In 1986, I went to visit my young cousin Harold Rudolph who had been elected Mayor of Johannesburg. It was a family reunion, with seven of us from America meeting our South African relatives whom I discovered while working on my maternal grandmother’s “tree.” We heard stories that those of us on this side of the pond had not known about our great-great grandparents.
After my initial trip out of the country as a 41 year-old, I became a writer for Indo-American News. My last article before I left for Joburg, “Islamic Education In the US,” had pleased the leaders of the Musjid (a Muslim place of worship) so much that they gave me a copy of the Qu’ran. Since I planned to meet Indians in South Africa, I asked if they wanted me take a gift to their co-religionists on their behalf. They gave me another Qu’ran and it went into the first Mosque in Soweto that opened the first weekend I was there.
Apartheid was just beginning to show cracks. Besides celebrating the bar mitzvah of my cousin’s son, I travelled around the country, interviewing people from various townships. In Cape Town, Members of Parliament from all three chambers—White, Indian, and Coloured—took me to see how the government worked.
My original itinerary did not include Durban, but the leader of the town council in Lenasia, the Indian township outside of Johannesburg, said that if I was writing for Indian newspapers, I had to rearrange my schedule, because 80% of Indians in South Africa lived there. She made sure I was met by officials wherever I went.
The visit to Durban proved to be one of the highlights of my trip. At first I was shown local townships, then the professor who was my guide asked as an afterthought, “Would you like to see Gandhi’s first ashram?” It had a profound effect on me. The following article tells why.