High school can feel like an academic assembly line with a rote memorization, regurgitation, and repetition process. Yet occasionally, transformative learning emerges from unexpected corners of the curriculum. For me, that corner was Mrs. McQueen’s English Literature class, junior year. While my classmates groaned at the hefty reading list, I was intrigued by two particular titles. These were Alan Paton’s “Cry, the Beloved Country” and Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” These assignments were not just tasks to finish. They became portals to worlds I had never experienced. I later understood their realities. This is the world of apartheid and colonialism, whose harsh realities would permanently alter my perspective.
My initial encounter with these books was unremarkable. The teacher selected “Cry, the Beloved Country” for our independent reading project. “Heart of Darkness” came later as part of our required curriculum. I approached both with the typical teenage mindset. The aim was to get through them efficiently enough to write a passable essay. I did not expect how profoundly these works would affect me.
Paton’s portrayal of South Africa under apartheid first jolted me from my comfortable island understanding. I remember sitting frozen in my bedroom. I was rereading the passage where Kumalo discovers the living conditions in Johannesburg. “The streets are unlit, and the houses are dark, for there is no electricity. Some are sleeping, but others are hungry in the darkness.” Somehow, these simple lines made me viscerally aware of structural inequality. I gained an understanding of structural inequality unlike anything I’ve ever encountered in history textbooks. Stephen Kumalo’s search for his son immersed me in human suffering. The system aims to separate and oppress people based on skin color. I grew up in a multi cultural society. It wasn’t statistics or historical dates—it was human suffering made palpable through narrative.
Similarly, Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” confronted me with colonialism’s brutal reality. When Marlow describes the African laborers he encounters—”They were dying slowly—it was obvious. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now—nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation”. I found myself unable to distance myself from these horrors as mere historical events. These weren’t characters in a novel. They were representations of real people. Imperial expansion justified as “civilization” destroyed their lives.
Looking back, I realize what was happening: literature was accomplishing what lectures could not. It was a transformative experience. These books weren’t just telling me about injustice, but they were making me feel it. My empathy evolved from abstract awareness to something more profound, that is a personal stake in distant suffering. This lead me to questioning systems which I had previously taken for granted without thought. Why did some societies permit such exploitation? How was I benefiting from similar systems without realizing it? At that moment, the comfortable distance between “us” and “them” collapsed.
This literary awakening didn’t lead to immediate activism. Yet, my worldview changed fundamentally. I began seeking out diverse perspectives and questioning dominant narratives. News stories about international conflicts or racial tensions no longer felt like distant events. They seemed like extensions of the continuous human struggles I had encountered through literature. I learned to look beyond headlines to consider the complex human experiences behind them. This led me to pursue a master’s degree in international relations. I chose to study world order later in my career. Initially, I had read for a master’s degree in social statistics.
Today, this high school literary experience continues to shape my engagement with social justice issues. When debates about development arise, I consider the individual lives affected by the policies. Conversations about immigration make me think about the faces and stories behind the numbers. When we talk about racial equality, I find myself thinking more about individual stories than impersonal rules. When international intervention issues come up, I focus on the human impact beyond political decisions. Literature taught me that understanding social problems requires more than facts; it requires empathetic imagination.
Literature has the power to transplant us into lives we would never live. It allows us to briefly inhabit perspectives completely unlike our own. In high school, I learned that books aren’t escapes from reality. They are pathways to understanding it more completely. This, ultimately, is education’s highest purpose.
L J Padayachy 
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