Swimming with Cobras (18 page)
As the South African press became more and more muzzled, the Black Sash found itself becoming something of a conduit of information to the outside world. An unexpected interview on New Zealand radio one early morning was my first of many lessons in how to think on my feet. For calls like this we often took care to use “safe phones” that were unlikely to be tapped. We also made strong connections with embassies and foreign offices, some of these facilitated through contacts that Malvern and I made during his sabbatical leaves in England. Feeling as we did that the Eastern Cape had become a war zone, we in the Black Sash were eager for foreign eyes to witness the facts for themselves, but were frustrated when foreign officials limited their visits to Pretoria, Johannesburg and Cape Town. An exception was David White from the Foreign Office in London, who stayed with us from time to time. He was meticulous in his research and we knew we could rely on him to get the facts straight. I also grew very fond of the Amnesty International representatives who sometimes stayed with us and were always crisp of intellect and well informed.
An issue that put me in the spotlight but ended in some worthwhile international publicity was the 1986 boycott of Grahamstown businesses. The purpose was to put pressure on the Chamber of Commerce to add its voice to the demand for restrictions to be lifted and troops to be removed from the townships. The boycott was a black initiative that spread throughout South Africa and was potentially a powerful means of protest when all other avenues were being cut off. In only a few towns was the white community asked to participate. The Grahamstown Action Group coordinated the local white effort. They published a stirring pamphlet appealing to whites to “give a clear signal to township residents that we are genuinely sympathetic to their grievances and support nonviolent means of addressing them.” They were not inundated with support, pulling in a modest gathering of white lecturers, student leaders and some Sash members. Many liberal whites were becoming increasingly alarmed at the violence in the townships and felt that boycotts were the work of agitators. There were stories circulating of boycott defaulters being made to eat their purchases raw or having newly purchased clothes ripped to pieces. Furthermore, township shops were generally more expensive than the supermarkets in town, rendering the boycotts a cruel punishment on the poor.
In spite of these misgivings Malvern and I decided that the boycott was a worthwhile symbolic act and decided to throw our weight behind it. Fortunately it didn't last long, because shopping became a difficult undertaking. Only certain shops were exempt and they had a dearth of goods. There were attempts to form a co-operative that would buy products in bulk from outside Grahamstown, but this didn't get off the ground. Our meals became rather meagre for a while and my load of meetings only increased. Then London ITV decided to do a piece for the
Six O'clock News
on a society under siege, and they chose Grahamstown. They wished to include an item on the white boycott and asked for three people to be interviewed. The Action Group selected two articulate heavyweights who would state the political case, and then they needed someone to present the human face. That lot fell to me. The interview was to be done in our garden in front of the rockery and I carefully selected a bottle-green jersey that would look good on screen. In the event, an unseasonal berg wind blew and I ended up feeling rather hot. Trevor MacDonald, the ITV presenter was urbane and to the point but he asked none of the difficult questions we'd rehearsed. My two fellow interviewees were articulate and polished, whereas I just tried to tell it how it was. The boycott was difficult as many of the targeted businessmen were my friends, but participating was a matter of principle. The interview was shown that night in England and several of my friends and family, my aunt Miriam in particular, were startled to see me on the news. Even more startling for me was the fact that the two heavyweights had been virtually cut from the clip and all the focus was on me!
A dynamic new organisation that was also enjoying a higher public profile and helping to spread the message, was the End Conscription Campaign (ECC), which was launched in 1983 with the backing of various anti-apartheid organisations including the Black Sash. Its aim was to stop compulsory conscription into the apartheid army. Malvern and Matthew both participated, though neither became prominent in the movement. White South African males between the ages of 18 and 30 were conscripted for two years, after which they were liable for call-up as army reservists to do duties in their hometowns. By 1983 13 young men had been sentenced to prison for refusing to do military service on political and/or religious grounds. A small victory was won when the 1984 Defence Amendment Act allowed objectors with compelling religious reasons to appear before a tribunal. If non-military service was granted, they had to serve one and a half times the length of normal service.
Conscientious objection always stirs up a lot of emotion. I had read about the white feathers of cowardice that were presented to pacifists in the First World War, and I remember a distant relative being spoken of in hushed tones at family gatherings because he had appeared before a military tribunal and ended up working on the land instead of in the army. In the Zimbabwean civil war, those who left the country instead of fighting were referred to as taking the "chicken run", a term which became part of South African parlance too, as many young men left the country rather than face two years' compulsory service. After 1984 the South African Defence Force began sending troops into the townships to exert control, pitching South Africans against each other in a way that many were not willing to participate in. Registration for national service happened at school, making it very difficult for young men to escape the call-up, though somehow a few always did. In most social circles it was considered unpatriotic not to do one's national service.
