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PERSISTENCE
PUBLICATION
OF RACE
PERSISTENCE OF RACE
A CREATIVE SPACE FOR THE MIND
The STIAS research theme on Being Human Today explores the interrelated questions: What does it
mean to be human? And: What is the nature of the world in which we aspire to be human?
In the context of post-apartheid South Africa, race and racism remain key references in both these
questions. Why is this so, considering that the biological basis of race thinking has been refuted?
Templates of race and racialism remain at the core of state policy in South Africa, periodic gross
incidents of racism surface in public, and notions of the existence of races remain central to
everyday thinking and discourse.
This book is the result of the work of a group of leading thinkers and their in‑depth conversations
at STIAS during the winter of 2015 on the effects of race. Convened by evolutionary anthropologist
Nina Jablonski and sociologist Gerhard Maré, the group included Njabulo Ndebele, Chabani
Manganyi, Barney Pityana, Crain Soudien, Göran Therborn, Mikael Hjerm, Zimitri Erasmus and
George Chaplin.
The group reconvened annually through 2017. This is the third in a series of planned publications
on their work.
NINA G. JABLONSKI | EDITOR

Nina G. Jablonski is Evan Pugh University Professor of
Anthropology at The Pennsylvania State University. Her
fundamental interests are human and primate evolution,
the evolution of human diversity and public education
about these topics. Her work on the evolution and
meanings of human skin colour led her to fulfilling a long-
term association with STIAS and to write her latest book,
Living Color: The Biological and Social Meaning of Skin
Color (University of California Press, 2012).
ISBN 978-1-928480-44-0
NINA G. JABLONSKI
9 781928 480440
www.sun-e-shop.co.za EDITOR
PERSISTENCE
OF RACE
"
E ditor
NINA G. JABLONSKI
Persistence of Race
Published by African Sun Media under the SUN PReSS imprint
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2020 African Sun Media and STIAS
This publication was subjected to an independent double-blind peer evaluation by the publisher.
The authors and the publisher have made every effort to obtain permission for and acknowledge
the use of copyrighted material. Refer all enquiries to the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic,
photographic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording on record, tape or laser
disk, on microfilm, via the Internet, by e-mail, or by any other information storage and retrieval
system, without prior written permission by the publisher.
Views reflected in this publication are not necessarily those of the publisher.
First edition 2019
ISBN 978-1-928480-44-0
ISBN 978-1-928480-45-7 (e-book)
https://doi.org/10.18820/9781928480457
Set in Arno Pro 12/14
Cover design, typesetting and production by African Sun Media

Cover image: Edoardo Villa (1915-2011) steel sculpture Conversation (1971), located at School
of Mechanical Engineering building, Howard College campus, University of KwaZulu-Natal.
(Photographer © Andrew Griffins)
SUN PReSS is an imprint of African Sun Media. Scholarly, professional and reference works are
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The STIAS series
The Stellenbosch Institute for Advanced Study (STIAS) was born from a simple but
powerful conviction: in this part of the world special initiatives are required to create
and maintain an environment where we can generate and engage with conceptual
frameworks and knowledge that may guide us in tracking and co‑shaping global
academic developments and that will allow us to address the ‘big’ questions and
issues South Africa and the African continent face, also in a global context.
STIAS has been moulded in the tradition of Institutes for Advanced Study across
the globe. It distinguished itself by encompassing all disciplines from the natural to
the social sciences and humanities (with a particular emphasis on research grounded
in multi-disciplinarity), by maintaining a focus on the African and South African
context, and by striving towards contemporary relevance, also by actively creating
avenues for communicating the results of its research projects to a wider public.
The STIAS series publications, of which this is the fifteenth volume, are thus aimed
at a broad public which will naturally vary with specific research themes. Straddling
the academic world and the forum of an engaging public is a challenge that STIAS
accepts; we trust that each STIAS publication reflects the ‘creative space for the
mind’ in which it is rooted, stimulates public interest and debate, and contributes to
informed decision making at various levels of our society.
Further information about STIAS and its research programme may be found at
www.stias.ac.za.
Edward Kirumira
STIAS Director
Stellenbosch
November 2019
CONTENTS
List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
An introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Nina G. Jablonski
HOW THE STAGE WAS SET

1 Racism’s workshop: Explaining prejudice and hate ................................. 11
Crain Soudien
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Prejudice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Hate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Some issues: How do prejudice and hate work?
Do they work differently? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
A way forward: Between prejudice and hate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2 An unlikely turning point: Skin bleaching and the growth of

colourism in South Africa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Nina G. Jablonski
Skin lightening in historical context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
The commercial development of skin lighteners in the United States
and South Africa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
The rise of skin bleaching in South Africa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Conclusion: The introduction of skin bleaches into South Africa
was a genuine turning point . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
3 Settler-colonialism, nationalism and geopolitical politics:

An overview of the mobilisation of race in South Africa
in the context of lost turning points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
George Chaplin
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Prehistory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
South Africa’s strategic position . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
Race, racialism and racism in settler, colonial or nationalist South Africa . . . . . . . . 46
The first encounter with mercantile Europeans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Early ideas were not embedded in race, but in terms of religion,
monetary worth and location . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Dutch identity emerges in reaction to British economic colonialism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Modern imperialistic capitalism and colonialism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Dutch settlers cement the concept of Afrikaners . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
The British seek to crush emerging Afrikaner identity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Complex interplay between groups of the South African population . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Anti-British elements seek theories and allies on the global stage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Early communism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Afrikaner nationalism looks to Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Post-World War I social experiments in Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
The British colonialist attitude after the start of decolonialism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64
Indigenous people respond to nationalist provocation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Multicultural support for more equal treatment moves to the left . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Communism amongst African indigenous groups . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
International response to perceived communist threat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Later Dutch-Afrikaner attitudes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Discussion of turning points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
4 From settler to postcolonial: The turn of the South African

nation-state in a comparative perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
Göran Therborn
The importance of nation-states . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Four main roads to a nation-state . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
South Africa as a settler-state . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Racial rehabilitations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
Options and meanings of 1994 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Postcolonial South Africa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Envoi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
ASSESSMENT AND FUTURE PROSPECTS

5 Ways of being: “Race” as common sense;
non‑racialism as humanist necessity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Gerhard Maré
Introduction: From here to there . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
But where to start? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Here . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
What . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
Why? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
How . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Recognition of the obstacles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
6 The effects of racism on the human body . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Nina G. Jablonski
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
The hidden scourge of race-thinking and racism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
The lasting effects of stress caused by racism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Epigenetic information does not mean “no hope” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
7 Knowing and being: Living our learning about “race” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

Crain Soudien
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
So what do we know about “race”? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
Classification: The power of normative orders versus
the consequences of knowing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
The politics of positionality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Concluding thoughts: How would ethical thinking be brought about? . . . . . . . . . . . 139
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
8 Semantics in the philosophy of race . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

George Chaplin and Nina G. Jablonski
The three questions: The problem of racial thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
Race labels and hate speech . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
The ontological status of race as a biological fact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
Talking about race and race talk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
9 “Who was here first?”, or “Who lives here now?”:

Indigeneity, a difference like no other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Zimitri Erasmus
The Bill in brief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

The Reports: Producing a difference like no other . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
Culture and custom . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
Recognition and social justice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
Closure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
10 South Africa beyond “non‑racialism” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Njabulo S. Ndebele
I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS
George Chaplin is a Senior Research Associate in the Department of Anthro

pology at The Pennsylvania State University. He conducts research on the evolution
of skin color and the history of race and racism. [orcid: 0000-0002-7341-7742]
Zimitri Erasmus is Associate Professor of Sociology (in Anthropology) at
the University of the Witwatersrand. Her book, Race Otherwise: Forging a New
Humanism for South Africa (University of Witwatersrand, 2017), conceptualises the
boundaries between racial identities as thresholds to be crossed through politically
charged acts of imagination and love. [orcid: 0000-0003-1528-0992]
Nina G. Jablonski is the Evan Pugh University Professor of Anthropology at
The Pennsylvania State University and Fellow of STIAS. She studies the evolution
of human physical diversity and the meanings associated with human physical
appearance. [orcid: 0000-0001-7644-874X]
Gerhard Maré is Professor Emeritus at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. He
is the author of Declassified: moving beyond the dead end of race in South Africa
( Jacana, 2014). [orcid: 0000-0003-0937-1871]
| xi
Njabulo S. Ndebele is Emeritus Professor at the University of Cape Town, an
author of fiction and essays, Fellow of STIAS, and Chancellor of the University of
Johannesburg. [orcid: 0000-0002-6863-9332]
Crain Soudien is the CEO of the Human Sciences Research Council. He is a
scholar of social difference and inequality. [orcid: 0000-0002-9934-6532]
Göran Therborn is Professor Emeritus of Sociology at the University of
Cambridge, UK, and is now living in Sweden. His current work is focused on
inequality, power and social movements, and the politics of cities. His book,
Inequality and the Labyrinths of Democracy, will be published by Verso in the second
half of 2020.
xii | PERSISTENCE OF RACE

