Southern African Humanities 24: 61–77
August 2012
KwaZulu-Natal Museum
Wuras’s complicity in the ‘construction’ of the colonial Korana
through his knowledge of !Ora
Piet Erasmus
Department of Anthropology, University of the Free State, PO Box 339, Bloemfontein,
9300 South Africa; [email protected]
ABSTRACT
Through his contact with the Korana during the nineteenth century, Rev. Carl F. Wuras became a
principal agent in the construction, development and preservation of !Ora in its written form. However,
over a fifty-year period he also contributed to a colonial discourse that created and advanced a highly
stereotyped and tarnished image of the Korana, so much so that Korana descendants have distanced
themselves from the markers of their descent, including their language, in an attempt to escape the
stigma attached to them. The result has been a general perception that the Korana have ‘disappeared’
and that their language, !Ora, now survives mainly in written form. It is only now, after nearly two
centuries, that Wuras’s colonial legacy, his contribution to the development of written !Ora, has led
to an unexpected upswing in Korana identity. This article therefore focuses on Wuras’s contribution
to the development of written !Ora, his role in the establishment and development of two mission
stations, and his participation in the colonial discourse that was responsible for the ‘construction’ of
the colonial Korana.
KEY WORDS: Korana, !Ora, Wuras, missionaries, language, land, colonialism, identity, Berlin Missionary
Society, Bethany, Pniel.
MISSIONARIES AND LANGUAGE
Missionaries were central to the emergence of ethnology and anthropology, and to the
recognition of their professional status as academic disciplines, as missionaries often
spread the language in which the investigation and identification of ethnic identities
were carried out (Pels 1997: 172; Landau 2007: 212). However, in the post-World
War II climate of national self-determination and human rights, anthropologists
began to distance themselves from missionaries (Harries 2005: 238–59), and research
on Christian missionaries and their links with colonialism, such as that presented by
the Comaroffs (1986, 1991), became a major area of investigation in anthropological
research. In this regard Poewe and Van der Heyden (1999: 24) emphasise that
anthropologists must render a more complete reading of missionary resources.
Consequently, the data on colonial missionaries’ involvement—in this case the Berlin
Missionary Society1 (BMS)—must be reanalysed and revisited.
Singh (1996: 1) explains that the emergence of the ‘discovery motif ’ in the language
of colonisation enabled Europeans to represent the newly ‘discovered’ areas as empty
spaces on which they could inscribe their linguistic, cultural and territorial claims. It was
inevitable that missionaries would take an interest in indigenous languages in order to
bring the gospel of redemption to the ‘heathen’ and they made substantial recordings
of these ‘unknown’ languages. The BMS was no exception. The regulations for every
BMS missionary (Van der Heyden 1996: 414) stipulate:
The first task of a missionary who begins his work among a pagan tribe is to learn the language of
that tribe, so that he becomes deeply acquainted with the people, and thus accepted as a member
of the tribe, and earns their confidence, and thoroughly learns their customs and habits.
http://www.sahumanities.org.za
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An additional consideration for the BMS missionaries in learning the indigenous
languages was that these languages were seen as instruments for establishing the socalled bodenständige Volkskirche (local ethnic churches) (Van der Merwe 1987: 10). This
practice was a consequence of the German romantic tradition that dominated German
intellectual life during the first half of the nineteenth century and that rejected the
Enlightenment’s belief in the equality of all individuals (Urciuoli 1995: 526; Moran
2009: 7). Romanticism places a strong emphasis on the ethnic and cultural identity
(Volksgeist) of national groups. Culture and language form the cornerstones of this
frame of reference: if one loses them, one loses one’s cultural identity. Pakendorf (1997:
260–1) emphasises the fact that German romanticism had a profound influence on
the German missionary discourse. It furthermore presented the missionaries with an
ideal theoretical model and scientific method in the education of the local population
(Poewe & Van der Heyden 1999: 30; Brammer 2008: 50).
BACKGROUND ON WURAS
Wuras was originally from Herzberg in East Prussia (Schoeman 1985: 45), and worked
for fifty years at Bethany (Du Plessis 1911: 352) after his arrival in 1836. During
these years, he played an important role in developing Bethany and in establishing
another mission station at Pniel. The primary focus of this article is Wuras’s role in
the development, establishment and consolidation of these mission stations, and how
that role was informed by his interaction with the Korana, the political and economic
conditions of the time, and his view of life. Wuras’s middle-class background (Van der
Merwe 1985: 51) can be described as conservative, orthodox and strongly influenced
by pietism. It was also largely paternalistic, imposed a stern work ethic, and deemed
self-discipline to be essential (Pakendorf 1997: 258, 264; Poewe & Van der Heyden
1999: 22; Brammer 2008: 39–41). German missionaries sought to instil the same
petit bourgeois worldview that formed and determined them in their African converts
(Pakendorf 1997: 256).
When the 27-year-old Rev. C.F. Wuras, accompanied by four other missionaries,2
arrived at the BMS station of Bethany in May 1836 (Van der Merwe 1985: 50), he
immediately started to learn !Ora with the help of a Korana interpreter (Trail 2002:
35).3 Wuras considered !Ora to be an exceptionally difficult language due to the number
of clicks he had to master (Van der Merwe 1984: 53), but was reportedly fluent in the
language five years later when he presented his first church service in !Ora on 6 June
1841 (Schoeman 1985: 53; Brammer 2008: 47).4
THE KORANA AND THE !ORA LANGUAGE
!Ora, the language of the Korana, was spoken throughout a broad semi-arid region
in the interior of southern Africa, known as the Transgariep.5 !Ora (or Goragowap)
was distinct from other Khoekhoe dialects such as Xirigowap/Gri (Griqua) and
Khoekhoegoawab (Nama) (Maingard 1932b, 1964; Engelbrecht 1936: 197–231; Trail
s.a.: 23; Strauss 1979: ii). It has been alleged, however, that !Ora gradually disappeared.
