Bloodlines (56 page)

More than a dozen members of the ANC were murdered in gruesome fashion on a train travelling to Durban—and there were signs left at the site that members of the Inkatha Freedom Party were responsible. When this was reported in the press, angry members of the ANC took revenge, and several members of Inkatha were killed. They were executed using burning necklaces—gasoline filled tires put over their necks, and set alight.

I was seldom home in those days, but Simon and Thulani came to me the next time I was at the farm. It was a summer evening; Miriam and I were sitting outside. I had told the boys little about my involvement in the ANC; and nothing about the fact that I was high up in the hierarchy of the outlawed Spear of the Nation. But they knew something—it would have been impossible in that environment to keep them completely in the dark.

Thulani was angry and troubled, and I realized that it was time to take them into my confidence. It would have been too dangerous to share the full story—but they were old enough to know more than they did about what was going on in the country, and why I held the views I did.

What I was about to share with them was sufficient to put us all in danger, and it crossed my mind that perhaps I should tell only Thulani, who would honor what I told him as only a son could. I didn’t know exactly how Simon felt towards me. Respect, yes; love, perhaps. I had been a constant presence in his life, and Michaela had made sure whenever I was around that the three of us spent some time together, even if it was just a few minutes playing or talking; and she made sure that he saw her treating me with respect, and more affection than was customary between mistress and servant. I suspected that he would honor my confidence—but I was certain that whatever I told Thulani, he would share with Simon. It was better that he heard the truth directly from me.

“I want to respect your opinion,” said Thulani, “but it’s hard to understand how the ANC can be a good organization when its members tie people up and burn them alive. How can you support this?”

“I told Thulani you don’t support this, Khabazela,” said Simon. “But you can’t know what every member of the ANC does, and that you’re not responsible for what they do.”

“I didn’t say my father is responsible,” said Thulani, and he turned to me. “But I don’t understand how you can justify being part of an organization whose members are so violent.”

Miriam and I exchanged glances, and she nodded to me. She agreed; it was time. She went into her room and came back with a flashlight, which she handed to me.

“Come,” I said, rising to my feet. “Both of you. It’s time for us to take a walk.”

I led them back out through the waning summer light to the base of the hill below the Bushman cave. This was the one area of the farm they had been warned against, and although I couldn’t be sure, I suspected that they had never explored as far as the thick foliage; that they didn’t know that there was a path leading around the massive trees and up into the invisible crevice that opened into a completely secluded cavern. I stopped at the base of the hill, before we entered the undergrowth, and turned to them. They both looked at me expectantly.

“Where are we going?” asked Simon.

“This is a secret place,” I said softly. “I take you here in the confidence that you will never share this place, or the things we talk about here, with anyone. Agreed?”

They both nodded agreement, and I led the way through the thorn trees, into the foliage and around several huge tree-trunks until the weak moonlight showed the path winding up the incline. When we reached the wall of rock I reached a hand behind me.

“Take my hand,” I said, “and then take each other’s hand and follow my lead. It gets very dark.”

I led the way, unsure which one of the boys was directly behind me, or whose hand I was holding. They were silent as we climbed into the crevice and the darkness closed over us. When we reached the cave I turned on the flashlight, and their surprised and hushed reaction told me that this was a new place for them. I showed them the Bushmen paintings, gave them some of the history, and then sat them down cross-legged in the middle of the cave.

“I wish it were not necessary for me to share this with you,” I said, “but you both know already that we live in dangerous times, and I cannot protect you from that fact. We would all be in even greater danger if I let you grow up uninformed. So, are you ready to hear what I have to say?”

“Is this to be kept a secret even from my mother?” asked Thulani.

“No,” I answered. “Not from your mother, and not from Simon’s mother. We have no secrets from each other. But that’s it. No one else. Okay?”

They agreed, and they sat in solemn silence as I told them about some of the pieces of my life. I found myself wanting desperately to tell them everything, but it was not possible. I could not tell them that Michaela and I had spent a year hiding from the police in Zululand; that we had been lovers. I did tell them that I had been a teacher, and that after the destruction of Sophiatown, I realized the government was beyond responding to peaceful protest. I talked about my arms training out of the country, and told them about my role in Spear of the Nation.

“The details of all this,” I said, “are not important—what I do, and where, and how. I’m sharing it with you because I want you to believe what I say, and you are old enough now to ask for more than simply my word. Because of my role as a commander, as a negotiator, and as the representative of the ANC to other organizations within and without the country, I have access to information that others do not. If I tell you a commonly held belief is a fiction; if I assure you that something is true, my words are based on information not commonly available.”

“What fictions are you talking about?” asked Thulani. “And what truths?”