AN INTRODUCTION
Nina G. Jablonski
In this volume, we are happy to present the third and final group of essays emerging
from the discussions of the Effects of Race (EoR) Project at the Stellenbosch
Institute for Advanced Study (STIAS) that occurred in 2016 and 2017. The EoR
Project is part of the “Being Human Today” initiative, one of the longer-term theme
projects sponsored by STIAS since 2013. The primary goal of the EoR Project was
the development of new scholarly research bearing on the disturbing continuation
of race-thinking and racism, and of antagonism towards fellow human beings
caused by racism. The EoR Project sought to address the roots of the “everydayness
of race” in South Africa and elsewhere by exploring widespread misconceptions
about visible and cultural human diversity, the linguistic infrastructure of racialism,
and the complexity of multiple identities. The contributors to the EoR Project
have, over the years, wrestled with the question of how race ideologies have become
tradition and “common sense”, and are no longer recognised as self-conscious
belief systems (Swidler, 1986). They have recognised that the “everydayness of
race”, when viewed from a structuralist perspective, is best understood as a set of
| 1
assumptions about the nature of the world that has become so unselfconscious as
to seem a natural, transparent, and undeniable (Geertz, 1975; Swidler, 1986). If
the contributors to the EoR Project and this volume had any single goal, it could be
best expressed as achieving further understanding of the complex and perfidious
assumptions surrounding race and race-thinking so as to further dismantle the
belief in race as common sense.
Meetings of the EoR Project took place at STIAS from 2014 through 2017,
and involved a diverse body of scholars, thinkers, and educators from different
constituencies in South Africa along with several scholars from Europe and the
United States. As described in the introduction to The Effects of Race ( Jablonski,
2018), the “core group” comprised a group of well-established senior scholars who
engaged in theme-oriented discussions, and the “projects group” of mostly younger
South African scholars and educators involved in specific, goal-oriented projects.
This volume represents contributions developed from the discussions at EoR
core group meetings held at STIAS in July 2016 and July 2017. The members of
the EoR core group present at STIAS in 2016 were, in alphabetical order: George
Chaplin, Zimitri Erasmus, Nina Jablonski, Gerhard Maré, Njabulo Ndebele, Barney
Pityana, Crain Soudien and Göran Therborn. Those present in 2017 were: Zimitri
Erasmus, Nina Jablonski, Gerhard Maré, Njabulo Ndebele, Barney Pityana, Crain
Soudien and Göran Therborn.
Prior to meeting each year, core group members decided together on a theme that
would provide focus to their discussions. In 2016, the theme was “Turning points
in the history of race and racism in South Africa” and, in 2017, the theme included
three conjoined questions, “What do you wish to change with regard to race,
racism and racialism?”, “Why?” and “How would you bring this about?” These
were big themes, and core group members conceived of them and developed them
according to their own intellectual backgrounds and personal experiences. In both
years, preliminary discussions focused on clarifying the topic at hand. In 2016, for
instance, discussions opened with a fruitful exchange about different members’
conceptions of what was meant by a “turning point”. These were not sterile or hair-
splitting discussions of semantic points; they were conversations that warmed up
group members to engage with one another’s thought processes and reintroduced
them to the nature and complexity of the topics at hand.
The dynamics of the core group meetings held at STIAS bear importantly on
this volume and on the totality of the EoR Project. During meetings, core group
members trusted and respected one another, and recognised that each person
brought a valued body of learning and experience to the group. This mutual trust
and respect made it possible for group discussions to develop naturally and without
rancour, and mostly without defensiveness of individual intellectual territories.
2 | PERSISTENCE OF RACE
This made for an extraordinarily constructive and elevating atmosphere, even when
the most sensitive and difficult topics were being considered. The spirit and nature
of the discussions were aptly summed up by Njabulo Ndebele in conversation at
the end of the 2016 session, “The elephant is in the room and we are petting it”.
The 2016 and 2017 discussions revealed the deep thoughtfulness of core group
members and their willingness to listen carefully to one another and explore bodies
of knowledge with which they had little familiarity previously. The psychological
flexibility and learning abilities revealed were impressive and heartening, and
conduced to a higher level of sophistication and integration of thinking about
race than we had previously achieved. The whole was much more than the sum
of its parts.
This volume is divided into two sections, which roughly map the group’s 2016
and 2017 discussions, respectively. In the first section, “How the Stage Was Set”,
the authors explore some of the reasons why the concepts and practices of race,
race-thinking, and racism continued to exist and be reinvented in South Africa and
elsewhere in the face of legislation and scientific knowledge. Taking inspiration
from the theme of turning points, the authors refer in their chapters to local or
global events or movements which influenced these processes in South Africa.
The contributions reflect clearly too the diverse intellectual backgrounds and
professional training of the authors. Here we see phenomena examined through
the lenses of many disciplines: sociology, history, geography, anthropology,
and writing.
Crain Soudien sets a courageous and sobering tone for the section and the volume
in the first chapter, “Racism’s workshop: Explaining prejudice and hate”. He
explores the cognitive dimensions of racism, prejudice and hate, examining how
these attributes are acquired and become part of the consciousness of individuals
and groups. The turning point which catalyses Soudien’s investigation is the
conclusive amassing of scientific evidence demonstrating the non‑existence of
human races. Why should prejudice and hate persist when the reasons for their
existence have been eliminated? What Soudien thus excavates in this chapter are
the reasons and mechanisms for the development and persistence of prejudice and
hate in the absence of “evidence”. His chapter not only explores the phenomenology
of the transmission of negative emotions through seemingly trivial expressions
and gestures, but also how social scientists over the last half-century have sought
to interpret this troubling phenomenon. This chapter addresses and effectively
dismisses the contention of many sociobiologists, including Van den Berghe, that
race is best understood as a manifestation of preferential kin selection, advantageous
in the evolutionary process (Van den Berghe, 1987).
An introduction | 3
In the next chapter, “An unlikely turning point: Skin bleaching and the growth
of colourism in South Africa”, Nina Jablonski considers how racism and negative
attitudes towards dark skin colour, especially during the apartheid era, propelled
the development and use of skin lighteners in South Africa from the mid‑twentieth
century onward. Jablonski shows that one of the ways in which some South
Africans responded to crises of identity during apartheid was by attempting to
change their personal appearance. Because skin colour was the most physically
obvious manifestation of difference, and because preferences for light skin were
blatant, skin lightening became extremely popular in South Africa when products
were introduced and widely manufactured in the country beginning in the 1950s.
Jablonski shows that skin lightening remains popular since the end of apartheid
because preferences for lighter skin remain and the psychosocial pressures to
lighten the skin are felt by many.
The next two chapters, by George Chaplin and Göran Therborn, respectively
examine the social, racial and political landscapes of South Africa during its long
period as a settler-colonial state. In his chapter, “Settler-colonialism, nationalism
and geopolitical politics: An overview of the mobilisation of race in South Africa
in the context of lost turning points”, Chaplin examines how attitudes and policies
towards race in South Africa and official South African government positions on
race during the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries were influenced by social
and political movements outside of South Africa. Most historical and sociological
treatments of South African race policies during this time emphasise that South
Africa’s policies developed sui generis, and did not draw inspiration or direction
explicitly from movements outside of South Africa. Chaplin disagrees, and in
an expansive historical overview dissects the influences of global geopolitics on
the development of nationalist movements in South Africa, from early Russian
communism to Nazism to later Soviet communism. His detailed exegesis provides
detailed evidence for the influence of these contrasting powerful ideologies on
the political and governmental landscape of South Africa. Of greatest importance
is his description of the rise of influence of Nazi ideology on the development of
the philosophical underpinning and racialised mechanisms of the South African
apartheid state. The eventual triumph of Nazi philosophy in South Africa in
everything but the name was and remains a source of shame and denial even in
academic circles in the country. Chaplin’s reference to a lost turning point in his
title makes fascinating use of an engaging counterfactual scenario from mid- and
late twentieth century history. He ponders if the course of apartheid might have
been shortened if those opposing it had not embraced Soviet communism, and
whether racial justice in South Africa may have been better served and apartheid
reversed if American and European democracies had not feared the communists
they saw lurking behind African nationalism.
In the next chapter, “From settler to postcolonial: The turn of the South African
nation-state in a comparative perspective”, Therborn looks at the twentieth-century
history of South Africa in the context of other nation-states and grounds South
Africa in the context of global colonialism. His focus is on how the establishment
of a new democratic government in 1994 marked a turnaround in the ideological
underpinnings of the country, if not entirely in its economic fortunes. Therborn’s
chapter draws considerably on his highly regarded overviews of the diverse origins
of nation-states. As a settler-state, South Africa was inherently racist by definition,
but it developed a uniquely repressive manifestation of settler-statehood because
of its unusual demography, with white Europeans accounting for only 20% of its
population. Examining its “racial rehabilitation” in the context of other settler-
states, he notes that South Africa’s rejection of apartheid was part of a global
movement of human equalisation, which included rejection of institutionalised
racism and sexism. He shows how the abolition of apartheid in 1994 in South
Africa meant the abolition of the settler-state itself and all the mechanisms of social
repression that went with it. This did not, however, bring an immediate turnaround
in the fortunes of the country or its once-repressed populations. Although much
has been done to address the many severe manifestations of inequality in South
Africa, the country remains markedly unequal because, Therborn argues, it was so
from its earliest days as a settler-state before apartheid.
The volume’s second section, “Assessment and Future Prospects”, is devoted to
chapters expressing some of the deepest of the EoR core group’s discussions about
the costs of a racialised world order to humans and humanity. These sprang
from the group’s exploration of “the three questions” in 2017: “What do you
wish to change with regard to race, racism and racialism?”, “Why?” and “How
would you bring this about?” The topics which emerged from consideration of
these questions were close to the hearts of core group members, and reflected
individual interests and predilections as well as the influence of current events such
as the #RhodesMustFall movement. The group’s discussions and members’ essays
did not express clear solutions to profound problems, but rather developed into
deeply thoughtful foundations for detailed explorations into South African racial
politics and the long‑term effects of race in South Africa and elsewhere. The
discussions and essays were predictably diverse, and included investigation of the
South African Constitution and specifically, how contemporary politics and social
values failed to fulfil the promises of social equality enshrined in the document.
They also considered the biological and social understandings of race, and how
new information from both the biological and social sciences was changing our
perspective on the nature of the human condition, including the association of
biological and social phenomena with “race”. Finally, the discussions and essays
explored how race-thinking framed the very nature of human beings and the human
An introduction | 5
condition, including the ways we express ourselves and relate to one another
through language. The six chapters in this section comprise distinct forays into
the realities of race-thinking and their pervasive and sinister effects on the human
being and human societies.
In the first chapter of this section, Gerhard Maré revisits the most salient theme of
his oeuvre in, “Ways of being: ‘Race’ as common sense; non‑racialism as humanist
necessity”. Maré’s chapter is a conversation with himself and the reader in which
he poses questions about race and race-thinking at all phenomenological levels.
This is an uncomfortable conversation about the nature of the verities of race-
thinking and how every manifestation of race-thinking and racialism – whether it
touches on biology, language, human rights, or the greater social order – is about
recognition of inherent difference. The scourge and the tyranny of race, he argues,
is that it deforms the substrate of thinking about everything else. Maré is cautiously
optimistic about the future and challenges current and future generations to
determine their own moral compass and to not be directed by social constructions
of the past.
In the next chapter, Nina Jablonski discusses “The effects of racism on the human
body”, an exploration into the nature and kinds of biological damage done to the
body by long-term racism. This chapter does not explore “racial differences” in
biology, but differences in biology brought about by racism. The chapter peels
away the layers of effects of racism and discrimination on human health. Effects
on socioeconomic position mature during human lifetimes into adverse effects
on well‑being through health disparities at multiple levels. Jablonski’s rumination
on the unrecognised toll of epigenetic modifications to the human body caused
by the stresses of racism raises new sets of worries about the costs of racism, as
we begin to recognise the many ways in which human bodies and human genes
are being constantly remodelled by the physical and social environment and by
life experience.
Crain Soudien, in the next chapter, “Knowing and being: Living our learning about
‘race’”, develops one of his deepest discussions to date on the nature of what we
might call “race knowledges” and how they affect our being and state of knowing.
Like Maré’s chapter, Soudien’s is a personal reflection based on a life of observation
and experience about and with race-thinking and recognition of the humanitarian
consequences of a racialised world. This chapter is a search into the nature of the
kinds of knowledge that exist about race and how we as individuals metabolise
those knowledges. The discussion of how inequality changes the fabric of any
relationship is insightful and, here, Soudien places the burden on the knower, the
person aware of the effects of their status on life’s outcomes. His prescription for
the future – that we should have consciousness of regard for all human beings and
know others as we know ourselves – is not new, but the path he takes to reach the
conclusion is, and makes for, a highly salutary read.
The following chapter, “Semantics in the philosophy of race” by George Chaplin
and Nina Jablonski, examines another aspect of race knowledges by looking at
the extent to which race-thinking has co‑opted our consciousness and language.
Chaplin and Jablonski contend the fossilised lexicon associated with race has made
any attempt to deal with the effects of racism almost impossible. The solution
they advance is the creation of a new, non‑pejorative vocabulary for defeating race
that is acceptable to all. The authors’ discussion is unique in that they incorporate
into their discussion a philosophical repudiation of race as a biological concept
applicable to humans. The fact that human races have no metaphysical reality,
they argue, is the ultimate negation of race-thinking. That our current depauperate
lexicon prevents us from describing this properly and abolishing racism is a tragedy,
but hope arises, the authors contend, from a willingness to create a new way of
thinking, conceiving, and verbalising about humanity.
Zimitri Erasmus, in the next chapter, “‘Who was here first?’, or ‘Who lives here
now?’: Indigeneity, a difference like no other”, looks at race knowledges from a
related perspective, but arguing from different evidence. She explodes the overused
simplification of race being just a social construct by looking closely at “race” as
composed of interconnected and institutionalised practices of power in relation to
class, gender and multiple other factors. These practices are specific to historical
moments and together they shape the racialised realities of any place and time.
Erasmus’ discussion focuses specifically on the status of people who self-identify
as “Khoi‑San”, and their status as the original indigenous people of South Africa.
She critically examines the nature and application of the concept of indigeneity
as it has been applied to the Khoi‑San, and especially as it has been used recently
to differentiate them from other non‑European South Africans and accord them
special privileges. Erasmus’ treatment exposes the ultimately contingent nature
of race and the practice of race labelling, and questions the value of labels such as
“indigenous” especially when they are applied as sops without substance.
Njabulo Ndebele ends this section and the volume with his provocative chapter,
“South Africa beyond ‘non‑racialism’”. Here, Ndebele looks beyond the damage
wrought to individuals and societies by race and racialised conceptions of the
human condition to examine the real costs of these phenomena to the world,
as they have played out over centuries. After counting the horrific worldwide
humanitarian and economic costs of racism, he does not dwell in bitterness or
pessimism, however. He sees a bright future and, in South Africa in particular, a
new human order grounded in a “majoritarian human norm that carries the motive
responsibility to create a new and humane future for all”.
An introduction | 7
In the diversity of its chapters and their respective authors, we have in this volume
a unified loud voice, arcing towards a world without race, race-thinking and
racism. This is the voice that calls out the many origins of injustice that people
have meted out to one another and experienced as the result of a racialised world
order. The chapters in this volume were born out of the unity of humanity that was
experienced during the STIAS meetings of the EoR Project, and it is the hope of
all the contributors that this loud and strong voice will be heard. With persistent
effort, race will be transformed from common sense to nonsense.
References
Geertz, C. 1975. Common sense as a cultural Swidler, A. 1986. Culture in action: Symbols
system. The Antioch Review, 33(1):5‑26. and strategies. American Sociological
https://doi.org/10.2307/4637616 Review, 51(2):273‑286. https://doi.
Jablonski, N.G. 2018. An introduction. In: org/10.2307/2095521
N.G. Jablonski & G. Maré (eds.). The Effects Van den Berghe, P.L. 1987. The Ethnic
of Race. Stellenbosch: African Sun Media. Phenomenon. New York: Praeger.
SECTION I
HOW THE STAGE