Trail (s.a.: 25), for example, identifies Ben Kraalshoek as one of South Africa’s last !Ora
speakers in the 1930s. Today !Ora survives mainly in written form. Wuras is credited
with his pioneering work in the development and preservation of written !Ora and
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
63
his contributions in this regard form the first area of focus of this article. However,
its emphasis is not on purely linguistic matters, but on the socio-politico-linguistic
dimension. To some degree it is correct to say that Wuras reconstructed !Ora through
his transcription of the oral language, which became, as will be indicated, a prime factor
in the subjugation of the Korana.
In general, language “provides us with a special pair of glasses that heightens certain
perceptions and dims others” (Haviland 2002: 107). This is especially the case with
the colonial use of language. Here, according to Singh (1996: 2), the colonisers gained
a privileged epistemological position whereby they could claim new knowledge, after
which they could process and circulate the new knowledge within the framework
of civilisation and barbarism, tradition and modernity, Christianity and heathenism.
The early nineteenth-century colonial discourse on the Korana serves as an excellent
illustration of this point. The portrayal of their ‘national character’ places the Korana in
a very negative light. According to Marks (1972: 55) and Strauss (1979: v), the Korana
were depicted as an uncivilised, morally degenerate and lazy people, with an innate
desire to steal cattle. Theal (in Marais 1968: 91) declares that: “If all South Africa …
had been searched, a more utterly worthless collection of human beings could not
have been got together than these ragamuffin vagabonds”.6 Mission societies formed
part of this colonial discourse although there were important shifts in emphasis and
viewpoints (Van der Merwe 1987: 4, 11; Von Paczensky 1994: 361; Pakendorf 1997:
261; Jansen van Rensburg 2005). According to Maingard (1964: 60), Wuras was “an
authority on the Korana language”. As such, and given the fact that language can shape
thoughts and influence minds (Fetterman 1993: 3), Wuras was in a privileged position
to access the Korana mind, to influence relationships between social actors (Urciuoli
1995: 529) and to contribute towards the ‘construction’ of the colonial Korana.
Up until this point the term ‘Korana’ has been used with the implicit assumption
that it refers to an ethnically homogeneous group with a unique lifestyle and hereditary
leadership. The origins of the Korana, however, are uncertain (Barnard 1992: 163–9;
Buys 1989: 6–27; Engelbrecht 1936: 1–7; Fauvelle-Aymar 2008: 88–9; Maingard
1932b: 108–11), and it is difficult to pin them down. In answer to a request during the
early 1900s to tell the full and true story of the Korana, the physical anthropologist,
Broom, replied tongue-in-cheek, “I invented the Korana” (Štrkalj 2000: 121). Yet one
fact remains: the Gorachouqua who left the Cape area between approximately 1661
and 1686 (Stow 1905: 268) or after 1690 (Maingard 1932a: 112), are not the Korana of
the Transgariep. Marks (1972: 77) and Maingard (1932a: 111) emphasise that people
of the Gorachouqua, Goringhaiqua and the Gochoqua groups left the Cape together
and intermixed. The prevailing circumstances in the Transgariep were furthermore
responsible for a high degree of uniformity in the lifestyle of the frontier societies, as
well as their ethnic composition (Ross 1975: 562). Frontier people assimilated freely and
the ethnic composition of frontier groups was heterogeneous (Penn 1995: 35). Various
authors contend that the dynamics of the central interior of South Africa during the
late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were such that it was impossible to relate
political groupings among the Korana during that time to any earlier political history
of the Korana (Legassick 1990: 374; Ouzman 2005: 102), that the Korana were a loose
conglomerate of diverse and fragmented people, and that we should therefore not
place too much emphasis on their ethnic composition. However, Leśniewski (2010: 23)
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SOUTHERN AFRICAN HUMANITIES 24: 61–77, 2012
acknowledges that the Korana shared consciousness of a common origin and some
common tradition, which rests on the principle of self-identification.
On genealogical grounds Marais (1968: 275–8), Engelbrecht (1936: 3–7) and
Maingard (1932a: 114–20) distinguish between the Great Korana (the Taaibosch
stem is the most important) and the Little Korana (with the Links stem as the most
important). Various (sub)groups were found among them. By the 1850s there were,
according to Tobias (1955: 263), about 17 subgroups. Barnard (1992: 165), Buys (1989:
33) and Engelbrecht (1936: 55) identify the following groups of Korana as the most
important during the period between 1820 and 1830: Cloetses, Linkse, Regshande,
Katse, Springbokke, Skerpioene, Pampiere, Karosdraers, Afrikander, Towenaars,
Slaparms, Bitterboschse and Taaiboschse. The vague manner, according to Engelbrecht
(1936: 2–7), in which the !Ora term //?éis is applied to mean either a clan, tribal division
or a tribe itself, makes these distinctions sometimes problematic.
THE FORTUNES OF BETHANY
On 17 April 1834 the first missionaries of the BMS, namely A. Gebel, A.F. Lange, D.A.
Kraut, R.T. Gregorowski and J. Schmidt, arrived at the Cape (Van der Merwe 1985:
42). Accompanied by a Setswana interpreter, Richard Miles, they left for the interior
with the intention of working amongst the Tswana. They visited Adam Kok II at
Philippolis in August 1834, but the Rev. G.A. Kolbe of the London Missionary Society
(LMS) convinced them to work under the Korana at Brandewynsfontein alongside
the Riet River instead.7 They obtained permission from Adam Kok II, who allocated
five hectares to the BMS. On 24 September 1834, a mission station was founded and
named Bethany.8 Disputes and power struggles between the missionaries, however, led
to the BMS recalling Gregorowski and Schmidt in 1836. The remaining three were
dismissed by the Church in 1837 after they had been found guilty of dereliction of
duty. Rev. Wuras9 was appointed as the new chairperson of Bethany (Du Plessis 1911:
213; Van der Merwe 1985: 41–2, 50–1; Brammer 2008: 46).
