HOW do you measure a race relation? Coming up to its second birthday, how new is the New South Africa? How equally does it cherish its children, and to what degree do they cherish themselves? Here are three anecdotes from the last three days.
Number one: it is the Rand Supreme Court in Johannesburg, yesterday, and 14 members of the neo Nazi AWB are awaiting sentence. The men were involved in a series of bombings in 1994, trying to destabilise the multi racial elections. More than 20 civilians were killed before they were arrested. The prosecutor is demanding the maximum sentence, life, for at least five of the defendants.
The courtroom is full of their supporters, men with scraggly hair and women with self inflicted perms. Some are in the pale paramilitary camouflage of the Wenkommando or the black and white uniform of the Ystergarde.
The police commander is and Afrikaner and he allows the prisoners to fraternise openly with their supporters, who pass them cigarettes, soft drinks, food and even cellphones. There are a lewd blacks present - one or two relatives of victims, some onlookers from the African National Congress.
At the back sit John and Joan Keane, the Irish parents of former ANC parliamentary candidate Susan Keane, murdered by an AWB bomb on Bree Street.
They are upset and nervous because the AWB people are allowed to behave as if they own the courtroom. They cram into all the public benches, and refuse to make space for a dignified elderly black lady, a relative of one of the victims. A young man in tight khaki shorts and a USA baseball cap tries to manhandle a small black man who is pushing past him.
"There is no room in here," he barks.
The black man rounds on him. "Have some manners," he says angrily. "Didn't they ever teach you manners?
The hulking young man takes a step back. "Yes," he says sheepishly.
Number two: The court adjourns for lunch, and the people spill out on to the pavement outside. A large crowd of curious blacks is waiting, some of them shouting at the AWB members in Sotho or Zulu or Xhosa. One of the crowd, a tall young man in a black cap, tells a watching female reporter to "f... off, you white bitch".
Confronted by another reporter, the man in the black cap, pretends he doesn't understand. The journalist persists. How can you be so racist? This is the new South Africa. That was wrong, then and it is wrong now.
The black crowd listens warily. One of them steps forward. "If this man has said this to her then I apologise on his behalf." Another man agrees. "Such things should not be said any more. The crowd hums, with approval.
And things look better for the Keanes. They haven't had much contact with the ANC since, their only daughter was killed in its name. Many of their fellow whites in Durban regard them with suspicion because of how their daughter turned out.
Nelson Mandela was twice supposed to visit them, but he never made it. When they finally, met him last week it was by accident, on the street, and they were among a number of strangers who reached out to shake his hand.
Then yesterday a group of, black men appeared around them outside the courthouse. Web are from the ANC, they say. We've been sent to look after you. The AWB members, who have learned who the Keanes are and are eyeing them with hostility, back away. For the Keanes it is like coming in from the cold.
The court fills again and is adjourned again. The AWB contingent stalks out of the courtroom and lines up on the steps, looking like a cross between the Wild Bunch and the Lost Patrol. The blacks stare up at them, and the AWB members stare back, their faces contorting with hatred. And then the blacks start to laugh.
Number three: Michael is a pleasant English speaking man in his early 30s. He works for a company which advises on affirmative action, the accelerated advancement of black employees' to compensate for past discrimination.
"But you're white," I tell him.
"Yes, but I'm the only white in the company."
Which makes sense, really.
Like a lot of young "English" South Africans, he loves to escape from Africa into the neverneverland of white American rock. He is in a band, and we see, them play on Saturday night in Roxy's Rhythm Bar in Melville.
They make lots of noise and throw all the right shapes, but there are only about 20 people present, all of them white, watching listlessly or just staring into their beer. Eventually it is time to give up.
"Thank you very much," the man says. "You've been a lovely audience. Thank you very much. Good night."