WAS SET
1
RACISM’S WORKSHOP
Explaining prejudice and hate
Crain Soudien
Introduction
The relationship between prejudice, hate and racism has an extensive and complex
literature (see Davidio, Hewstone, Glick & Esses, 2010). The discussion, however,
suffers, as Royzman, McCauley and Rozin (2005:27) suggest, from a kind of
circularity. Much of it is self-validating. It uses examples of phenomena such as
prejudice and hate to explain and account for what these phenomena actually are.
This chapter is motivated by the urgency to understand them better. Situated in a
larger project which seeks to explain how racism works as a process of reasoning
– its psychosocial complexity and particularly its emplacement inside and astride
the social and the psychological. The project has as its focus the individual mind,
not as it functions as an autonomous psychological organism, but as it interacts with
the larger social context in which it is located. At the core of the project is an interest
in the cognitive dimensions of racism, prejudice and hate. How are they acquired?
How do they become part of the consciousness of individuals and groups?
| 11
The immediate motivation for this work comes, it needs to be made clear, from an
apparent upsurge in South Africa, and, indeed, in many other parts of the world,
of hate-speech and hate-crimes motivated by racism and the need, in the moment,
to respond to these events. As observers of hate crimes in South Africa, the South
African Hate Crime Working Group note, while
[t]here are no official statistics on the number of cases of hate crimes, …
human rights groups have documented a disturbing pattern of violent attacks,
ranging from race-related attacks and targeted mob violence in residential
and commercial districts occupied by foreign nationals, to severe beatings of
LGBTI individuals and ‘corrective’ rapes and murders of lesbians … . What
has been documented is likely only the tip of the iceberg as it is widely believed
that many incidents – particularly lower level violence and harassment – go
unreported … (South African Hate Crime Working Group, c.2012:3)1
Supplementing this observation are the results of the Institute for Justice and
Reconciliation’s 2015 Barometer Survey (Hofmeyr & Govender, 2015:11) which
shows that while more than a third (35,6%) of the respondents surveyed reported
that they had not experienced any form of racism, 11,9% said that they experienced
racism all the time. There is, however, a more fundamental concern. This concern
has to do with the knowledge base of that which supposedly lies behind many of
the most heinous murders that have taken place around the world and especially
in South Africa – the knowledge of “race”. While there continues to be a group of
scientists (see Edwards, 2003; Dawkins & Wong, 2005) who insist that the idea of
“race” is real biologically, the consensus scientifically is that the process involved in
the mapping of the human genome has revealed nature’s “real world of irremediably
diverse individuality … Nature’s world of diverse individuality illustrate(s) that the
concept of race has no genetic or scientific basis; and that there is no way to tell one
ethnicity from another in the five Celera genomes” (Fields & Fields, 2014:6‑8).
This consensus denotes a turning point. In terms of what science currently knows,
it is not possible to distinguish “race”, yet, in the minds of many it can be done.
It can be done, and, what is more, sufficiently clearly that they will kill for it. It
is how this falsehood works in the everyday mental logics of its custodians that
requires urgent analysis. The “turn” has not yet happened for them, or, it has, and
this requires a great deal more analysis, as the case of Barend Strydom explored
in this chapter suggests, precipitated in individuals with deeply ingrained ideas
of their superiority, race, gender, nationality, and more profound experiences of
disorientation. Extreme violence is for them, then, the only way to “correct” the
social order.
1 See also the website www.lovenothate.org.za
In relation to this disjuncture, the question holding the larger enquiry and
motivating the study is: Do we know enough about how the idea of “race” lives on
and why it constitutes such an extraordinary site of self- and group-capture? Do
we understand its compulsions, the feints and parries, subterfuges, deceptions,
dishonesties, falsities, and superficialities it harbours within itself?
Towards getting at these issues – the paradox inside the turn the world is
experiencing – the chapter raises the issue of what takes place between the social
and the psychological, and specifically that which Krysan (2000:154) has described
as the “imbalance” in the psycho-social discussion – the dominance of the cognitive
and the neglect of issues of affect. I am interested in affect broadly, but my focus in
this chapter on the form of hate. I do so, as suggested above, against the apparent
persistence around the world, and pointedly in countries such as South Africa
and the United States, of deep, egregious, and sometimes violent forms of social
discrimination, often with racial, gender and religious features. It is in response to
the latter, as part of my own interest in the relationship between reason and affect,
or the emotional and the political, or, more prosaically, the heart and the head, that
I have chosen to focus on the emotion of hate. To understand hate better, there is a
need to return to the foundational understandings that exist around prejudice, hate,
and their related syndromes. There is need for refreshing the analytic tools and
discursive frameworks that are available for understanding contemporary racism.
The chapter begins with a review of what we know about prejudice and hate
in psychological terms. The research base for hate, it needs to be said, especially
forms of hate in relation to racism and sexism, is distinctly smaller, less empirical,
and less theoretical than that for prejudice. While hate is often subsumed within
explanations of prejudice, largely correctly so, there is need to show how it can be
distinguished from other forms of prejudice and how, in this distinction, it works.
With this understanding, the chapter begins with an exploration of prejudice, what
it means and how it is related to hate. It then draws out the major debates around
hate, what it is and what it includes and excludes. In the conclusion, the chapter
looks at the case of the South African white supremacist, Barend Strydom, who
murdered eight black people in 1988. The judge who found him guilty cited hate
as a factor in the perpetration of the murders. The purpose behind the exercise is
to make better sense of what is meant when hate is invoked alongside of and in
the process of discriminating, in whatever form, against another person or group.
How does it relate to prejudice and what does it depend on; moreover, what does it
recruit and mobilise in the process of taking position in relation to another person
or group? I raise these questions because, one can argue, both its meaning and how
it works, are loose propositions which are yoked into service behind explanations
of phenomena, such as racism and sexism, in frequently unedifying kinds of ways.
As propositions they perform all kinds of functions.
Racism’s workshop | 13
Prejudice
Prejudice, building on the work of Gordon Allport (1954; 1979) and Thomas
Pettigrew (1959), has a strong literature based on a relatively strong research
and empirical record of research into discrimination. While, as Jacobs and Potter
(1998:par. 5) have pointed out, “sociologists and social psychologists have long
wrestled with the concept of prejudice, (and) have been unable to agree on a single
definition”, the work of Allport (1954), Pettigrew (1959) and Aboud (1988) has
anchored the different approaches scholars have taken to the discussion. There is a
reasonable consensus that prejudice is a negative attitude towards individuals and
groups based solely on their membership of a group to which is attributed certain
characteristics. Aboud’s (1988:6) extension of this is that prejudice is a “unified,
stable, and consistent tendency to respond in a negative way towards members of a
particular ethnic group”.
Allport’s (1954) five level model of prejudice, lain out in his foundational work,
The Nature of Prejudice, remains one of the most useful texts for understanding the
ways in which human beings manage what we would in contemporary times would
call othering. As other scholars have suggested, it involves coming to attitudes,
dispositions, and forms of behaviour towards others through three key moves.
The first move is that of classification, the second is attribution and the third is
evaluation. In the first, people are classified and categorised in particular kinds
of ways. Then, secondly, they are allocated membership of one or other of the
categories. Finally, they are evaluated positively or negatively (see Zick, Kupper &
Hovermann, 2011). It is this three‑step progression through a process of reasoning
by which the Allport model has come to be known as the cognitive approach.
There are five levels in Allport’s analysis. These levels, on a continuum of intensity,
are antilocution, avoidance, discrimination, physical attack, and extermination.
Antilocution, as the term implies, is the “talk” form. It is the least intense form of
othering involving prejudice-laden forms of speech amongst individuals about
others upon whom certain disliked social, cultural and other attributes are imposed.
Extermination stands at the other end in this spectrum of prejudice. It involves the
deliberate decision on the part of an individual or a group to eliminate, remove,
or destroy another group based on their perceived attributes and characteristics.
In‑between, generally, but not always, in ascending order of both consciousness and
scale, are avoidance, discrimination and physical attack. Avoidance is the escalation
of speech to action – the decision to actually avoid individuals from groups
projected as the object of dislike. Important about avoidance is its restriction on
the self. It has no direct impact on those who are the object of dislike. It may also
still remain within the confines of individual behaviour. Discrimination arises when
an individual and more consequentially groups make the decision to exclude or
withhold from others’ rights and entitlements, such as access to public goods and
facilities. Physical attack occurs when an individual or group moves to violence
against an other or others who are the object of dislike.
Why prejudice exists and arises is a fundamental question in the discussion. This
question was engaged in a deeply important debate between Allport and the German
social theorist Adorno. The debate is important for a number of reasons, the most
important, of course, is accounting for the scale and intensity of the holocaust.
What had happened at a supposed apogee of civilisation was unprecedented in
its barbarism. That six million human beings could be clinically and thoughtlessly
exterminated demanded explanation. The intense moral confusion the holocaust
brought on could not simply be consigned to history.
What was Adorno’s thesis? Adorno and his colleagues argued that the rise of
fascism in Germany was the result of an individual’s personality type. Based
on psychometric studies (including case studies and clinical interview), using
what they called the F-scale (F for “fascism”) they concluded that deep-seated
personality traits predisposed some individuals towards harshness, cruelty,
totalitarianism, and anti-democratic ideas. They described this as the authoritarian
personality. Authoritarianism, characterised by nine different markers, they argued,
predisposed people to prejudice (see Adorno, Frenkel-Brunswik, Levinson &
Sanford, 1950; McLeod, 2014). Of these, three were particularly significant,
namely Conventionalism, Authoritarian Submission and Authoritarian Aggression.
In terms of this, the authoritarian personality tended to have a rigid adherence to
conventional attitudes and values, was hostile to those perceived to be of inferior
status, deferential to those of supposed higher status, and had a tendency to
condemn, reject, and punish those who did not conform to what was understood to
be the convention (McLeod, 2014:13). Adorno et al.’s (1950) own work attributed
the authoritarian personality to a combination of socialisation and child-rearing
patterns and family structure. In families where authoritarianism arose, typically,
a strict father figure dominated the family structure. Others who have adopted this
approach suggest that authoritarianism may also be, in part, genetic.
Allport and his colleagues’ challenge to the Adorno thesis was not that the
authoritarian personality did not exist, but that it did not explain how, amongst
other things, whole social groups could be prejudiced. Was every person classified
white prejudiced? Was every person considered male prejudiced against people
considered female? It also implied, somewhat contradictorily, that all the members
of a social group perceived to be bearers of prejudice would have to have an
authoritarian personality. A key point Allport sought to make was that there was no
such thing as a prejudiced personality type.
Why people were prejudiced, Allport, his colleagues and the major group of scholars
who have followed in his wake argued (see Roets & Van Hiel, 2012:349), had to
do with the fundamental cognitive need to make sense of the social space in which
they found themselves. It is for this reason that the Allport approach has come to
be called the cognitive approach. Roets and Van Hiel (2012) argue that “… some
people really hate uncertainty and therefore rely on the most obvious information,
often the first information they come across, to reduce it. (And that is why they
favour authorities and social norms which make it easier to make decisions).” In
relation to this, Allport and Pettigrew began their argument with the view that
prejudice was not a personality trait. Personality, they suggested, was biologically
determined at birth. Prejudice was something else. It was psychosocial. It arose in
the process of the individual or the group making a judgement about another based
on previous decisions and experiences (Allport, 1979) and could be understood as
the use of a negative feeling, as in “thinking ill of others without sufficient warrant
… A feeling, favourable or unfavourable, toward a person or thing, prior to, or not
based on actual experience” (Ponterotto, Utsey & Pederson, 2006). Critically, it
was located in consciousness – a faulty and inflexible generalisation – and had three
components: a cognitive component, an affective component and a behavioural
component. Allport, staying within the Freudian tradition, argued that what
caused it was an
[u]nderlying insecurity that seems to lie at the root of the [prejudiced]
personality. [This insecurity was the result of] unresolved infantile conflicts
with parents or siblings … [or] persistent failure in later years [which]…
Produced a crippled ego in need of a crutch.. [In such personalities] prejudice
… develops as an important incident in the total protective adjustment …
central to which is repression … Associated characteristic devices to bolster
a weak ego … include ‘moralism’, ‘dichotomisation’, a ‘need for definiteness’,
‘externalisation of conflict’, ‘institutionalism’, and ‘authoritarianism’: the
earmarks of a personality in whom prejudice is functionally important.
(Allport, 1979:396‑397)
Much of the current discussion about prejudice has followed in the theoretical
footsteps of Allport and his colleagues. It proceeds on the basis that prejudice is
based on social perceptions or attitudes towards others which are themselves
based on stereotypes. These stereotypes may be deliberately taught as is the
case in school systems all over the world where faulty “facts” about people who
are supposedly different from oneself are actively propagated in the curriculum.
However, they may also simply exist in implicit, unspoken, and unarticulated forms
– gestures, reactions, and dispositions to others which circulate in the social spaces
inhabited by individuals and groups. In both cases, they operate on the basis of
attribution of internal properties to a person or a group based on external markers
or characteristics of those persons or groups. The external markers could be both
symbolic and physical – names with respect to the former, or physical attributes
such as gender and skin colour with respect to the latter.
Formally, what one is seeing in the process of attribution is the unfolding of a
complex relationship between the social and the psychological. Attempts to explain
this relationship make it clear that the making of prejudice is not just simply social
or psychological. It is in the interplay of the two. In this interplay are the following
dimensions or elements: knowing, adjusting, value-expression and ego‑defensive.
Each element is fundamentally formed at the interface between the social and
the psychological. It is about the social, as in the group, however the idea of the
group is constituted, being processed through the cognitive apparatus of the
individual, or what others have described as the mind in society. Knowing, as a
result, is about making sense of experience in its primarily social form, and the need
to understand the world. This is always accompanied by the need to adjust – to
respond to the normative order. Adjusting is, therefore, responding to inducement
or punishment, and the decision in relation to the stereotype to do or not to
do those things which will secure for one approval and so inclusion. Again, this
appears to be individualistic but is fundamentally about the individual responding
to the social. Value-expression is that decision to use or adopt a stereotype to
achieve self-actualisation and so a sense of integrity/identification with one’s social
environment. Ego‑defensiveness is the shoring up of a stereotype to protect the ego
against self-criticism. This last element is derived from Freud in his argument that
people seek to displace their aggressions and frustrations in situations when they
cannot direct their anger against the real cause of their frustrations, which may be
located in some completely different issue or factor. This produces what he called
scapegoating where frustration produces aggression and aggression frustration.
The power of this work is its appreciation of the multiplicity of social and
psychological forces that are at work in combination – complex forms of personal
insecurity underpinned by weak ego forms held together by prejudice.
Two derivative explanations of prejudice have developed in the last 30 years or
so in response to criticisms of the perceived psychological or individualistic bias
to this general theory. One is the theory of social dominance and the other is
social identity theory. Social dominance has as its essential tenet the notion that
dominant groups believe that there is a natural hierarchy amongst individuals and
groups which justifies their attitudes and actions over those they deem to be their
inferiors. This allows them to act out their feelings towards subordinate groups.
Social identity theory was developed by the prominent social psychologist Tajfel
in the 1970s. Tajfel, building on, first, the idea that individuals and groups when
in the presence of others will instinctively make distinctions between themselves
and those perceived to be other to themselves, and so will emphasise their own
perceived social identity. Secondly, the idea that they will naturally stress their own
positive self-image, argued that social identity lends itself to the production and
reproduction of prejudice.
Three important versions of social dominance which have sought to lift the
significance of the social in the making of prejudice are available in the work of
Jackman (1994), Sidanius and Pratto (1993), as well as a stream of research building
on the scholarship of Blumer (1958). Jackman, writing from a Marxist perspective,
argued that racism emanated not from the psychological, but from group interest.
Dominant groups created myths to justify and perpetuate existing inequalities.
Racial beliefs including prejudices were “merely ‘cognitive props’ developed by
the dominant group to effectively defend their dominance – not with force and
hostility, but with, as Jackman calls it, a ‘velvet glove’” (Krysan, 2000:151). A more
psychological version of social dominance is offered by Sidanius and Pratto who
argue that “[t]he causal force behind group conflict (and by implication racial
policy attitudes) is a human drive for group domination” (ibid.). Social dominance
in this view is distinguishable from personality and individual characteristics and
depends strongly on the legitimising myths of the dominant social group. Holding
the focus of this chapter in perspective, the emphasis on hate, “Sidanius and his
colleagues explicitly dismiss antiblack affect as an important predictor of racial
prejudice … What is important is one’s attachment to the in-group, ethnocentrism,
and a general ideology of group superiority” (Krysan, 2000:152).
Valuably, in cognisance of the discussion about the relative valence of the social
and the psychological, inheritors of the Blumer tradition (1958) such as Bobo et al.
(1997) (also see Bobo, 2000), have sought to locate prejudice, even in its individual
expression, in its wider social context. Bobo (2000:140‑143) suggested that:
The core argument here is that racial politics involves a nettlesome fusion of
racial identities and attitudes with racial group interests. It suggests that many
whites will oppose affirmative action not so much because they see a race-
based policy as contravening their loftiest values or because they have learned
a new, politically relevant set of resentments of blacks; but rather because they
perceive blacks as competitive threats for valued social resources, statuses
and privileges.
Two observations about this explanation are important to make. The first is its
emphasis on the social. It suggests that groups (or individuals) make assessments
about their interests which are derived from their perceptions of the realities of the
conflicts in which they find themselves. These assessments “(are) not necessarily
an objective assessment of [what those realities are]” (Krysan, 2000:153). So, for
example, the perception of the threat of losing a job on the part of a white person
could be underpinned by the prejudice that “blacks are pushing too fast” (ibid.).
The second observation, pertinent for the discussion, is that the explanation does
not work with these assessments in their psychological form. There is, it can be
argued, insufficient reference to the affective.
What are we left with in this discussion? I would like to suggest, and this anticipates
the discussion on hate which follows below, is that the discussion has helpfully
foregrounded social factors in the reasoning processes involved in the making of
prejudice. This description of the process of reasoning, however, I would like to
suggest underplays emotion and the significance of affect in the ways in which
individuals and groups structure their explanations for why they behave as they
do. There is a need to bring affect into much clearer perspective to show how it
produces what I would like to describe as bad cognition. The range of affective
conditions, in all their positive and negative inflections, from mild preference
and or distaste to searing love or hate, and their articulation with the cognitive
needs much more empirical scrutiny. How emotion interacts with the cognitive is
undoubtedly complex but needs to be understood. It is against this that the chapter
turns to the significance of hate.
Hate
More than 60 years after Allport wrote The Nature of Prejudice we are now
beginning to think more deliberately about where the phenomenon of hate fits into
this framework of prejudice. Behind this development are two issues of concern.
The first is analytic. It has to do with the need to distinguish hate more clearly
within the spectrum of psychological dispositions involved in the phenomena
of racism, sexism and other forms of discrimination. Its loose use and somewhat
profligate deployment in making sense of all forms of bias, discrimination and
othering (around whatever form of identity or object of attention) is unsatisfactory.
This leads to the second concern, that of how we should be acting – the realm of
the political. This concern is about how to make sense of hate so that we can act in
ways that are politically appropriate and meaningful. In light of both the persistence
and the apparent shifts in the forms and dynamics of racism, there is a need to
understand it better in order to respond to it more efficaciously.
The most significant theorist on hate in the contemporary period is Robert
Sternberg (2003) (see also Sternberg and Sternberg, 2008). Sternberg (2003:299)
makes the point that “the dictionary definition of hate is “to have strong dislike or
ill will for; loathe; despise”, or “to dislike or wish to avoid; shrink from”. These, he
says, serve as useful starting points but are not sufficiently detailed as an ending
point. Interestingly, in his unfolding of his Duplex Theory of Hate, he himself does
not venture a more satisfactory definition. What he does do, and this is sufficient,
it is suggested here, is develop a theory of what it is. This theory rests on five
fundamental claims about hate. These are that:
1. Hate is very closely related psychologically to love.
2. Hate is neither the opposite of nor the absence of love.
3. Hate, like love, has its origins in stories that characterise the target of
the emotion.
4. Hate, like love, can be characterised by a triangular structure generated by
thesestories.
5. Hate is a major precursor of many terrorist acts, massacres, and genocides.
(Sternberg, 2005:38)
I return to this below.
In an important intervention in what hate is, Royzman, McCauley and Rozin
(2005:27) take issue with descriptions of the phenomenon, which essentially make
it either what they call ostensive or stipulative in its form. An ostensive description
or definition essentially is one which invokes what are thought to be examples of
the condition to define the condition itself: “… a definiens is communicated by
either literally pointing to or otherwise indexing a case in which the definiendum
is thought to be in evidence … Thus, one may give an ostensive definition of ‘pain’
by pointing to a person in the throes of a toothache and saying … ‘This is what
pain is like’” (ibid.). A stipulative definition constructs the content of hate and
then goes to look for it (Royzman et al., 2005:22). It is essentially self-validating.
Hate in both these approaches is whatever is going on. One sees Royzman and his
colleagues’ argument clearly in the two references cited here of Sternberg. In the
first, he describes what the components of hate are; in the second, he develops his
taxonomy of types of hate. For the record, he says that hate has three components:
the negation of intimacy where individuals or groups seek to place distance
between themselves and others because others arouse repulsion and disgust in
them; passion which could take the form of anger or fear in response to a threat;
and decision-commitment which is marked by cognitions of devaluation and
diminution through contempt for the target group (Sternberg, 2005:39). These
three components generate seven different types of hate, cool hate (negation of
intimacy), hot hate (passion alone), cold hate (decision-commitment alone),
boiling hate (disgust of negation of intimacy plus passion), simmering hate
(negation of intimacy plus decision-commitment), seething hate (passion plus
decision-commitment) and burning hate (negation of intimacy plus passion plus
decision-commitment) (Sternberg, 2005:30‑40).
Royzman and his colleagues (2005:31), interpreting this literature, come to the
following conclusion:
Our analysis leaves us uncertain about the much-cited link between hate and
intergroup violence such as genocide, ethnic riots, or hate crimes. If hate is
defined ostensively through paradigm cases of armed conflict and killing,
then the notion that hate is responsible for mass violence is a tautology.
Conversely, if hate is to be spelled out in terms of its lay meaning, as a form
of inhibited defiance, or in terms of a stipulated meaning, for example, as a
syndrome of inverse caring, then the empirical evidence for the link between
hate and intergroup violence remains to be seen. That is the very status of
hate as a progenitor of evil rests on a prior conceptual decision about which
phenomenon one is willing to probe under the heading of hate and which
one will opt to see as ‘being not about hate at all’.
Given these challenges, they are reluctant to describe hate in categorical terms.
There is no single formulation, they say, that will satisfy the demands posed by any
interpretation of what hate is. Following this opening gambit for making sense of
hate, Susan Opotow (2005:122) helpfully says that “the psychological study of hate
has a curious centrifugality that deals with particular manifestations of hate, but
offers few cross-contextual analyses that examine the core meaning of hate across
contexts”. To take the discussion forward, Royzman et al. return to an explanation
provided by Shand (Royzman et al., 2005:5) who wrote in the 1920s. Shand
described hate as a bundle of episodic dispositions united by a common emotional
object or a common category of such objects. It was the perfect antinomy of love.
Love involved the positive alignment between the emotions of the lover and the
fortunes of the beloved. Hate was the alignment in the negative: “It was neither
a special emotion nor a blend of emotions, but rather a tendency to emote in a
number of ways to a number of situations involving the object of hatred” (Royzman
et al., 2005:6). Irwin Staub (2005:52) describes hate in similar terms:
[…] hate is built out of a complex of cognitions and emotions. The cognitive
components are likely to include devaluation or a negative view of some other
and the perception of threat from that other. The emotional components are
likely to include dislike, fear, anger, and hostility. Another likely element
of hate is a sense of rightness or justice about acting against the object of
one’s hate.
This can take ideological form – the belief that a desirable ideal will produce a
better world. Opotow (2005:125), reading the literature on hate, described it as a
“compound construct mingling anger and aggression … its emergence is relational,
cumulative and a response to attacks on one’s personhood”.
It is this difficulty of the compound nature of hate, I want to suggest, that has led to
its loose use in many contexts and situations – most notably in the evocation of the
phenomenon of hate crimes.
Some issues: How do prejudice and hate work?