During this time, about 20 000 nomadic Korana grazed their livestock between the
Orange and Vaal Rivers (Fock 1971: 57; Trail 2002: 35). The BMS anticipated that
it would be easy to convince the Korana to give up their land due to the increased
pressure that the settlements of new white farmers put on their traditional nomadic
lifestyle (Fock 1971: 57). However, this was not the case and the establishment
of the mission station did not meet with the approval of all the Korana (Van der
Merwe 1984: 52; Buys 1989: 87). Piet Witvoet, leader of the !geixa//?eis (Towenaars/
Sorcerers) Korana, for example, was furious because the missionaries expected him
to acknowledge the authority of the Griqua. When the missionaries Gebel and
Kraut received a title deed for Bethany from the Griqua Council at the end of 1835,
Piet Witvoet was so dismayed that he and some of his followers left Bethany on
22 January 1836 (Schoeman 1985: 38).
Wuras was indeed eager to consolidate the authority of the Griqua Council at Bethany
(Van der Merwe 1984: 53), but was strongly opposed by Goliat Yzerbek, leader of the
kx?am//õãkwa (Regshande/Right-hands) Korana. Wuras travelled to Philippolis on
more than one occasion to discuss this land dispute with Adam Kok III10 (Schoeman
2002: 100). During a visit in 1844, the parties agreed that Bethany did, in fact, belong to
the Korana people and that the BMS was merely entitled to a stand, on which a mission
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
65
station could be erected (Buys 1989: 87). Wuras now recognised Bethany as Korana
territory and promised that he would place a copy of the agreement in safekeeping for
Goliat Yzerbek. Nevertheless, he was also of the opinion that Bethany was too small
for all the Korana people and persuaded some to seek other land on the assurance that
he would keep their land in safe custody for them (Buys 1989: 87). On the basis of this
assurance, Goliat Yzerbek, together with Piet Witvoet, consented and trekked away
from Bethany in 1846 (Maingard 1932a: 119–20; Engelbrecht 1936: 235; Pretorius 1963:
37). During a later visit to Bethany, Goliat learned that, contrary to their agreement
and without his permission, Wuras had sold some land to a certain Jan Cloete. Goliat
was furious with Wuras and stationed Stephanus Buffelboud at Bethany as vice-chief
to ensure that Jan Cloete could not take possession of the farm.
When Sir Harry Smith confirmed the authority of Britain over the Orange River
Sovereignty (1848–54) after the battle of Boomplaats (29 August 1848), Major Warden
used the opportunity to divest the Griqua of their authority over Bethany and to place
it directly under British rule. Wuras pointed out to Warden that the British government
had already recognised Bethany as an independent station since 1846. During his
visit to Bethany in 1850, Warden acknowledged the independence of the station and
consented that a high degree of self-government be granted to its residents (Van der
Merwe 1984: 56).
The Republic of the Orange Free State came into being in 1854 with the signing
of the Bloemfontein Convention. Article 2 of the convention determined the internal
policy of the new government concerning the regulation of the relations between
the various population groups. The Volksraad of the Orange Free State accepted
responsibility for, among other matters, the termination of the continual migration
of the indigenous population groups such as the Korana. Indigenous leaders were
informed of this decision by letter, with the result that ownership of land became one
of the most prominent and burning issues of the day (Buys 1989: 84, 85). Against this
background, Wuras and Rev. Schmidt requested finality with regard to their position
at Bethany in a letter to the Volksraad. After the Volksraad session of 4 September
1854, the missionaries were informed that the BMS would be subject to the Free State
laws and would fall under the jurisdiction of the field-cornet of the region. Thereupon
Wuras requested the Bloemfontein government to place Bethany under the protection
of the Free State Republic. On 2 October 1854 President J.P. Hoffman visited Bethany
and upheld the ruling made by Warden in 1850, confirming that Bethany was the lawful
property of the BMS (Van der Merwe 1984: 56).
On 8 March 1856 Wuras informed the Free State government in writing that
difficulties had arisen between himself and some of the Korana people, Goliat Yzerbek
in particular, who had returned to Bethany to confirm his land claims, and David
Danster (Engelbrecht 1936: 55). When Yzerbek and Danster pointed out to Wuras
that the land had been promised to the Korana in terms of the Maitland agreement,
Wuras berated them for their ‘devilishness’ and drove them off the land with the aid
of sixty men. Goliat Yzerbek sent representatives to Philippolis to find out why Wuras
had been allowed to buy Bethany from the Griqua for one pound sterling. Adam Kok
III denied this and referred to the Maitland agreement in his reply (Buys 1989: 88).
On 24 August 1861, however, Wuras once again drove those Korana who were not
members of the BMS from the land. In addition, Bethany had been opened up to
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SOUTHERN AFRICAN HUMANITIES 24: 61–77, 2012
newcomers since 1846 and hundreds of Tswana, Griqua and ‘Basters’ had come to
settle there. In 1852, for example, only 80 Korana were found there, compared with
179 Tswana, who had been practically an unknown element before 1846 (Maingard
1931: 128). At the end of 1856, there were 150 Tswana huts compared with only 15
Korana dwellings (Van der Merwe 1985: 62).
The Free State Volksraad ruled that the Korana of Goliat Yzerbek had no claim
to Bethany. The Volksraad resolution was ratified in 1862 when field-cornet S. Marais
of the then Kaffir River district was sent to Bethany by the Free State government in
order to drive Goliat Yzerbek off the land (Buys 1989: 90, 91). Van der Merwe (1985:
40, 41, 51, 57, 60) argues that it was for purely pragmatic reasons that Wuras and
the BMS swapped allegiance between the Korana and the Griqua, and finally turned
to the Boer government of the Orange Free State for support. In Van der Merwe’s
view the BMS did not necessarily care for the well-being of either the Korana or the
Griqua; their aim was rather to place their property under the protection of the most
influential polity.
