I always choose to live my gratitude to the bright magic of the universe whereby we narrate ourselves into being.