Do they work differently?
With this explanation above, can one say that hate is categorically different to
prejudice? Does it consist of different elements to that of prejudice? The fullest
explanation of how hate works is available in the writing of Sternberg (2005).
He suggests that the basic processing system “that applies to the formation and
processing of impressions about groups and individuals is the same” (Sternberg,
2005:38). What is this processing system?
Sternberg’s processing involves the three components described above: negation
of intimacy or distancing, passion, and decision-commitment. Distancing arises
from the arousal of repulsion or disgust an individual or group feels in relation
to a person or group. It may arise from the actions of the person or a group, or is
stimulated by propaganda which depicts the person or group in subhuman or less
than human ways. Passion in hate expresses itself in anger or fear in response to
a threat, and decision-commitment is characterised by cognitions of devaluation
and diminution through contempt for the hated group. These components
generate in various combinations the seven types of hate described above. In their
accumulation and combinations, these elements generate three levels of danger:
mild hate-based when one of the components is present, moderate hate-based
danger when two of the components are present, and severe hate-based danger
when all three of the elements are active (Sternberg, 2005:41). Sternberg takes
this process explanation a step further by invoking the idea of the story-based
underpinnings of the development of hate. Hate does not simply arise. It is, he says,
fomented. It is fomented by people who use stories to find self-esteem by devaluing
others. Important about the story is that it is constructed around a stereotype. That
stereotype, however, is utterly threatening. It is portrayed as the embodied evil and
danger. The purpose of the threat is to activate distancing, passion, and decision-
commitment.
When one compares this description of the internal make-up of hate to that
of prejudice as described by Allport, is there a significant difference? Tony
Jefferson (2015), a criminologist, is useful here. In a searing analysis, he argues
that, actually, in explanations such as these an elision takes place in the general
discussion. This elision is the blurring of the lines between emotion and cognition:
“… [t]he emotional dimension of hatred and the cognitive dimension of prejudice
have become erroneously elided (to the detriment of properly understanding
either: the notion of positive prejudice completely disappears, for example).” The
point he makes is that there is a difference between hatred and prejudice and that
they have different origins. While there is a connection between them, prejudice
does not automatically progress to hatred. Criticising Allport, he comments:
[…] for all his contributions to the cognitive dimension, he was unable to
come to grips with the emotional investment involved in extreme prejudice
(or hatred) that he himself acknowledged needed to be understood. From this
point on, a cognitive approach to prejudice and othering came to dominate
research into racism yet without giving up the idea that it was attempting to
explain the hatred involved in genocide. ( Jefferson, 2015:129)
In making sense of Jefferson’s argument, it can be easily deduced that he is saying
that hatred is characterised by extreme emotion and that it is the emotional
intensity of hatred which distinguishes it from milder forms of prejudice. This
would, however, be simplifying the argument to a banality. There is, I want to
argue, some merit in his insistence that there is a difference between prejudice and
hate and the urgency he conveys in his work that we should understand hate better.
But there remains the task of saying more clearly what the differences between
prejudice and hate are. To help in this task Jefferson looks to the work of Young-
Bruehl (1996) who challenged the idea that prejudice was a unitary phenomenon
and that the various expressions it took were simply variations on a theme. Her
argument was that it was possible to identify and locate distinct causes in different
kinds of prejudice and so, for example, in anti-Semitism one saw the emergence of
what she called the obsessional type who saw Jews as dirty and aggressive. Racism
stemmed from a hysteria which was rooted in sexual fear and homophobia. A major
issue in her argument is the role of unconscious desire in racism, sexism, and anti-
Semitism. This desire is distinct from the conscious love of one’s own group, she
suggested, that was behind much of prejudice.
Jefferson does not entirely go along with Young-Bruehl’s use of character types
and the almost fixed ways in which she deploys the idea of types in coming to
understand behavioural outcomes. “This is partly because”, he says, “the idea of
character (like personality) does not convey the incessant dynamics underpinning
behaviour for which a processual analysis is more appropriate”. But, and this is the
value of his intervention, he suggests that there is a developmental trajectory in how
what we might understand to be the ways in which prejudice progresses to hate. It
is this that is useful because what he is doing in this analysis is suggest that there are
socially contingent factors that become relevant in the dynamic that plays itself out
in a person’s life. What happens in this analysis is not the inevitability of particular
forms of behaviour, but an explanation which brings together the psychological
– the types – and the social – the circumstances in which people find themselves,
in ways which are clearer: “What it means, very simply, is that particular types of
prejudice will flourish in societies where the associated character types are enabled
in some ways.” ( Jefferson, 2013:13)
A way forward: Between prejudice and hate