Under the leadership of Wuras the BMS succeeded in expanding their land tenure
at Bethany; by means of land accessions the BMS extended their property from the
original five hectares allocated to them by Adam Kok II in 1834 to 42 000 hectares.11
This huge increase in land holdings clearly illustrates both the BMS’s lust for land as
well as the important role Wuras played in alienating land from the Korana, which, in
turn, led to the disintegration and diaspora of the Korana.
ESTABLISHMENT OF PNIEL12
The Springbok Korana were the most prominent Korana along the Vaal River in the
vicinity of Klipdrift (the present-day Barkly West). Their leader was Jan Bloem, a
German sailor who had left his ship in Table Bay in about 1780 (Engelbrecht 1936: 56;
Giliomee & Elphick 1990: 379). He subsequently married, murdered his wife and fled
from the Colony to the Vaal River. In 1786 he stayed at the Hartebeest River where
he married several Korana women.13 Jan Bloem II became the nominal head of the
Springboks after his father’s death. In 1837 he settled at Klipdrift, where his father
had also stayed, and remained in the vicinity. In 1843, Bloem visited Wuras at Bethany
and indicated his willingness to receive a missionary (Van der Merwe 1985: 58). Wuras
visited the area three times (Engelbrecht 1936: 60, 61) and considered it very suitable
for the establishment of a mission station due to the availability of water and wood
(Fock 1971: 58, 59). For this reason Wuras accepted the invitation from the Springbok
Korana to establish a mission station, which became known as Pniel.
During the late 1850s, Cornelius Kok was engaged in the selling of farms and
“considered disposing of Pniel lands, of which he claimed ownership” (Engelbrecht
1936: 63). Wuras saw an opportunity, stepped in and purchased the lands adjoining
the station from Kok on 27 August 1857 for 75l (Fock 1971: 60).14 Kok sold the Pniel
land to the BMS on condition that the ground “was given over with a servitude that
it should be used as a mission station, and that the Koranas should be kept on the
ground” (Warren 1880: 81). The BMS, however, did not fulfil their obligation to keep
the Korana at the mission station.
As in the case at Bethany, Korana leaders such as Jan Berend and Petrus Bloem
regarded the sale as illegitimate and as a violation of their rights. Barend Bloem also
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
67
expressed his dissatisfaction to Wangemann, the inspector of German missions, that
Pniel was owned by the BMS and not by the Korana (Engelbrecht 1936: 65).
Over the course of many years, various evictions and forced removals took place.
The considerable amount of money generated by the BMS15 and its treatment of
the inhabitants brought it into conflict with the residents early on as well as with the
government, which now wanted to control the station and other mission societies such
as the LMS (Erasmus et al. 2008: 25–31).
Pniel followed the same path as Bethany; it started off as a mission station for the
Korana and ended up as a melting pot for various groups, with the Tswana and Griqua
in the majority. According to Engelbrecht (1936: 65), there were between 300 and 400
Korana on and around Pniel at the time of its establishment. By 1880 the Korana
were already outnumbered by the Tswana and Griqua. The marriage registers of Pniel
show that the number of those considered to be Korana declined significantly in the
course of the 1890s (Erasmus et al. 2008: 23). The reasons for this state of affairs
are not clear. On the one hand, it could have been the result of the dismissals by
the BMS. On the other hand, it is also possible that the Korana inhabitants of Pniel
changed their identity in order to avoid the stigma of being identified as Korana as
well as any possible negative consequences. I have already mentioned that assimilation
in the form of intermarriage occurred in the Transgariep. Assimilation also occurred
on grounds of close association. In the case of the Griqua, for example, according to
Legassick (1969: 242), the political dimension of Griqua identity, that is, identification
based on allegiance to a Griqua chief or membership of a Griqua polity, facilitated
the accommodation of ‘outsiders’ as Griqua. Many who were not Griqua would have
been incorporated first as Griqua dependents and later as full members. Those who
joined Griqua polities seeking sanctuary also tended to become full members. In
1813 there were an estimated 1266 Griqua in Griquatown and its outposts, and 1341
Korana “who consider[ed] themselves connected with [the] Griquas, for the sake of
protection” (Campbell 1974: 256). People thus assumed a Griqua identity because
of their association with the Griqua in the settlement and their identification with
the polity.
WURAS AND !ORA
Maingard (1964: 60–6) distinguishes two distinct Korana dialectal entities. The
easternmost dialect (kx?am//?õãkwa) was spoken in the Transvaal–Orange Free State
region, and the westernmost dialect (‡?oxoku, ‡namniku and !kaon) in the Lower Orange
River region. Wuras’s contribution deals with the kx?am//?õãkwa dialect.
As early as 1841 Wuras published a translation of the Lutheran catechism in !Ora
(Zöllner & Heese 1984: 19)16 and by 1858 he had prepared his Vokabular der KoranaSprache (Cole 1971: 15) with some 1700 words (Boysen 1931: 451) and presented it to
Sir George Grey. However, it remained unpublished until 1920 when Rev. W. Bourquin
of the Moravian Mission Society (MMS) retrieved the manuscript from a New Zealand
library and oversaw the publication process (Cole 1971: 15).17 It was reprinted in 1969.
In 1927 Rev. H. Vedder reprinted Wuras’s Korana Catechism in the Meinhof Festschrift from
the unique copy preserved in the library of the Barmen Mission. D.F. Bleek (1932:
224) points out in her review of L.F. Maingard’s A revised manuscript version of the Korana
Catechism of C.F. Wuras that the Catechism was first
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printed at a mission press supervised by one who knew nothing of the language and little of
Wuras’ handwriting. The printer was unable to reproduce Wuras’ signs for the clicks, substituting
commas in diverse positions for them, nor was he in a position to have the proofs corrected by
the author. The result naturally did not satisfy Wuras, as he stated in his reply to a request for a
copy from Sir George Grey. So [in] about 1857 he sent the latter a revised manuscript version
of the catechism with many emendations, substitution of Korana words for Dutch, and new
symbols for clicks.