“Simon, you are right in saying that I cannot control everything our members do—but as a leader, I bear overall responsibility for their actions. And Thulani, you are right in being outraged. It is true,” I said, “that members of our organization have committed terrible crimes in retaliation for things done by members of Inkatha.” I paused. “At least, they believe these things were done by members of Inkatha.”

“Weren’t they?” asked Simon.

“Not all of them,” I answered. “One of the things that make it so terrible to live in this time is that we don’t know whom to trust. Brothers are pitted against each other; divided loyalties break families apart. And the government knows that we are not united—that we are represented by two organizations with different policies, struggling for power.”

“You mean the ANC and Inkatha?”

“That’s who I mean,” I said. “And those in power will do anything to divide us and cause us to fight among ourselves.”

I explained that the Special Branch had a division dedicated to making trouble between the ANC and Inkatha, and that I was certain the train murders were actually committed by Special Branch operatives, who then left false evidence leading back to Inkatha.

“How can we be so stupid,” asked Thulani, “to be taken in by such a trick?”

“It is a trick, and a very clever one,” I said. “We’ve played right into the government’s hands. They point to us and they claim what Simon is hearing at school—that the Zulu people are primitive, and that we can’t govern ourselves without violence. We’re not ready for modern politics. It terrifies the white minority; and it provides justification for keeping things as they are.”

“Isn’t there a way,” said Simon, “to show both organizations that they’re being played against each other by a common enemy? Then they could get together and present a united front. They’d be much stronger that way, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes. Part of my job is trying to convince the leaders of both sides that we could do better together,” I said. “Eventually we will succeed—but before we do, things may become much worse.”

“Worse than they are now?” asked Thulani.

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “It’s one thing to convince the leaders—it’s another thing entirely to get the word out to every member of the organizations. And even then, it’s very difficult to change behavior in every village and every place where people come together. We won’t get anywhere until we realize that we can accomplish more together than we can at each other’s throats. And before that happens, our losses will have to become even more dramatic.”

The flashlight began to dim, and I rose from the ground.

“Come,” I said. “It’s time to go.” Before we left I placed an arm around each of their shoulders. “There are really two reasons why I have shared all this. We’re doing everything possible to bring an end to all the killing and I have hope that it will soon stop. I want you to have the same hope. But my identity is no longer as hidden as it once was—I’m too much of a presence at negotiations. And if I’m known, then Thulani is known, too, and by association, you as well, Simon.”

I told them how important it was to be cautious; to stay away from unfamiliar places; to avoid people they weren’t sure of, and to never be alone. I reminded them never to discuss their affiliation with me or to publicly disparage one party or the other. And we discussed bravery, how important it was under some circumstances, and how foolhardy under others. This was a time, I said, to take every challenge seriously; being brave when the stakes were so high was foolhardy. And, I said, if anyone threatened them, they should come immediately to me.

I placed a great burden on their shoulders by sharing what I had, but I knew it was necessary. They were young and hotheaded; whatever they felt, they felt strongly. No matter how rational they might be, I knew that under the right conditions, they could be pushed into conflict from which there would emerge no winners. I had seen it often enough in the townships and outside the villages, where a whole generation of young men sauntered, enraged with their lives, with the government that oppressed them, and with their leaders, who were too conciliatory and whose protests and negotiations had achieved nothing. These young men were an explosion waiting for a detonator, and I had the unenviable job of trying to defuse every detonator in sight. I wanted to make sure that my sons were nowhere to be found if and when I failed.

.

twenty-six

MANDLA

Natal, South Africa, 1984

T
wo years passed. Three combatants of our military wing were convicted of attacking police stations, and were hanged; many others were quietly dispatched without a trial. There were several car bombings outside police stations and military installations. Some attempts on the lives of elected politicians were successful; others were foiled—and then there were the badly planned ones, such as the premature explosion at a synagogue at which the state president was scheduled to speak. The toll of the dead and injured grew, and in KwaZulu, the level of violence rose to an unprecedented level.

My role in mediating local and regional disputes grew to such a degree that the apartheid government began to notice me, and to think of me as more than a terrorist agitator. At the same time, the traditional Zulu leaders I had had such difficulty with before I married Miriam, began to develop a healthy respect for my ability, if not for some of my opinions. I found it ironic that I was called upon by all sides to mediate, discuss and reconcile, and I began to think that we were approaching the point at which peaceful change might happen.

1983 was the year in which 4,000 public leaders signed a declaration for the release of Nelson Mandela from prison. The declaration was initiated by Father Trevor Huddleston, now an archbishop in England. He had traveled far since saving my life in Sophiatown so many years earlier, and it was good to know that he had not abandoned the cause. I couldn’t know then that seven years would pass before Nelson Mandela would be released from prison, and that in our lives what was both predicted and unthinkable would happen.