Critical in understanding how to move forward in the discussion about the
relationship between prejudice and hate, is understanding the nature of Jefferson’s
objection. Useful as his assertion is that an elision takes place in much of the
discussion, I would like to suggest that there is sufficient evidence in the existing
discussion to justify holding prejudice and hate together as not only cognate but
fundamentally related phenomena. Both involve cognition, belief, and attitude.
The presence of these elements allows one to map Sternberg’s seven types of hate
onto Allport’s five different levels. What is different between them is the emphasis
Sternberg places on emotion – hate is fomented he says – and the way in which
he locates emotion as an activating factor in the direction which prejudice takes.
A point to emphasise is that emotion/affect is not absent in the Allport analysis.
His five-level explanation of prejudice includes the suggestion that, under certain
circumstances, an individual or a group will take steps to move from simply
harbouring an attitude, what he called antilocution or even avoidance, to acting on
his or her attitude, what he called physical attack and extermination. In describing
these phases, Allport was careful to talk about the social conditions in which they
occurred. Ponterotto and his colleagues (2006:15) quote Allport’s description of
the physical attack phase and make the point that “[u]nder tense and emotionally
laden conditions, or even under peer pressure, it does not take much for an
individual to move from the discrimination stage to the physical confrontation …”
It was Hitler’s antilocution pressure, Allport argued, which made it possible for
Germans to cross the boundary to taking the decision to embark on a process of
exterminating people who were classified as Jews:
It was Hitler’s antilocution that led Germans to avoid their Jewish neighbours
and erstwhile friends. This preparation made it easier to enact the Nurnberg
laws of discrimination which, in turn, made the subsequent burning of
synagogues and street attacks upon Jews seem natural. The final step in the
macabre progression was the ovens at Auschwitz.
However, Allport does not distinguish the activating dimensions of the experience
enough. Directly relevant to his theoretical gathering, together with what is taking
place here, is his description of “emotionally-laden conditions”. But, powerful as
this invocation is, he does not, in explaining the cognitive processes that are at
work here, make sufficient allowance for the work that emotion does. Cognition,
as a process of acquiring thought and sense-making, is rendered too restrictively
as a social experience. What this leads to, I suggest, is the need for emphasising the
covalence of the affective alongside the cognitive, and a restatement of the prejudice
continuum in a way which accommodates processual or fomenting factors,
especially those which are emotional. How this may be done is to recompose
each of Allport’s five stages and include within such a recomposition not only the
behavioural forms associated with each type, but the full complexity of social and
psychological forces that are present. This would reconfigure the model not simply
as a typology or a classification of types of prejudice, but as a syndrome of fluid
complexes or structures which have inside of them interactive cognitive, emotive
and behavioural factors. What such a model makes possible is in direct response
to the second remaining concern I draw attention to above, the identification of
hate inside its psycho-social ecology. The opportunity this presents is that of
working with Jefferson’s idea of enablement, of seeing much more distinctly the
ways in which the social and the psychological interact to catalyse, or indeed their
opposite, to neutralise or stabilise each other. The value of this approach lies in
entering, more explicitly, the space in which the encounter between the mind and
its social environment plays itself out, and towards understanding the processual
nature of the experience, establishing what the constants and variables are that
arise. The opportunity it presents is that of developing a framework, as opposed
to a schema, for identifying the distinct psychological and social conditions
that arise in combination in what I would describe as the zone of enablement
and for understanding the complex and unpredictable ways in which these play
themselves out.
In bringing this part of the discussion to a close, a final comment on enablement
is necessary. In the general thread of argumentation used in many explanations
of enablement, it is said that it is often people’s experiences which confirm their
attitudes. The work of Minard (1952) and Pettigrew (1959) has been helpful here.
At the core of that work is a concern to explain the shifting behaviour of groups
of people in different contexts. This work emphasises some of the complexity
of prejudice and how it works. It is neither stable and consistent nor fixed and
permanent in either its forms or the outcomes it will produce. The forces which
animate it produce shifting dynamics and variable outcomes. Minard’s (1952)
work, to illustrate, shows what the complexity is. More than 60 years ago, he
conducted a study of a group of black and white miners in a town in the southern
United States. He looked at their attitudes towards each other when they were
below ground and then again when they were above ground. The conclusion to
which he came, to explain what was happening, was that the social norms of the two
spaces were distinct and came to effect how people behaved and particularly how
they managed their prejudice. The norm below ground was towards friendliness
between miners. Above ground it was the reverse. Enabled above ground were
attitudes that were effectively disabled below ground. This is helpful in thinking
of enablement, but even so it is not sufficient. What needed to be understood
was the way the normative order worked, its compulsions and prohibitions, why
it sometimes stimulated agency, negative agency, and why sometimes not (see
the recent work of McLeod, 2008). Why is the norm, as an activational device,
functional and sometimes not? ( Jacobs et al., 1998). What this points to is the
need for recognising the general but unique features of each event or incident.
In closing this discussion, I refer briefly to the case of Barend Strydom, the
perpetrator of one of contemporary South Africa’s most important examples of
how hate works. Strydom was the self-proclaimed founder and leader of a white
supremacist group, Die Wit Wolwe. Die Wit Wolwe was established in Pretoria
in 1988 by a group of 21 Afrikaners for the purposes, as they explained at their
founding meeting, of
1. The advancement of Protestant Christianity.
2. The identification, exposure of and struggle against, particularly, the ANC/
SACP Alliance, Satanism, Communism, Marxism, Humanism, Liberalism,
Free Masonry, the Broederbond, the International Monetary Fund and all
their front organisations, with whatever means we have at our disposal.
3. The establishment of our own free Christian Republican Boerevolkstaat.
(Strydom, 1997:57)
In the afternoon of 15 November 1988, Strydom, then 23 years old, made his
way to Strijdom Square in the city of Pretoria armed with a hunting knife, a 9mm
Parabellum Beretta Pistol and over 500 rounds of ammunition. He had a mission to
accomplish – die “Slag van Strijdomplein”, rendered less dramatically in English as
“the Battle of Strijdom Square” – to take the battle for the freedom of the Afrikaner
people to the enemy. On the morning of the event, Strydom had gathered with
three confederates at the Voortrekker Monument and agreed there that he should
be the one to see through the implementation of the plan to attack the enemy in
the heartland of Afrikanerdom, the city of Pretoria. He had phoned the media
before the operation and told them that the event of which they had been warned
was about to happen. He strode onto the square and within 15 minutes had
hunted down and killed seven people. A week before, Strydom had undertaken a
practice run. He had driven to Weiler’s Farm, an informal settlement in De Deur
South of Johannesburg, randomly identified a shack and shot at two of its sleeping
occupants, killing one. Because it was a rainy night, the operation, he said, was not
entirely successful. But he had proved to himself that he could kill – he had become
a freedom fighter (Strydom, 1997:75). By the time he was arrested at Strijdom
Square, he had murdered eight people. Strydom was arrested and quickly brought
to trial. The trial judge, Mr Louis Harms, told him in finding him guilty that:
If the sentence creates the impression that I want you kept permanently out
of society, then that impression is correct. There is no hope of rehabilitation
for you. You have no remorse and you would happily repeat what you
have done. Your crimes were barbaric, the consequences indescribable.
It was premeditated and carried out without feeling. In the interests of the
community, you should be removed. You remain a danger.
(Smith, 2008:par. 3‑5)
Yet, in seeking to characterise what had happened in this critical period of South
African history, this episode did not lead to what Strydom had hoped for, an all-
out war between white and black people. The sacrificial role he saw himself playing
did not proceed to a generalised process of extermination of black people. While
he received a great deal of support from other Afrikaners, very few followed his
example. There were, in the context, sufficient conditions which inhibited and even
stopped large numbers of people to act on their prejudices. They did not cross the
boundary from belief of their superiority to physically attacking black people.
But Strydom’s hate still needs to be explained. Judge Harms (Document
K29.2037:687‑688), in assessing the expert testimony, came to the conclusion that
the only factor which bears a causal relation to the deed was his political beliefs and
feelings of hate. As far as his hatred was concerned, Harms (ibid.) said,
I quote […] from R v Hugo page 228:
‘Now it seems to me that a settled hate or bias against a person does not by
itself constitute an extenuating circumstance whether there is foundation for
it or not. A normal man cannot allow the prejudices or antipathies which are
ordinarily kept within reasonable bounds to become so exaggerated as to lead
him to kill a human being. It is not every warped or prejudiced mind that
can be said to be suffering from a ‘delusion, erroneous belief or defect.’ There
must be a clear element of abnormality. The clouding of a normal brain by
hatred goes no further than the motives giving rise to hatred.’
He came to the conclusion that Strydom was driven by pure political fervour.
He did not accept that what had happened was explainable in terms of Strydom’s
personality.
In explaining the extreme forms of behaviour that came to be enacted, I would like
to suggest that the summing up of the judge was legally correct. He dismissed the
salience of influences such as Strydom’s age and his upbringing and concluded that
the “the only factors that really have a causal bearing here were his (Strydom’s)
political beliefs and his feelings of hate” (Document K29.1920:31) (Soudien’s
translation from the Afrikaans). His assessment of the expert testimony before
him was based on a careful separating out of fact and conjecture. He could not, he
emphasised, find any basis for the psychologist for the defence’s contention that
an experience of extreme trauma had occurred in Strydom’s life such that he was
impelled to kill: “There was no such evidence” (ibid.).
What Judge Harm’s summing up does is support the general approach taken by
Staub. As cited earlier, Staub (2005:52) had described hate as being:
[…] built out of a complex of cognitions and emotions. The cognitive
components are likely to include devaluation or a negative view of some other
and the perception of threat from that other. The emotional components are
likely to include dislike, fear, anger, and hostility. Another likely element
of hate is a sense of rightness or justice about acting against the object of
one’s hate.
Confirmatory as this legal reasoning is of the general hate literature, it leaves, still,
the central issue of how to account for, as in Allport’s (Ponterotto et al., 2006:15)
description, “mov(ing) from the discrimination phase to the physical confrontation
stage”, or in Jefferson’s (2013:13) approach, the processual development trajectory
from prejudice to hate. Harm’s summing up contained all the general elements
required to come to an accurate forensic assessment of what was at play in the case.
It did not deem it necessary, however, to deconstruct the processual nature of the
events. Such a deconstruction would have been useful and would have given the
Strydom narrative its contextual specificity. Central to that specificity, in attempting
to take the analysis forward, are Jefferson’s dynamics which take Strydom, and
virtually nobody else, from one state of consciousness to another.
What happens which makes Strydom cross the boundary from prejudice to hate?
Central, I would like to argue, and this is effectively minimised and not used as an
opportunity for deconstruction, is what Judge Harms distilled as the question of
Strydom’s political beliefs. His political beliefs, said Harms, were the cause. The
activating factor not referenced in the trial was the intense testing of Strydom’s
political belief. That testing was essentially the dismantling of apartheid. The period
was marked by the release of Nelson Mandela from prison and the unbanning of the
African National Congress (ANC), the Pan African Congress (PAC) and the South
African Communist Party (SACP). South Africa, at that moment, was passing over
from white supremacy to becoming a democracy. This moment in the history of
South Africa was deeply traumatising for Strydom. He would open his Belydenis
(Confession) with the following line:
Van kleins af het ek geywer vir onse God en die Boerevolk. Ek het ’n
roepingstaak-ervaring belewe deurdat ek moes opstaan … Besetting van
Boergrond was aan die orde van die dag, dit moes plek maak vir plakkers
… Dit word ’n amptelike onverklaarde oorlog. Ons bejaardes word wreed
aangerand, verkrag en vermoor. Daar word met ’n bus in die Westdene-dam
gery en 48 Boereseuntjies and dogterjies sterf … Is dit beskaaf of barbaars?
Uit God of uit satan? Dis alles deel van ’n uitgewerkte plan teen die Boerevolk
… [Nou] verwag Hy ook van ons om hulle wat sy naam to belaster dood
te maak … (Strydom, 1997:7‑9) [I devoted myself from childhood to our God
and Boer nation. I experienced a calling to take a stand … The occupation of our
land was the order of the day. We had to make way for squatters … An official
undeclared war was begun. Our older folk are being brutally assaulted, raped
and murdered. A bus with 48 Boer boys and girls was driven into Westdene dam
leading to their deaths … Is this civilised or barbaric behaviour? Is it of God or
Satan? … This is all part of a plan against the Boer nation. God expects us now to
kill all those who abuse his name.]
For Strydom, whose normative order was constructed around the predestined
superiority of white people, the possibility of living alongside of and as an equal
to black people was unthinkable. He had committed himself from his final
years at school already to fighting for the rights of the Afrikaner people. He had
written letters of remonstration to all the major black South African leaders
and internationally to figures such as Margaret Thatcher. When F.W. de Klerk
announced the unbanning of the ANC and the release of Mandela, it was a moment of
immense betrayal for him. He had found even the establishment of the tri‑cameral
parliament, with separate chambers for whites, “coloureds” and “Indians”, and the
ensuing acknowledgement of Islam and Hinduism, deeply objectionable. That
people of different faiths were even sitting next to Christians caused him great
hurt. In the course of his trial, the judge asked him if he believed that only white
people were deserving (of God’s) favour. His reply was: “That is correct … In the
documents of the Great Trek … black people are not regarded as people but as
animals” (Strydom, 1997:121) (translated by Soudien from the Afrikaans).
In attempting to make sense of the holocaust, Staub (1989:98) argued that
predisposition to fanaticism did have roots in a person’s childhood and personality,
but once this was coupled to an ideology, “knowledge of the ideology … [wa]s the
best guide to understanding his behaviour”. Staub is correct. He said that when
Hitler was growing up, he was surrounded by a society soaked in anti-Semitism.
What converts this anti-Semitism to racial hatred and, consequently, to genocidal
action is, however, not sufficiently elaborated on. The answer, it is argued here,
is necessary for explaining how prejudice advances to hatred. In the case of
Germany, as Staub himself explained, the contextual circumstances of the 1930s,
“[of] a people distressed by inflation, depression, joblessness, and political chaos,
togetherness and unity had wide appeal” (Staub, 1989:99). This contextual
explanation does not provide the neat clinical explanation of cause, but it is
essential in making sense of the complexity of the dynamic in which the Germans
found themselves. There were, in the cultural life of the Germans, inclinations to
authoritarianism. This impacted on behaviour. But it was when this behaviour
was embedded in and available to political ideology that a particular combustive
trajectory was inaugurated. Similarly, when Strydom was coming to adulthood, he
was doing so in an environment normatively constructed around white supremacy.
This white supremacy was elemental and pervasive in all the formative spaces in
which he found himself – his family home, his church and his schooling. It was
the disruption of this normative order, it is argued here, that came to move that
normative order from prejudice to hate, from belief to action. Why, however, this
did not become a generalised reaction in the Afrikaner community remains a
question. It was sufficient to cause Strydom to move to hate but not for the wider
Volk amongst whom he lived. It is this complexity in each of the contexts in which
hate arises that requires elaboration.
What are we to take away from this discussion in understanding prejudice, hate
and racism? The most important is that while prejudice and hate are related, and
while it is possible to bring the contemporary discussion of hate, as it is elaborated
by scholars such as Staub and Sternberg, into conceptual alignment with the way
prejudice is mapped out by pioneers such as Allport, and, thereby, to confirm
the general features of the prejudice-hate schema, there is need to recognise the
distinctiveness with which hate manifests itself and comes to work. Hate, the
point needs to be made, coincides with and is qualitatively similar at points to the
different forms of prejudice identified by Allport, but, at moments or even periods,
takes on a distinctive form which requires acknowledgement and explanation.
This distinctiveness may be accommodated in Allport’s categories, avoidance,
discrimination, physical attack and extermination, but these do not descriptively
enough contain or, by themselves, explain the concentration of intense emotion,
cognition and action embodied by the descriptor hate and bring us to a definitive
understanding of what is going on in the othering experience. Simple dislike may
be present in all Allport’s forms, especially avoidance and discrimination, but the
intensity and effects of the combination of factors distinguishing hate calls, each
time, for further study.
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Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley.
Fields, K. & Fields. B. 2014. Racecraft: The Soul
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Books. and Reconciliation.
Blumer, H. 1958. Race prejudice as a sense Jackman, M. 1994. The Velvet Glove:
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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
«Le abitazioni di cotali donne, conchiude l’Adinolfi, erano contigue
alla chiesa di S. Giacomo che col suo spedale dispiccato dal
Colosseo erano separate affatto da questo edifizio. Conciossiacchè
venendo ampliamente dai guardiani Bernardo de’ Ricci e Paluzzo di
Giovanni Mattei negli anni cristiani 1472, costoro chiesero licenza ai
maestri delle strade di chiudere un luogo intraposto a quella chiesa e
ad alcune possessioni dello spedale [737], ed in questa concessione
per verun modo si fa ricordanza di quell’edifizio del Colosseo, nel
quale secondo Valesio, era contenuto il loro monastero».
*
**
Oltre alla chiesa di S. Giacomo de Coliseo, erano molto prossime