In his sketch of African languages, Cust (1883: 439) casts doubt on the significance
of Wuras’s language contributions as well as on his motives in recording/transcribing
the language:
As regards the Kora, Wuras, a Missionary, wrote to Sir G. Grey, the Governor of the Cape Colony,
in 1857, ‘that he found it by experience easier to teach the young people to read Dutch.18 The
old people could not learn at all’. This opens considerations. Clearly a Dutch [sic] Missionary
for his own convenience stamped out an indigenous language, substituting his own second-class
European Vernacular. … I have already remarked that in Ova-Mpo-Land the Finn Missionaries
are doing the same thing.
What is to be made of Cust’s remarks? From the outset, scholars had reservations
about the value of Wuras’s orthography, which did not gain the same widespread
acceptance as those of Meinhof, Maingard and Engelbrecht. Barnard (1992: xxi)
omits reference to Wuras’s contribution in his note on !Ora and relies solely on the
work of Engelbrecht (1936) and Maingard (1932a). Goodwin (1952: 87), in turn,
remarks that the “translations given by Wuras are clearly ad hoc, and are probably
useless”.
Initially, Wuras divided !Ora clicks into two categories, namely “clicks proper” and
“semi-clicks”. Beach (in Köhler 1977: 263), however, interpreted the categories as
‘tense’ and ‘lax’ respectively, and after a critical examination of this division concluded
that “the distinction between tense and lax is never significant”. Apparently, according
to Beach, Wuras himself later admitted to the ‘futility’ of such a division. According
to Maingard (1931: 124), Wuras changed his scheme of click symbols in the Korana
Catechism “more than once, and we can recognise three substantial stages in these
transformations”. Given the many discrepancies, Maingard (1931: 128) speculates
whether they were malformations due to hasty handwriting, sheer uncertainty or a
Setswana influence. Clearly, Wuras’s initial contribution was not as accurate and had
to be adapted (see Ponlis 1975 for more detail about the problems and speculations
regarding !Ora clicks).
In his translation of the Lutheran Catechism into the language of the people he
was evangelising, Wuras was compelled to create either new terminology or to modify
existing !Ora words to suit his purpose, as demonstrated by examples from Maingard’s
(1931) analysis:
resurrection = •kueem
holy = Oannun
Christ = Christip
Jesus = Jesip
Pontius Pilatus = Pontip Pilatip
heaven = ’humi
book = ’kannim
to believe = ’kun
believers = ’kumsana
let us believe in Jesus = ada ’kum Jesip
what is the Gospel? = hame evangelioba
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
69
A similar argument applies to Wuras’s Vokabular der Korana-Sprache (1920), in which
an almost endless list of words and concepts that reflect on Christianity and Western
culture and thought is compiled. In all probability, Wuras must have invented these
words and concepts. They are of such a nature and intensity that the Korana could
not have known about them from any possible previous, but sporadic, contacts with
Westerners.
However, it must be noted that Cust makes similar remarks in connection with
another mission society, thereby creating the impression that Wuras’s case is not isolated.
In the ‘colonial-missionary’ encounter it was the interplay between power and meaning
that determined the answer to the questions: Who speaks for whom? Who interprets
for whom? Who has the final word? Wessels (2010: 3) argues that Bleek and Lloyd did
not merely record |Xam narratives, but in a sense created them. Chidester (in Harries
2005: 240) argues in similar vein that Zulu religiosity was constructed by missionaries.
According to him, missionaries ‘invented’ African religion through a discursive strategy
built on analogies drawn between modern African religion and those of the Old
Testament and ancient Europe:
Educated churchmen in the outposts of Empire sought—and found—reflections of their own
morality and belief systems, and a universality of religion in the behavior and practices of primitive
people. However, in the process they created (‘invented’ or ‘imagined’) rather than ‘found’ many
non-European religions.
The point is that regardless of whether Wuras really stamped out a language (as
argued by Cust) or not, he played an initial and major role in the creation of an !Ora
orthography and, to a large extent, standardised the kx/am//õãkwa dialect. In the
process Wuras elevated himself to the position of language authority, over and above
indigenous, first-language speakers.
Language is but one aspect of a multifaceted nexus of social relations; race and
class experiences manifest themselves in and through language (Prinsloo 1999: 418–20;
Magubane 2005: 151). The German linguist, Wilhelm Bleek, for example, was motivated
by his fascination with human evolution to study the |Xam narratives, which, according
to Wessels (2010: 38), fed an ideology of scientific racism that helped legitimise
imperialism.19 Similarly, the manner in which Wuras spoke about the Korana was made
possible by the status and power with which his knowledge of !Ora endowed him, and
his statements fell within the parameters of a hegemonic and racist ideology.
The process of codification and standardisation of African languages “created
bounded languages linked to the missionaries and their converts” (Prinsloo 1999: 419).
These were used in very specific contexts and among specified interlocutors. I have
already shown that Wuras discriminated between members of the BMS Volkskirche and
non-members. Non-members were driven from the mission stations in a number of
ways. The section of the language that Wuras ‘created’ to convert the Korana sowed
division within the broader Korana society, led to the formation of factions and, in all
probability, even to the disintegration and dissolution of family relations.
Many nineteenth-century missionaries published books on the customs and beliefs
of indigenous people. According to Harries (2005: 239), they “painted a vivid picture
of the dark forces faced by evangelical Christians” and reinforced the opinion that
non-European peoples were fixed at lower levels of evolution; only missionary
supervision could bring about their spiritual and secular salvation (Harries 2005: 240).
