I took this blithe, middle-class optimism with me when I visited Johannesburg’s Apartheid Museum in 2008. By then, I had reconstructed the history of Apartheid at high school and deconstructed post-colonialism at university. I thought I knew both well. Claire and I bought our tickets together, but like every visitor we were randomly classified as different races: she as non-white, I as white. The two had separate entrances, which we obediently slipped through. It was only when we were reunited inside that I realised how easily we had obeyed, and how brutality could flow out of the simple placing of signs.
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