all’Anfiteatro Flavio altre chiese, delle quali oggi non rimane alcun
vestigio.
«Nell’andar direttamente per la via Maggiore seguitava, dopo il titolo
Clementino, la favolosa casa di Giovanni Papa VII; e verso
l’Anfiteatro Flavio per lo meno quattro altre chiesette» [738].
Il Lanciani [739] opina, e saggiamente, malgrado l’ipercritica dei
moderni Bollandisti [740], che nelle vicinanze del Colosseo, oltre a
varie cappelle vi fossero pur’anche sette chiese. L’opinione
dell’illustre archeologo vien confermata dalle scoperte e dai
documenti; le prime ci hanno rivelato la esistenza di alcuni oratorî o
cappelle nelle vicinanze del Colosseo; i secondi ci hanno conservato
memoria di almeno otto chiese in quel dintorno.
Fra gli oratorî che circondavano il Colosseo, merita il posto d’onore
quello sacro a S. Felicita, martire romana, ed ai suoi figli.
Quest’oratorio fu scoperto nel 1812.
Il primo a parlarne fu il Morcelli nel 1812, poi il Piale nel 1817; anche
il Mai più volte nei suoi scritti parla di quest’oratorio; e poscia il
Canova, il Nibby, il Garrucci, il De Rossi, l’Armellini, il Marucchi, il
Grisar, ecc. Non è questo il luogo di descrivere ed illustrare
quell’antichissimo oratorio: tanto più che le sue pitture e le scoperte
ivi fatte sono state già illustrate e pubblicate da molti scrittori. Solo mi
sia permesso intrattenermi alquanto sul motivo della erezione di un
oratorio sacro a S. Felicita, celeberrima martire romana, in questo
luogo; motivo che ha dato occasione a varie congetture.
Il De Rossi [741] propose la congettura che qui fosse la casa del
marito di Felicita, di nome Alessandro; argomentando l’ignoto nome
del marito da quello di uno dei figli, chiamato appunto Alessandro: e
ciò lo ricava dalla greca iscrizione a graffito in una parete laterale
della stanza, dove, nonostante l’incertezza della lettura, quello che al
ch. archeologo sembra certo è, che vi si legga: «Alexandri olim
domus erat».
Il Grisar [742], benchè dica che in mancanza di sorgenti non ci è
permesso sciogliere la questione, pure a lui sembra che l’affermativa
spiegherebbe meglio la venerazione delle dame Romane per questo
santuario: venerazione, che viene espressa in un graffito del muro.
Questa congettura però, a mio modo di vedere, incontra non poche
difficoltà; e tralasciatane per brevità ogni altra, è certo che qui non
potè essere la casa di una nobile matrona, quale fu Felicita, nè del
suo marito, nobile anch’esso; perchè non può dubitarsi essere
quest’oratorio parte dei sotterranei delle Terme di Traiano, che altro
non sono se non gli avanzi della casa aurea di Nerone [743].
Altri congetturano che questo sia il luogo immediato ove la Santa ed
i figli furono trattenuti per esser da quello condotti al martirio. Ma
anche quest’opinione incontra difficoltà. Se la sepoltura di Felicita e
dei figli fosse stata fatta sulla via Labicana o sulla Latina, non si
avrebbe tanta difficoltà ad accettare il parere di quegli scrittori. Ma è
certo che la sepoltura di Felicita e di sei dei suoi figli fu sulla via
Salaria, e quella di Gennaro sull’Appia. Sembra adunque troppo
lontano il luogo della esecuzione della sentenza capitale (che
l’esperienza insegna prossimo al luogo della sepoltura) da quello
ove quei Santi sarebbero stati detenuti per esser condotti al martirio.
Altri opinano finalmente che questo luogo fosse la custodia privata,
ove la Santa ed i figli furono trattenuti nel tempo del processo. Ma gli
atti c’indicano il luogo preciso ove il processo si svolse, e questo è il
Foro di Marte: «Postera namque die, dicono gli atti, Publius sedit in
Foro Martis et iussit eam adduci», e dopo essa ad uno ad uno i figli.
La distanza del luogo di cui si parla dal Foro di Marte fa abbandonar
la proposta congettura, senza notare che, come ogni Foro ebbe la
sua privata custodia, così l’ebbe pur anche il Foro di Marte.
In questo stato di cose, sia lecito anche a me proporre una
congettura, che ricavo dalle circostanze di luogo, di tempo e di
costumi.
È certo che all’Anfiteatro Flavio furono non poche volte condotti i rei
per esser puniti, e che anche i cristiani [744] furono là condotti, e non
di rado, più per provare la loro costanza nella Fede ed indurli a
rinnegarla, che per ultimo supplicio [745].
È certo eziandio che prossimo all’Anfiteatro vi dovè essere un luogo
di custodia per i rei destinati a subire il supplicio nell’arena
dell’Anfiteatro stesso. Ora quell’oratorio così prossimo all’Anfiteatro,
nei sotterranei delle Terme, sulla strada che menava
all’Anfiteatro [746], e precisamente da quella parte ove trovasi la porta
Libitinense, per la quale s’introducevano i rei nell’arena, non può
negarsi essere stato luogo molto adatto allo scopo. E che questo
fosse veramente un luogo di custodia, lo dimostra, come nota il De
Rossi [747], la pittura stessa della Martire, ove le due figure effigiate
in proporzioni piccole per rispetto ai Santi, sono di carcerieri
«Clavicularius carceris».
Posto ciò, non sarebbe, credo, azzardato il supporre che S. Felicita
e figli fossero ivi condotti per esser poi presentati alle belve
nell’Anfiteatro, almeno a provare ancora una volta la loro costanza.
S. Felicita fu martire nel principio dell’impero di Marco Aurelio,
quando, cioè, la plebe gridava: «Christianos ad leones!». Dopo la
morte di Antonino le incursioni barbariche minacciavano l’Impero; il
Tevere uscì dal suo letto, e recò gravissimi danni; Roma era in preda
alla fame; la peste poco dopo devastò regioni: conveniva cercar
vittime a placar l’ira degli dèi; e queste vittime furono i Cristiani. Era il
grido del momento: «Christianos ad leones!» [748]. Felicita ed i figli
furono tra le vittime designate.
È vero che gli atti tacciano su ciò; ma conviene osservare che questi
atti sono brevissimi e semplicissimi. Essi altro non ci ricordano che
l’esame e la morte dei Santi; e se questo episodio dell’Anfiteatro non
lo ricordano, fu forse perchè non ebbe seguito. Dico forse non ebbe
seguito, giacchè le Matrone Romane perorarono presso l’Imperatore
per la loro compagna, matrona anch’essa «Inlustris»; e l’Imperatore
M. Aurelio che, al dire di Dione [749], di Capitolino [750] e di
Erodiano [751], aveva orrore per i ludi cruenti dell’Anfiteatro, accolse
la domanda; e Felicita ed i figli furono liberati da questa prova. La
scritta che leggesi sul capo di Felicita nel dipinto del nostro oratorio:
«Felicitas cultrix Romanarum (matronarum)», come tutti
convengono, ce ne è una conferma. Quel cultrix, numero singolare,
non si può riferire alle matrone, come senza badarvi si è fatto;
perchè queste sono in numero plurale. Il Garrucci vide la difficoltà, e
riferì quel cultrix ad una qualunque Felicitas, devota della Santa
omonima; costretto però ad aggiungervi: «votum solvit», che non gli
appartiene, come anche notò il De Rossi. Secondo la mia opinione,
quel cultrix esprime la gratitudine di S. Felicita verso le Matrone
Romane.
Sennonchè, come nota l’Allard [752], l’Imperatore, di fronte alla
grande agitazione popolare causata dal terrore superstizioso,
liberando Felicita ed i figli dalle zanne dei leoni, non potè a meno di
rassicurar la plebe, ordinando che il sangue destinato a placare l’ira
degli dèi, invece che nell’Anfiteatro fosse sparso in punti diversi di
Roma. «Leur immolation, scrisse l’Allard [753] parlando dell’iscrizione
trovata nel 1732 nel cimitero di Processo e Martiniano, POSTERA
DIE MARTVRORVM, eut quelque chose d’exceptionnel: ils furent les
martyrs proprement dits, c’est-a-dire les victimes choisies entre tous
les chrétiens pour être sacrifiées à la colère des dieux, un jour où le
fanatisme, la superstition, la peur, voulurent à tout prix arroser d’un
sang illustre divers points de la ville de Rome».
Il De Rossi [754] scrive che il graffito greco, ricordante un Alexandri
δόμος, era scritto sull’intonaco primitivo anteriormente alle pitture
cristiane; e che nel medesimo intonaco si leggevano pure in graffito:
«Achillis vivas» ed altri nomi, come: «Cassidi, Maxi..., Saeculari....»;
e sotto: «in de», che il De Rossi lesse: «in Deo». Da questo Egli
dedusse che nei graffiti del primo intonaco si ha indizio del culto del
luogo, anteriore alle pitture cristiane. E giustamente; poichè tutti
sanno che la parola domus nel linguaggio cristiano ordinariamente
significa oratorio, e le acclamazioni Vivas in Deo sono cristiane.
Conchiudo:
Fra gli oratori che circondavano il Colosseo, quello sacro a S.
Felicita è il più antico; e se (come assai bene lo dimostrò il De Rossi)
le pitture cristiane, rappresentanti la nostra Santa e i suoi figli, non
sono posteriori alla metà del secolo V (443), ed il culto di quel luogo
è anteriore alle pitture, dobbiam conchiudere che l’oratorio di S.
Felicita e figli risale al IV secolo dell’êra volgare.
E bene a ragione fu esso il primo; giacchè quel luogo era, come si
disse, la custodia per coloro che dovean essere esposti alle fiere
nell’Anfiteatro: supplizio che subirono non pochi cristiani. Difatti noi
troviamo qui una domus Alexandri; ed il vescovo Alessandro, sepolto
ad Baccanas, fu (secondo gli atti interpolati bensì ma in sostanza
veritieri) [755] esposto alle fiere nell’Anfiteatro; e così, chi sa che
anche i nomi di Achille, Cassidio, Massimo e Secolare, uniti a quelle
cristiane acclamazioni, non siano anch’essi, nomi di Cristiani
damnati ad bestias nel Colosseo?....
Un altro oratorio fu scoperto negli scavi del 1895, fra residui di

fabbriche antiche, presso la nuova via dei Serpenti. Riporterò le
parole del ch. Gatti, che allora descrisse la scoperta [756]. «Sopra un
muro curvilineo che trovasi alla distanza di m. 44 del Colosseo in
corrispondenza delle arcate XXXXIIII e XXXXV, e costituiva l’abside
di una piccola chiesa, si conserva la parte destra di una pittura a
fresco, onde quella parte era decorata. Nel mezzo della
composizione era rappresentata una figura seduta su ricco trono
marmoreo, certamente la Vergine Maria col Bambino Gesù nel seno.
Non ne rimane che una piccola parte della veste, e la fiancata
sinistra del trono; il quale apparisce adorno di musaici, secondo lo
stile così detto cosmatesco. Genuflessa al lato del trono medesimo è
una piccola figura colle braccia sollevate in atto di preghiera. Ha il
capo tonsurato, e veste una casula di color rosso puro. È il ritratto di
colui che fece eseguire la pittura ad ornamento dell’oratorio. Segue
l’imagine poco minore del vero, di un santo barbato, in piedi, con
tunica di color cenere, stretta alla vita con una correggia di cuoio, e
con corto mantello rossastro. L’abito è monastico; ed è probabile che
in questa figura sia effigiato S. Benedetto. Ad essa doveva
corrispondere un’altra simile figura dal lato destro del trono, ove
siede la Vergine. Il dipinto è contornato da riquadrature in rosso:
sulla fascia inferiore si veggono tracce di scrittura, con lettere di
color bianco. La composizione e lo stile del dipinto sembrano doversi
attribuire al secolo XIII o XIV.
«Nel campo della pittura si leggono i seguenti nomi di visitatori
graffiti con una punta:
Il Lanciani, pur dubitando, opina che questi avanzi di oratorio si

debbano attribuire alla chiesa di S. Maria de Ferrariis [757]; ma
questa chiesa, come vedremo quando di essa si parlerà, per
documenti certi conviene collocarla altrove. E poi, essendo la
composizione e lo stile del dipinto del secolo XIII o XIV, e non
esistendo altri documenti che dimostrino la preesistenza della chiesa
(come tale) alle pitture suddette, l’opinante ben fece a dubitare di
quella congettura. È dunque per me un incerto oratorio. La pittura è
stata trasportata al Museo Nazionale.
Le chiese poi più vicine all’Anfiteatro Flavio, delle quali si ha
memoria, sono:
1.º SS. Quadraginta Colisaei.