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SOUTHERN AFRICAN HUMANITIES 24: 61–77, 2012
In An account of the Korana (1929), Wuras also contributed to texts about the Korana,
and his representation of them is the focus of the next section.
THE ‘CONSTRUCTION’ OF THE COLONIAL KORANA
While the acquisition of a language requires some knowledge of the culture with
which it is associated (Pels 1997: 171), Wuras does not provide much information
about the Korana culture. Indeed he creates the impression that he distanced himself
purposefully from the Korana. In An account of the Korana (1929)20 he writes about
the Korana in a derogatory manner: “The Korana have not any kind of worship of
the Supreme Being” (1929: 291); “The villages which are near each other exchange
their wives at certain periods, but the details of this transaction are too immoral to
describe” (1929: 294);21 and with reference to the reed dance: “The greatest immorality
prevails during these plays” (1929: 294). From these remarks it is evident that Wuras
assumed the authority to produce particular kinds of knowledge and perceptions
of the Korana. If one considers these issues carefully it becomes clear that they call
for a much greater nuanced treatment than Wuras was either aware of or willing to
admit. Illicit sex between unmarried people, according to Barnard (1992: 174), was
rare among the Korana and, although it was more common between married people, it
was to some extent institutionalised. In this regard, for example, there was the custom
of raising seed for a deceased brother (levirate), which occurred among the Korana
(Engelbrecht 1936: 34). Schapera (1965: 241, 242) also points out that the sexual life
of the Khoekhoe was strictly regulated in the “old days”. Rape was severely penalised,
while incest was punished by death.
The enmeshment of power and knowledge always appears, according to Wessels
(2010: 32), within the context of a socially legitimated system of thought. Wuras’s system
of thought rests on his view that the Korana were “the weakest branch of the entire
Hottentot nation” (Van der Merwe 1985: 63),22 and that they were indolent and slothful
(Schoeman 1985: 65). At the BMS stations, therefore, a set of rules and regulations was
compiled (VAB HG V421147-R340-1911), a system of forced labour was instituted
(NTS 153-4, 10/31, Gov. Walter Hely-Hutchinson, to PM, Cape Town, 1 June 1903)
and paternalistic rules of punishment were applied (Brammer 2008: 70).
Wuras’s rules and regulations clearly show his lack of understanding of the lifestyle
of the Korana. They were never cultivators of land, and their nomadic livestock
farming methods were appropriate for the arid conditions of southern Africa (Ross
1975: 564–5; Barnard 1992: 11). The rules and regulations reflect the tension between
Wuras and the Korana; they point to Wuras’s biased view and the meanings he preferred
to assign to the Korana culture. Moreover, they underline his intentions to transform
the practices of the Korana.
I could find no evidence that Wuras attempted to take cognisance of the multiple
and complex realities of the social structures of the Korana from a cultural-relativistic
instead of an ethically predetermined point of view. Missionaries did not want to accept
that the Korana had no consciousness of sin (Van der Merwe 1985: 47). Furthermore,
Wuras’s hypothesis that the Korana did not worship a supreme being was incorrect.
Literature confirms that the Korana identified four deities. Tsūi-//Goab was regarded
as the supreme being and creator of the first man and woman (Schapera 1965: 387),
and they prayed to him (Barnard 1992: 256).
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
71
Engelbrecht (1936: 176) claims that the Korana had very little or nothing to do with
witchcraft and sorcery. One would expect that this aspect of the Korana culture should
have encouraged Wuras as a missionary and that he would have been able to reconcile
it with Christian principles. Again, however, no trace of an attempt at syncretising the
European and indigenous religions can be found on the part of the missionaries. Indeed
Schoeman (1985: 62) shows that the missionaries continued to find the customs of
the Korana and their attitudes to life strange; they were even regarded as a source of
disgust.23 The missionaries wanted to change the Korana lifestyle to fit in with Western
capitalism (Van der Merwe 1985: 46–9).24 Wuras and his missionary colleagues believed
that conversion to the Christian faith would necessarily lead to the Korana’s acceptance
of a completely different way of life—the Western lifestyle.25 Wuras’s ‘design’ was to
take Korana bodies and produce European minds that would see the world in exactly
the same way as their missionary (social) engineers.
!Ora was not only the instrument for preaching the gospel, but also for education. The
missionaries’ intervention in this regard resulted in the division between those Korana
who were Christian/educated and those who were non-Christian/uneducated. For the
missionaries, shaping and manipulating these divisions became a useful mechanism
for propagating their ideology of so-called progress, modernisation and Christianity
(Prinsloo 1999: 419). Wuras’s knowledge of !Ora was an essential component in his
attempts to dominate the Korana and, moreover, gave credence to his declarations
about them. In this way he contributed to their colonial ‘construction’. How then,
should one look at Wuras’s legacy?
DISCUSSION
I have used a specific anthropologic research trend—the interplay of power and
meaning—to analyse and reflect on the involvement of the missionary, Wuras, with
the Korana of the Transgariep during the nineteenth century. The available data do
not support Maingard’s (1932a: 113) claim that Wuras “had lived in close sympathy
with them and had earned their confidence”. On the contrary, it is clear that Wuras
became involved in the internal colonial politics of the day;26 not only did he contribute
towards the creation of racial stereotypes, but he also engaged in controversial economic
activities. It is therefore highly debatable whether Wuras’s interventions actually
served the intended spiritual, educational and social upliftment of the Korana. His
interactions with the Korana were shaped by the power relations inscribed within his
cultural views, the Zeitgeist and the linguistic forms he used, which drew on strategies
of naming and classifying as an implicit mode of domination. The views he expressed
reflected Eurocentric values and perspectives, and say more about Wuras himself as a
product of a tightly controlled and rigidly disciplined way of life (the Protestant work
ethic and narrow-minded bourgeois morality) than about the Korana he purportedly
described.
On the one hand, the BMS’s involvement with the Korana brought significant
financial benefits for the Church. On the other hand, however, indigenous communities
often also ‘used’ the Christian mission for their own political and economic reasons
(Elbourne 1992: 4). Ross (1997: 94) comments that: “The speedy conversion of many
Khoikhoi to mission Christianity provided them certainties and a dignity which had
been denied them as servants on Boer farms”. Although ZAR and OFS legislation
72
SOUTHERN AFRICAN HUMANITIES 24: 61–77, 2012
prohibited the possession of firearms by the indigenous population (Atmore et al.
1971: 547), indigenous groups of the Transgariep obtained firearms through the
mediation of the missionaries, often in exchange for permission to do missionary
work in an area (Dachs 1972: 648). Indigenous groups of the Transgariep also were
willing to receive missionaries during the difaqane as they were seen as a sort of
talisman against attacks (Parsons 2011: 18). Nonetheless, I could find no indications
in the literature to suggest that the Korana abused the Church or manipulated it to
their advantage. A quite disproportionate relationship existed between the BMS and
the Korana.
Hall (in Magubane 2005: 131) explains that “what ‘postcolonial’ certainly is not is
one of those periodisations based on epochal ‘stages’ when everything is reversed at
the same moment, all the old relations disappear forever and entirely new ones come
to replace them”. One cannot direct all current inequalities to imperialism or, for that
matter, to Wuras alone. Yet, his particular knowledge of !Ora allowed him to make
unique contributions to the colonial discourse on the Korana and, in doing so, was
partly responsible for the creation of negative cultural, racial and moral stereotypes.
These prejudices not only served as building blocks for the colonial construction of the
Korana, but were eventually also responsible for the ‘disappearance’ of the Korana—by
1932 the Korana, according to Maingard (1932a: 103), did not exist anymore. Fear of
discrimination and negative labelling were responsible for people denying their Korana
origin and for !Ora not being used in public or being taught to the children anymore.
Sadly, whether directly or indirectly, Wuras contributed to this.
Close to Bethany there is a small railway station by the name of Wurasoord. The latest
proposal for name changes in the Free State suggests it be scrapped. This will probably
mean that one of the last physical memories of Wuras will disappear; his name will be
crossed out, so to speak. In the post-apartheid era the Korana are gradually claiming
back their lost identity and there are various revival movements among them (Erasmus
2009, 2010). One of the powerful instruments in their endeavours in this regard is
that which was once used against them, namely, knowledge of !Ora. Unintentionally,
Wuras’s legacy is now contributing to the revival of the Korana. At the root of many
philosophical assumptions regarding the protection of group rights is the link between
language, culture and identity. It legitimises political claims for nationhood, it is the
point of departure of many revival strategies and is regarded as an important element in
constructing identity (Woolard & Schieffelin 1994: 60, 61; Urciuoli 1995: 527; Berzborn
2003: 327). This is also the case with the Korana revival. Wuras’s contribution to the
development of written !Ora has provided a tool for the Korana to obtain group rights
and a starting point for the (re)construction of Korana identity.
NOTES
The ‘Beförderung der evangelischen Missionen unter den Heiden’ (in 1908 the name changed to
‘Berliner Missionsgesellschaft’) was established on 29 February 1824 by Prussian aristocrats, high civil
servants and professors who practised a patriotic-romantic Christianity (Du Plessis 1911: 211, 212;
Van der Merwe 1987: 2; Van der Heyden 1996: 411, 412; Poewe & Van der Heyden 1999: 29).
2
They were R. Lange, T. Radloff, A. Ortlepp and L. Zerwick.
3
The interpreter is identified as Gert Cloete, the first male convert of Bethany (Du Plessis 1911: 213;
Maingard 1931: 113). Schoeman (1985: 46) reports that he was given the Christian name of Nathanael
Gerlach on 1 April 1838.
1
ERASMUS: WURAS’S CONSTRUCTION OF THE KORANA
73
Considering that it took the New Caledonian missionary, Maurice Leenhardt, 15 years to render the
Gospel according to St Matthew in the Houailou tongue (Landau 2007: 212), Wuras’s achievement
was quite remarkable.
5
Areas of the central interior occupied by the Korana include: the southern area of the North Cape
from Augrabies in the west to the Caledon River in the Free State, the southeastern areas of the Free
State, excluding Griquatown and Douglas, as well as next to the Vaal and Harts Rivers (in the vicinity
of Taung), the Modder and Riet Rivers, and north of the Kuruman River.
6
Contributions by other authors such as Coertze (1983: 111), Buys (1989: 65), Coertze and Coertze
(1996: 157), Kies (1972: 32) and Pretorius (1963: 36) corroborate the negative characterisation of the
Korana.
7
According to Van der Merwe (1985: 44, 45), Kolbe wanted to assure the continued existence of
the Griqua state and aimed at bringing the Korana under Griqua rule. Van der Merwe further
believes that, in exchange for Adam Kok II’s permission, the missionaries of the BMS had to
acknowledge the Griqua state and attempt to bring the Korana under its rule. As will be shown,
it is exactly this that was responsible for the conflict between the Korana and the mission society.
Keegan (1987: 192) points to an additional reason for the decision of the BMS to change course:
the Griqua leader had already given permission to J.J. Pellissier of the French Protestant Society
to establish a mission station among the Tswana near the confluence of the Orange and Caledon
rivers the year before.
8
Bethany is about 65 km south of Bloemfontein and 20 km north of Edenburg in the southern Free
State. According to Zöllner and Heese (1984: 15, 16), the first missionaries “at the end of a long and
tiring journey … found themselves in the middle of the lonely African wilderness without a single soul
to convert to Christianity. To make matters worse it started raining the next morning and, not being
accustomed to the suddenness with which rivers rise in Africa, they narrowly escaped drowning. They
then had to search for their cattle and horses (more than one of which had fallen prey to lions) which
were scattered across the plain. They comforted one another with the words ‘Zion born of misery’,
and named the place Bethanie, which means ‘House of misery’”.