2.º S. Maria de Ferrariis.
3.º S. Giacomo.
4.º S. Salvatore de Insula.
5.º S. Salvatore de Arcu Trasi.
6.º S. Maria de Metriis.
7.º S. Nicolò de Colosso e Colisaeo.
8.º SS. Abdon e Sennen.
I moderni Bollandisti [758] saltano a piè pari la questione intorno a

queste chiese, che, come vedremo, sono certamente esistite nelle
vicinanze del Colosseo; come pure tacciono degli oratorî, dei quali
parlammo di sopra, benchè quando essi scrissero fossero già
scoperti. Rivolgono le loro armi contro S. Salvatore in Ludo od in
Tellure, e, contro S. Maria de arcu aureo, che nulla hanno a vedere
col Colosseo; e, costretti a parlare della chiesa dei Ss. Abdon e
Sennen, e non potendone negare resistenza, conchiudono con un «il
est probable» che la lettura degli atti abbia suggerito l’idea di erigere
una chiesa in loro onore in questo luogo.
Del resto, la esistenza di queste otto chiese e di questi oratorî
attorno al Colosseo serve a dimostrare la venerazione che, da secoli
e secoli, prima dell’epoca fissata dai Bollandisti per il culto di questo
monumento — secolo XVII — era prestata all’Anfiteatro, benchè le
chiese e gli oratorî niuna relazione diretta avessero coi martiri che in
esso patirono: giacchè appunto attorno a centri indubitabili di grande
venerazione noi vediamo verificarsi il fatto dell’aggruppamento di
chiese ed oratorî di vario titolo; come, ad esempio, attorno alle
basiliche Lateranense e Vaticana, ed a quella Apostolorum sulla Via
Appia. Anzi questo fatto non solo si è verificato attorno a luoghi sacri
fin dalla loro origine, ma eziandio attorno a monumenti destinati per
loro natura ad uso profano, e divenuti poscia venerabili, presso i
cristiani, per qualche motivo speciale. Così attorno al grandioso
edifizio delle Terme di Diocleziano, sorsero le chiese di S. Salvatore
in Thermis, dei Ss. Papia e Mauro, e l’oratorio cristiano scoperto nel
1876 sul Monte della Giustizia (ove è ora la dogana); e ciò, perchè
gli altissimi muri di quella immensa mole erano stati cementati, dirò
così, dal venerando sudore di migliaia di confessori della fede.
I. Chiesa dei Ss. Quadraginta Colisaei [759].
Cinque furono in Roma le chiese sacre ai Quaranta Martiri di

Sebaste. Presso la chiesa di S. Maria Antiqua, scoperta a’ nostri
giorni, v’ha una cappella che il Wilpert considera come faciente parte
della chiesa stessa, per essere a questa assai vicina [760].
Nell’abside di questa cappella sono dipinti i Ss. Quaranta Martiri; e la
pittura è giudicata dallo stesso ch.º autore [761] non posteriore al
secolo VII. Nella stessa cappella Adriano I fece dipingere nel secolo
seguente gli stessi Santi in gloria.
Altra chiesa dedicata a questi Martiri fu sull’Esquilino, e
propriamente al Castro Pretorio. — Una terza ve n’era a breve
distanza dal luogo ove ora è la chiesa delle Stimmate, e si disse Ss.
Quadraginta de Calcarario, e poi de Leis. Un’altra ve ne fu, e v’è
tuttora, nel Trastevere, e finalmente viene la nostra. Da quest’elenco
mi sembra potersi ricavare l’origine e la posizione della nostra
chiesa.
I Quaranta Martiri furono soldati, e noi troviamo che le chiese
ricordate sono presso le caserme militari. La cappella di S. Maria
antiqua fu eretta per la Coorte Palatina; la chiesa dell’Esquilino, per i
soldati Pretoriani; quella di Trastevere, nella celebre Urbs
Ravennatium, per i marinaî di Ravenna, quella situata a pochi passi
dal luogo ove ora sorge la chiesa delle Stimmate, per i militi dei
Castra dedicati da Aureliano in Campo Agrippae [762]. La nostra
dunque, per i marinai di Miseno. Questo quanto all’origine: quanto
alla posizione poi, il quartiere dei marinai di Miseno fu tra S.
Clemente ed il Colosseo; ivi dunque dovremmo collocare la chiesa.
E così è di fatto.
Il Lonigo la dice posta «lì attorno al Colosseo», fra la chiesa di S.
Giacomo e quella di S. Clemente. Dalla bolla di Eugenio IV [763], per
la quale questa chiesa e l’altra di S. Maria furono unite all’ospedale
di S. Giacomo, risulta, che era prossima a questo ospedale:
«Sanctorum Quadraginta.... nec non S. Mariae prope dictum
hospitale consistentes». Nel Catasto dei beni dell’ospedale di Sancta
Sanctorum del 1462 [764] si legge: «Item ecclesia Sanctorum
Quadraginta prope dictam ecclesiam (di S. Giacomo) que remansit
unita hospitali post cessum et recessum domi Johannis de
Cancellariis». Ora il fabbricato della chiesa e dell’ospedale di S.
Giacomo si estendeva fino al principio della via di San Giovanni. Qui
dunque fu la chiesa dei Ss. Quaranta: vale a dire, di fronte al
quartiere dei Misenati.
Questa chiesa alla metà del secolo XV era in istato di totale
deperimento, e lo ricavo dalla citata bolla d’Eugenio IV (1433), nella
quale, parlandosi delle due chiese, di S. Maria de Ferrariis e dei Ss.
Quadraginta, leggiamo: «Etiam ruine deformitati supposite et fere
prorsus destructa». Però sotto il Pontificato di Pio IV (1559-1565)
esisteva ancora perchè è ricordata nel catalogo delle chiese, redatto
sotto questo Pontefice. L’Adinolfi [765] opina che «vivo Sisto IV fosse
fatto titolo di Cardinale ed avesselo Pietro Foscari; e Pontefice
Alessandro VI il Cardinale Domenico Grimano e mantennesi tale
trapassata anche l’età fra li due». Che questa chiesa esistesse,
trapassata anche l’età fra li due, è certo; perchè, come ho detto, si
trova ricordata nel catalogo di Pio IV; ma che fosse elevata a Titolo
ed assegnata ai Cardinali Foscari prima e poi Grimano, non so come
l’Adinolfi l’abbia potuto affermare: sappiamo infatti che i due
Cardinali suddetti ebbero a titolo S. Nicolò de Colosso o Colisaei,
che è lo stesso che S. Nicolo inter imagines [766]. Dalla seconda
metà del secolo XVI in poi, non si ha più memoria di questa
chiesa [767].
II. Chiesa di S. Maria de Ferrariis.
Parlando dell’oratorio scoperto negli scavi del 1895, dissi esservi

alcuni i quali opinano, pur dubitando, che la chiesa di S. Maria de
Ferrariis fosse situata nel luogo di quel rinvenimento. Non ci è
possibile accettare la loro opinione, giacchè la posizione di questa
chiesa viene esattamente indicata dall’Ordo Romanus di Cencio
Camerario [768], e dalla bolla di Eugenio IV, più volte ricordata. Nel
primo si legge: «Et dehinc usque ad S. Nicolaum de Colosseo,....
deinde usque ad domum Johannis Papae VII.... deinde usque ad
angulum Sancti Clementis». — Nella seconda, come già vedemmo,
è scritto: «Nec non S. Marie prope dictum hospitale S. Jacobi
consistentis». La chiesa di S. Maria de Ferrariis era dunque situata
presso l’ospedale di S. Giacomo, il quale terminava al principio della
via attuale di S. Giovanni; era prima della casa della favolosa
Papessa Giovanna [769], che trovavasi, per chi va al Laterano, prima
di S. Clemente; era a sinistra della via suddetta, perchè ricordata
con fabbriche che sono da questa parte: in conclusione la chiesa di
S. Maria de Ferrariis era situata al principio della moderna via di S.
Giovanni, e a sinistra di chi va al Laterano.
Il Lonigo la pone fra S. Giacomo e S. Clemente.
La chiesa di cui parliamo è ricordata nel Catalogo del Camerario, nel
Codice di Torino e nel Catalogo del Signorili; poi scomparisce.
III. Chiesa di S. Giacomo.
Di questa chiesa già s’è parlato abbastanza: solamente qui

aggiungerò che negli scavi del 1895 venne a luce il cimitero
dipendente da questa chiesa. Ecco le parole che scrisse il ch.º
Lanciani all’epoca della scoperta: «Sembra che questo sepolcreto
dipendente dalla chiesa ed ospedale di S. Giacomo del Colosseo si
estendesse per considerevole spazio, almeno sino al n. 2 in via di S.
Giovanni, dinanzi al quale, il giorno 5 aprile, si trovarono altri avelli
addossati a muri di bella cortina [770]. Stavano a soli due metri di
profondità». In nota poi aggiunge: «Una parte delle fondamenta della
chiesa di S. Giacomo è stata troncata dagli odierni scavi: e
corrisponde nei particolari architettonici al prezioso disegno
dell’anonimo di Stuttgart f. 88, n. 237 [771]. Ad essa ed al
camposanto si deve la conservazione dei cippi che chiudevano il
marciapiede e balteo del Colosseo, largo ben diecisette metri e
mezzo».
IV. Chiesa di S. Salvatore de Insula.
Questa chiesa è ricordata dal Camerario col nome di «Salvatoris

Insule et Colosei»; nel Codice di Torino è detta: «S. Salvatoris de
Insula, habet 1. sacerdotem»; e così pure vien chiamata nel
Catalogo del Signorili.
L’Armellini [772] dice che non si trova altra menzione di essa, e la
crede addossata all’Anfiteatro: «Tracce infatti (egli scrive) di
costruzione del medio evo restano ancora presso uno degli archi del
medesimo, dal canto della via che conduce alla basilica
Lateranense». Io però non posso convenire col ch.º scrittore:
l’aggiunto «Insule» del Camerario, e il «de Insula» del Codice di
Torino esclude l’idea di un addossamento della chiesa ad un edifizio.
O fu dunque la chiesa medesima per se isolata, e quindi «Insule» o
«de Insula»; ovvero fu inchiusa in uno di quei fabbricati, che, per
essere affittato a più famiglie nell’antichità, e forse anche nell’età di
mezzo, eran detti Insulae.
V. Chiesa di S. Salvatore de Arcu Trasi.
Con tal titolo è ricordata questa chiesa nel Codice di Torino; il

Signorili poi la dice: «ad Arcum Trasi». Non può cader dubbio sulla
posizione di questa chiesa: essa fu presso l’Arco di Costantino, se
non forse a questo addossata. L’anonimo Magliabecchiano [773] dice:
«Arcus triumphalis marmoreus qui dicitur de Trasi coram colosso in
via per quam itur ad sanctum Gregorium, fuit factus Costantino... et
dicitur de Trasi quia in transitu viae est». Nella Mesticanza di Paolo
Liello Petnene [774] si legge: «Voglio scrivere la vita di alcuno vostro
Romano, a quali si vorria fare un simil arco trionfale, che fu fatto a
Costantino... il quale si chiama Arco de Trasi appresso a Coliseo».
Poggio Bracciolini, nella sua silloge, scrive: «De arcu Costantini, qui
hodie dicitur de Traxo».
L’Armellini, piuttosto che dal transito sotto ai fornici dell’Arco, opina si
debba derivare il vocabolo Trasi dalle statue dei Traci che ne
adornano l’attico [775].
La memoria di questa chiesa scomparse dopo il secolo XV.
VI. Chiesa di S. Nicolò de Coliseo.
La chiesa di S. Nicolò, scrive l’Adinolfi [776], dicesi da qualche

moderno «esser stata demolita ed essere stata nell’aia sulla quale è
un locale, forse fabbrica dell’Arciconfraternita di Sancta Sanctorum,
lasciando sospesa la curiosità del ricercatore di essa se questo
locale stesse a destra o a sinistra della via Maggiore». Però Cencio
Camerario, nel ricordare i luoghi ove si facevano gli archi sotto ai
quali passava il Papa nella solennità del presbiterio, c’indica il sito
ove sorgeva questa chiesa. Dice infatti: «Et dehinc usque ad S.
Nicolaum de Colisaeo.... deinde usque ad S. Mariam de Ferrariis....
deinde usque ad domum Johannis Papae VII.... deinde usque ad
angulum Sancti Clementis» [777]. La chiesa di S. Nicolò stava
dunque prima di quella di S. Maria de Ferrariis; ed essendo, per quel
che si è detto sopra, noto il posto di quest’ultima chiesa, potremo
con facilità stabilire il sito della chiesa di S. Nicolò. Questa fu
certamente vicina al Colosseo, da cui tolse il nome; e perciò la
collocherei a sinistra della via attuale del Colosseo, dove verso il
Laterano ha termine l’edificio dell’Anfiteatro. Qui infatti, negli scavi
del 1895, si rinvenne un lungo tratto di strada medievale, la quale,
come nota il Gatti, era la via per cui si passava nelle solenni
processioni papali, e dove appunto si facevano gli archi ricordati dal
Camerario.
In questo luogo stesso e negli stessi scavi praticati nel 1895 si
rinvenne un grande masso rettangolare di travertino, sul quale era in
parte conservato l’intonaco primitivo dipinto. «Lo stile dell’affresco,
scrive il Gatti [778] conviene al secolo VIII in circa. Vi sono
rappresentati due santi, in piedi col nimbo circolare attorno al capo,
vestiti di lunga tunica adorna di croci quadrilatere, e coperti col pallio.
Ambedue tengono la mano destra sollevata all’altezza del petto; e
mentre la figura a dritta sostiene una corona, l’altro regge un libro
aperto, sul quale è scritto:
INITIV SAPIENTI.......
«Si volle ripetere la sentenza: Initium sapientiae, timor Domini;
mancato però lo spazio per le ultime parole, queste furono
rappresentate con piccole linee ondulate. La pittura è molto deperita;
e verso ambedue i margini laterali della pietra manca quasi la metà
delle due figure. In mezzo a queste è dipinta, nascente dal terreno,
una pianta con fiori simili a rose».
Questa scoperta mi sembra sia una conferma della mia
supposizione: che qui, cioè, fosse la chiesa di S. Nicolò de Colisaeo.
Fu chiesa titolare; ed i due Cardinali Foscari e Grimano (i quali
furono insigniti di questo titolo) ce ne sono la prova.
L’Armellini [779] afferma che questa chiesa era ancora in piedi sotto
S. Pio V.
VII. Chiesa di S. Maria de Metrio.
Il Camerario, il Codice di Torino ed il Signorili ricordano questa

chiesa; ma dal secolo XVI in poi non se ne ha più memoria. Il Codice
di Torino la chiama «Sellaria de Metrio»; in una bolla di Urbano V è
detta S. Maria de Metrio [780]. I topografi non hanno saputo indicare il
luogo preciso di questa chiesa, e vi fu chi la collocò lontanissimo dal
Colosseo; il Codice di Torino però ce ne dà l’indicazione precisa, e la
pone fra S. Salvatore de Arcu Trasi e la chiesa dei Ss. Abdon e
Sennen. Ora, conoscendosi il sito preciso della prima — Arco di
Costantino — e dell’ultima — Colosso di Nerone, — è chiaro che S.
Maria de Metrio fu alla Mèta Sudante o lì presso; e la voce Metrio
(corruzione evidente di Mèta) ce ne è la conferma.
VIII. Chiesa de’ Ss. Abdon e Sennen.
Questa chiesa fu eretta sul luogo ove furono gettate, dopo il martirio,
le salme dei gloriosi Martiri Persiani: vale a dire, ante simulacrum
Solis, ossia davanti al famoso Colosso Neroniano. Difatti, tra il
basamento del Colosso ed il tempio di Venere e Roma, al cadere del
secolo scorso, si trovò una gran quantità di ossa umane, le quali
vengono a dimostrarci la presenza di un cimitero svoltosi attorno a
questa chiesa. Essa è ricordata dal Camerario, dal Codice di Torino
(il quale, come dicemmo, la nomina dopo la chiesa di S. Maria de
Metrio), dal catalogo del Signorili e da quello di Pio V, ritrovato
dall’Armellini negli archivi secreti del Vaticano. Da questo catalogo
egli argomenta, e giustamente, che la nostra chiesa durante il
pontificato di Pio V non solo era intatta, ma vi si compievano ancora
gli atti di culto; poichè l’estensore del suddetto catalogo nota
esattamente lo stato materiale di ciascuna chiesa, e di quella dei Ss.
Abdon e Sennen nulla osserva [781]. Lo stesso chiarissimo scrittore
la suppone distrutta alla fine del secolo XVI o sugli inizî del XVII
secolo.
Ed ora, chiusa questa lunga parentesi, alla quale mi hanno condotto

le questioni sulle chiese di S. Salvatore de Rota e S. Giacomo,
torniamo all’argomento.
I Pontefici, nel prender possesso della loro suprema dignità colla
famosa e solenne cavalcata alla basilica Lateranense, solevano
ascendere il Campidoglio; poscia, attraversato il Foro, passavano
innanzi il Colosseo, e proseguivano per la via che conduce al
Laterano. Gli Ebrei erano in dovere di preparare i soliti apparati e di
ornare la strada dall’Arco di Tito fino all’Anfiteatro. S. Pio V, nel
possesso che prese il 23 Gennaio 1566, volle, con tutta la cavalcata,
passare per entro lo stesso Colosseo, come pure fece nella sua
presa di possesso Gregorio XIII [782].
Nel libro dei decreti del 1574 si trova il seguente decreto del
Consiglio secreto del 15 Ottobre (f. 548):
«Giovanni Battista Cecchini primo Conservatore propose: Perchè
tutte le opere cominciate deuono hauere il suo debito fine, però ce
par necessario che mancando ancora molta quantità di Trauertini per
finire la restaurazione del Ponte Santa Maria, et per adesso non se
ne possono far venire et per questo essendone detto che nel Coliseo
ue ne è gran quantità sotto le ruine dò sonno cascati et non sono in
opera quali si potrebbero far cauare per questo bisogno. Però
l’habbiamo uoluto esporre alle S.S. V.V. acciò possino sopra di ciò
fare quelle risoluzioni che gli parrà».
«Decretum extitit omnium Patrum astantium assensu quod capiantur
et fodiantur expensis Po. Ro. omnes lapides mormorei et Tiburtini
existentes in ruinis amphitheatri Domitiani vulgo detto il Coliseo,
diruti et nullo pacto coniuncti et applicati dicto Amphitheatro, sed
etiam effodi possint in omnibus aliis locis publicis pro supplemento
operis Pontis Sanctae Mariae sine tamen praeiudicio aedificiorum
antiquorum pro quibus exequendis curam habere debeat magister
Mathaeus architectus. Quoque omnes statuae et antiquitates quae in
dictis locis reperiantur sint ipsius Populi romani».
Il Sommo Pontefice Sisto V, fu uno dei Papi che più ricordi lasciò
nell’alma Città. «Costruì più Egli solo in cinque anni di pontificato,
dice giustamente il prof. R. Corsetti [783], che in più secoli la maggior
parte dei suoi successori» — Poteva dunque l’operosissimo Sisto V
trascurare l’Anfiteatro Flavio? Non era possibile: egli pensò ben tosto
di far ivi grandiosi lavori, onde conservarlo e renderlo nuovamente,
in pari tempo, di pubblica utilità; benchè con non lieve danno
dell’integrità archeologica di quelle monumentali reliquie, se tali
lavori fossero stati eseguiti.
Ai tempi di Sisto V molti poveri di Roma non avean modo di vivere
colle loro fatiche: il lavoro scarseggiava; ed il provvido Pontefice
escogitò la maniera di sovvenire agli indigenti ed evitare che
andassero mendicando per la Città. Sul finire del secolo XVI, Sisto V
dava incarico a Domenico Fontana, perchè riducesse il Colosseo ad
abitazione e lanificio; giacchè l’arte di lavorare la lana era allora in
Roma molto negletta. Il suddetto architetto fece il disegno
dell’edificio restituito nella sua originaria circonferenza: quattro porte
od ingressi con altrettante scale immettevano al monumento. Nel
mezzo dell’antica arena dovea sorgere una fonte: altre fonti dovean
servire per il lavoro; e per le abitazioni degli operai si destinavano i
portici esterni, dando a ciascuno di quelli, gratuitamente, due stanze.
Gli altri portici dovean adattarsi a stanze e a laboratorî. Già erasi
intrapreso il lavoro: i commercianti di lana avevano già ricevuto da
Sisto V la somma di 15,000 scudi per la provvista della materia da
lavorarsi nel nuovo lanificio; quando la morte del Pontefice venne a
troncare l’attuazione di quell’opera [784]. «Se vivea un altr’anno solo,
dice il Fontana, il progetto sarebbe stato una realtà, con immensa
utilità pubblica e specialmente dei poveri». E il Mabillon [785]
aggiunge: «Vixisset Syxtus V et amphitheatrum, stupendum illud
opus, integratum nunc haberemus!» — Ma ascoltiamo le parole dello
stesso Fontana [786]: «Acciò, iui si facesse l’arte della lana, per utile
della città di Roma, volendo che á torno per la parte di dentro al
piano di terra vi fossero le loggie couerte, et disopra scouerte, con le
botteghe, e stanze per abitatione per li lavoratori di detta arte, e che
ogn’vno dovesse hauer vna bottegha con due camere e loggia
scouerta avanti à torno tutto il teatro, hauendo già dato ad alcuni
mercatanti scudi quindicimila acciò cominciassero ad introdur detta
arte, volendoci di più far condurre l’acqua per far fontane per
comodità di detta arte et per vso degli habitatori, e di già haueua
cominciato a far leuare tutta la terra che ni staua à torno et a spianar
la strada che viene da torre de Conti, et và al Coliseo, acciò fosse
tutta piana, come hoggi dì si vedono li vestigj di detto cauamento, et
vi si lauoraua con sessanta carrette di caualli, et con cento huomini,
di modo che se il Pontefice uiueva anco un anno, il Coliseo sarìa
stato ridotto in habitatione. La qual opera si faceva principalmente da
N. S. acciò tutti li poveri di Roma hauessero hauuto da trauagliare, et
da viuere senza andare per le strade mendicando; poi che non
aueriano pagato pigione alcuna di casa qual voleva fosse franca, il
saria stato di grand’vtile alla pouertà, et anco ai mercatanti di lana,
che haueriano smaltita la loro mercatantia in Roma, senza hauerla
da mandar fuori della città, con animo di fare che detta città fosse
tutta piena di artegiani di tutte le sorti».
Nell’archivio Capitolino [787], negli atti di Girolamo Arconio, notaro dei
Conservatori, troviamo: «A dì 21 di marzo 1594 — hauendo (i
Conservatori) inteso che certi di questi che lavorano di carniccia per
fare la colla ceruona haueuano occupato alcuni archi di sopra del
teatro del Colosseo uerso Santo Clemente.... li mandarono a farli
mettere imprigioni, quali mostrarono che li Guardiani... della
compagnia del Confalone l’aueuano loro data licentia et affittato per
una libbra di cera l’anno».
Termineremo questo capitolo col riferire alcune scoperte fatte presso
il Colosseo verso l’anno 1594, delle quali ci dà notizia il Vacca [788]:
«Accanto il Coliseo, dice quest’autore, verso SS. Gio. e Paolo vi è
una vigna, mi ricordo (circa l’anno 1594) vi fu trovata una gran platea
di grossissimi quadri di travertini, e due capitelli Corintii; e quando
Pio IV le Terme Diocletiane restaurò, e dedicolle alla Madonna degli
Angeli, mancandogli un capitello nella nave principale, che per
antichità vi mancava, vi mise uno di quelli: e vi fu trovata una barca
di marmo da 40 palmi longa, et una Fontana molto adorna di marmi,
e credetemi, che aueua hauto più fuoco che acqua; et ancora molti
condotti di piombo».
CAPITOLO SECONDO.
Il Colosseo nel secolo XVII.
Nell’archivio capitolino [789] troviamo che il 5 Agosto del 1639 «fu

data da’ ss. Conservatori licenza a Bramante Bassi di poter far
cavare e ricercare nel circuito del Colosseo ed altri antichi edifizî,
colla condizione ivi apposta, sopra la porzione tangente di quello che
vi si fosse trovato». Il risultato delle indagini fatte dal Bramante noi
l’ignoriamo: sappiamo invece [790] che circa cinque anni dopo (la
notte seguente al 21 Maggio dell’anno 1644) crollarono e caddero
tre archi e mezzo dell’Anfiteatro, e che coi materiali caduti Urbano
VIII fece edificare il famoso palazzo Barberini.
Nell’anno 1671 si tornò all’idea di nuovamente servirsi dell’Anfiteatro
per darvi spettacoli pubblici, e specialmente la caccia di tori. Ad
ottenere lo scopo, faceva d’uopo il permesso del Card. Altieri ed il
consenso del Senato Romano. I signori Giuseppe Guicciardi e
Giambattista Galante si rivolsero officialmente a quegli e a questo, e
l’ottennero. Ecco quanto si legge in un Memoriale dell’archivio
Capitolino [791]: «Anno 1671. Giugno. Registro di memoriale per la
concessione della facoltà richiesta da Giuseppe Guicciardi e Gio.
Battista Galante, di potere fare la caccia del toro dentro il Colosseo.
Fu dato da questi due il memoriale all’Eminentissimo Cardinale
Altieri padrone, da cui fu rimessa l’informazione a Monsignor
Governatore di Roma, dopo la quale ne seguì, che il Cardinale
concedette la facoltà; indi esposero altro memoriale ai ss.
Conservatori del Popolo Romano per l’esecuzione della grazia di far
giuochi di tori ed altri animali nell’Anfiteatro, promettendo di farvi
risarcimento notabile e di grande spesa, quando i detti signori
avessero prestato il loro consenso. Quindi l’Eccellenze loro, in
conformità dell’esposta concessione impetrata, e non altrimenti,
concedettero agli oratori, che potessero valersi per sei anni delle
parti del Colosseo spettanti al Popolo Romano, per potervi fare i
giuochi espressi, con condizione però, che non fosse impedito il
transito, eccettuandone solo il tempo de’ giuochi: e che per
l’Eccellentissimo sig. Senatore, Conservatori, Priore ed Ufficiali di
Campidoglio, restasse palco e luogo capace di 20 persone, del
quale potessero valersi senza pagamento alcuno; qual decreto fu
fatto e sottoscritto a’ 23 di Giugno del medesimo mese ed anno».
Era già per mettersi in esecuzione il decreto, quando Clemente X, ad
istanza del P. D. Carlo Tomassi, credè bene annullarlo. Ecco in qual
modo.
Il lodato Tomassi pubblicò successivamente due opuscoli
sull’Anfiteatro Flavio. In essi l’autore cercò di dimostrare la santità
del luogo, la venerazione in cui dovea tenersi, ed il rispetto che i
fedeli dovean nutrire per quell’Arena, già santificata dal sangue
cristiano. Gli opuscoli del Tomassi produssero il loro effetto:
l’Anfiteatro fu tosto recinto da muri; s’allontanarono le profanazioni;
si mise nella maggior devozione possibile, e si principiarono gli
opportuni preparativi per solennizzare in esso la prossima ricorrenza
dell’Anno Santo (1675). In quella circostanza Clemente X fe’
dipingere nel Colosseo varî quadri rappresentanti il martirio di alcuni
eroi della Chiesa nascente.
Terminate le feste giubilari, il sullodato Tomassi pubblicò un altro
opuscoletto col titolo: Breve relazione dell’Anfiteatro, consacrato col
sangue prezioso d’innumerabili Martiri, serrato e dedicato ad onore
de’ medesimi l’anno del giubileo 1675. In questo opuscolo, l’autore,
dopo aver trattato dell’uso che erasi fatto dell’Anfiteatro nei passati
tempi, riferisce quanto si progettò e si fece nel Colosseo durante
l’Anno Santo (1675). Ecco le sue testuali parole: «È stato poi questo
luogo in grandissima venerazione, e vi si rappresentava ogni anno la
passione del Signore: qual uso durò sino al tempo di Paolo III. Ed il
b. Pio V soleva dire, che chi voleva reliquie andasse a prendere la
terra del Colosseo, ch’era impastata col sangue de’ Martiri. Ed ai

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NINA G. JABLONSKI | EDITOR

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HOW THE STAGE WAS SET

2 An unlikely turning point: Skin bleaching and the growth of

3 Settler-colonialism, nationalism and geopolitical politics:

4 From settler to postcolonial: The turn of the South African

ASSESSMENT AND FUTURE PROSPECTS

7 Knowing and being: Living our learning about “race” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

8 Semantics in the philosophy of race . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

The three questions: The problem of racial thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

9 “Who was here first?”, or “Who lives here now?”:

The Bill in brief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

George Chaplin is a Senior Research Associate in the Department of Anthro­

xii | PERSISTENCE OF RACE

HOW THE STAGE

1 See also the website www.lovenothate.org.za

Some issues: How do prejudice and hate work?

A way forward: Between prejudice and hate

Oltre alla chiesa di S. Giacomo de Coliseo, erano molto prossime

Un altro oratorio fu scoperto negli scavi del 1895, fra residui di

Il Lanciani, pur dubitando, opina che questi avanzi di oratorio si

1.º SS. Quadraginta Colisaei.

I moderni Bollandisti [758] saltano a piè pari la questione intorno a

I. Chiesa dei Ss. Quadraginta Colisaei [759].

Cinque furono in Roma le chiese sacre ai Quaranta Martiri di

Parlando dell’oratorio scoperto negli scavi del 1895, dissi esservi

III. Chiesa di S. Giacomo.

Di questa chiesa già s’è parlato abbastanza: solamente qui

IV. Chiesa di S. Salvatore de Insula.

Questa chiesa è ricordata dal Camerario col nome di «Salvatoris

V. Chiesa di S. Salvatore de Arcu Trasi.

Con tal titolo è ricordata questa chiesa nel Codice di Torino; il

VI. Chiesa di S. Nicolò de Coliseo.

La chiesa di S. Nicolò, scrive l’Adinolfi [776], dicesi da qualche

VII. Chiesa di S. Maria de Metrio.

Il Camerario, il Codice di Torino ed il Signorili ricordano questa

VIII. Chiesa de’ Ss. Abdon e Sennen.

Ed ora, chiusa questa lunga parentesi, alla quale mi hanno condotto

Nell’archivio capitolino [789] troviamo che il 5 Agosto del 1639 «fu

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George Chaplin is a Senior Research Associate in the Department of Anthro