9
Wuras was born on 9 June 1809 and died on 20 May 1891 on the farm, Vaalbank, Bloemfontein (VAB
MHG V0-RW453-1891). His first marriage to Johanna Sass, daughter of a missionary of the LMS,
took place on 25 July 1838 at Graaff-Reinet (Schoeman 1985: 46). After her death on 19 July 1849,
he was remarried by the Rev. C.E.H. Orpen on 19 November 1850 at Colesberg to Elizabeth Harriet
(29 November 1821–12 July 1889 (VAB MHG V0-RE228-1889), eldest daughter of Mr M.R. Every
of Colesberg (Zöllner & Heese 1984: 477).
10
Adam Kok III took over leadership in 1837 (Giliomee & Elphick 1990: 412).
11
Document prepared by the Agri-Business Consultancy for the Department of Land Affairs, Free
State Province, Bloemfontein for the ‘Bethany Land Claim’, date unknown, reference number AJO
FS/151/96, pages 3–4).
12
Pniel is situated on the southern banks of the Vaal River opposite the town of Barkly West and about
20 km to the north of Kimberley, Griqualand West, in the Northern Cape.
13
Jan Bloem is known to have been a polygamist; he had 10–12 wives (Engelbrecht 1936: 57; Fock 1971:
58).
14
This sale brought the extent of Pniel up to 29 422 morgen (GLWC 55, Warren 1880: 81). The Deed
of Sale was concluded on 27 August 1857 and was registered in the offices of the Orange Free State
on 29 October 1857.
15
On the one hand, phenomenal diamond discoveries were made in January 1870 at Pniel. According to
the Barkly-Wes Visarend (15 January 2008) and Diamond Fields Advertiser (5 February 1983), 25 % of all
findings had to be paid over to the BMS. The BMS was also further criticised for exploiting residents
of the area. In the opinion of W. Hall, Inspector of Native Locations, the “large number of Natives”
that were “scattered” over Pniel land contributed “a considerable amount towards the finances of the
BMS”. They had to pay “10/-per annum rent, 10/- per annum towards the Church, and grazing fees
ranging from 2/- per 10 sheep per annum to 3/- per horse per annum”. In an undated extract from
the Diamond Fields Advertiser (SAB NTS V153-R10/31-1925), Mr J. van Praag also declared that: “The
mission of such a Mission as this should be to settle natives on the land. The grant of land was made
to them with that intention, and to educate the natives; but instead [their] mission seemed to be to
collect as much revenue as they possibly could. They had never turned a single sod; never educated
the natives in agricultural pursuits. They had simply looked upon the Mission ground as a milk cow
for the benefit of Berlin, and the contractors and lessees even had to remit, under agreement, their
money to Berlin.” See also the remarks of Von Paczensky (1994: 345).
4
74
SOUTHERN AFRICAN HUMANITIES 24: 61–77, 2012
The manuscript, however, according to Maingard (1931: 116) does not bear any date. He estimates
the date to be between July 1857 and March 1858.
17
This treatise was, together with other MMS documents relating to South Africa, transferred from
Auckland to Cape Town in 1923 under the Grey Collection Act [No. 7(2)], 1921 (Boysen 1931: 451).
Sir George Grey became Governor of New Zealand in 1845. In 1854, he was appointed Governor
of the Cape, but he returned to New Zealand in 1861.
18
The trainee missionaries of the BMS received training in modern languages such as English and Dutch
(Zöllner & Heese 1984: 14). Dutch was the lingua franca in the Transgariep (Ross 1974: 29) and was
therefore used by the missionaries.
19
Bleek was on his mother’s side cousin to Ernst Haeckel (Di Gregorio 2002: 82). Haeckel was convinced
that the key to human evolution was the origination of language. To him, language was connected to
the human mind, the pinnacle of a progressive path taken by nature (Di Gregorio 2002: 81). Bleek
concurs with Haeckel’s theory but further claims that: “Bushman was not the original language of
humankind but was the closest one to the Ursprache of the transition from languageless apes to speaking
humans” (Di Gregorio 2002: 87).
20
This manuscript is also part of the Grey Collection and displays Wuras’s eagerness to present his views
and observations to a wider audience.
21
Missionaries generally shared the view of the indigenous people’s so-called immorality and promiscuity
(Von Paczensky 1994: 91–101).
22
My translation. The summary Van der Merwe (1985: 63) supplies of Wuras’s view of the Korana is
that they are “die swakste tak van die ‘nasionale Hottentotdom’’’.
23
Schoeman (1985: 62) writes on this at length. According to him, despite the missionaries’ dedication
and zeal to work under the Korana, one cannot escape the impression that their initial enthusiasm
was replaced by a sense of duty with little affinity for the subjects of the mission. The divide between
the Germans and the Korana created by the differences in language, culture and temperament was
even greater than between the Europeans and the other black clans (1985: 77). The euphoria of the
first reports gave way to increasing signs of a lack of understanding, impatience, disapproval and
even undisguised antagonism towards the Korana, this ‘unmanageable’ nation that they were trying
to cultivate. One cannot but concur with Schoeman that this could not have been beneficial to the
mission work (cf. also Van der Merwe 1985: 63).
24
Active attempts to do so include forced cultivation of lands and a dubious system of bartering (Van
der Merwe 1985: 46, 48).
25
According to Page (2003: 116), foreign missionaries often equated Christianity with Western culture
and condemned many aspects of traditional life that were morally neutral. Page points to the practice
of baptising children with foreign names; even when indigenous names had an acceptable meaning,
they were set aside.
26
This was not uncommon for missionaries (Van der Merwe 1987; Von Paczensky 1994; Maxwell 2007).
16
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