Anna had a boyfriend who came from a family of Jehovah's Witnesses, and although at the time he was no longer a member of the sect, he registered for non-combatant service. This did not mean that he would never find himself in dangerous situations, however. He described an incident in which his army vehicle had been trapped in a narrow alley surrounded by chanting residents carrying home-made weapons and lethal pieces of roofing. Non-combatant or not, he was perceived as part of the occupying enemy and was in mortal danger.
President PW Botha had convinced the nation that it was facing what he termed a “total onslaught” from hostile, mostly communist forces. In this context the phrase “on the border” conjured images of boys defending the homeland against a besieging enemy. Many went to the border with this heroic scenario in mind, only to find themselves deep inside Angola or Mozambique, plundering villages and participating in operations to destabilise communities. These incursions were vehemently denied by South Africa, but their legacy was a generation of brutalised young people both in South Africa and in the neighbouring states. It was a war that had no winners. An army chaplain once told Malvern and me of his revulsion and despair when men returned to base from an expedition into Mozambique with dead bodies draped over the bonnets of their vehicles like trophies from a springbok hunt. For 20 years the South African Broadcasting Corporation ran a Forces' Favourites programme to keep up the morale of the troops on the border and their girlfriends back home. The radio presenter was awarded the Order of the Star of South Africa for exceptional service of military importance. Much more lasting than Forces' Favourites, however, is the large body of literature by young writers haunted by their experiences in the army.
The remarkable thing about the ECC was the broad spectrum of support it attracted. Many participants came from outside the usual liberal groups. Of course the campaign faced repression, its leaders were detained and meetings were banned, and yet it flourished. With its signature yellow ribbons it had a national impact and was blamed for contributing to a reported low morale in the army. Lucy had a friend who was undergoing his army training as a volunteer officer. Part of the course was entitled “Enemies of the State”, which included a condemnation of the ECC. Lists of names were handed out of people to take note of in the ECC, and there was Malvern's name. Our young friend enjoyed conveying the news to Malvern that he'd made the grade. Even more amusing was the news that Malvern's photograph had been spotted in an army camp in northern Namibia. A friend of Anna's was summoned to see his colonel and while waiting in an outer office he saw the photograph on a notice board. Closer inspection revealed that it had been torn from a section in the Rhodes Rag magazine headed “Studs on Campus”.
As a member of the ECC Malvern refused to participate in “dad's army”, an auxiliary force of middle-aged men that went away on weekend camps to practise their shooting at imaginary enemies. He was equally unwilling to patrol schools at night with armed and trigger-happy patrols. But a civil defence option he was happy to consider was fire-fighting, so he joined the auxiliaries. He was issued with an overall, which looked as though it was meant for the Michelin Man, seen so often in adverts at the time. It wrinkled, bulged and flapped around his white boots. With his splendid fireman's helmet, peaked at the front and back, hard, shiny and white, he looked as though he was off to a fancy dress party, rather than to fight fires in defence of the nation. Uniforms and helmets simply did not suit my academic husband's shambling white-haired persona.
Still, Malvern took his new duties seriously and for several weeks he went off to lectures and drills at the fire station. Then the great day arrived when the recruits were to fight their first fire. They set off with clanging bells and wailing sirens for the place where a magnificent blaze had been lit for the purpose, but on their way the clutch on the fire engine broke. They were left ignominiously sitting by the roadside waiting for another engine to come to the rescue. When it finally got them to the scene, all that was left were a few smouldering ashes. In the end, Malvern didn't see active service during his short spell as a fireman.
I was waiting in the wings of Port Elizabeth's Feather Market Hall, shaking with nerves, when a Black Sash colleague pulled me aside for a last word of advice: “Remember, Rosie,
apartheid
rhymes with
hate
, not
hide
!” This was not a last-minute indoctrination lesson. I needed no reminding that the system we were fighting was hate-filled and I had never been one for hiding, even when quaking in my boots. I was due to chair a public meeting to be addressed by Frederik van Zyl Slabbert, and my colleague's words were just a quick reminder to my stubbornly English tongue.
It was 1987 and something had happened that made us hopeful that there might at last be chinks in the state's armour. The Institute for a Democratic Alternative in South Africa (IDASA) had organised a conference in Dakar between a delegation of South Africans from within the country and another from the ANC in exile. On their return, delegates were aglow with stories of openness and conciliation. The banned and demonised ANC had been given a human face. The mutual willingness of the two parties to reach beyond the usual South African constraints was what grabbed the imagination.
The Dakar conference was followed by a series of report-backs around the country. In Port Elizabeth, 1 600 people packed the Feather Market Hall to hear Van Zyl Slabbert speak. The hall was thundering with noise as toyi-toying and banner-wielding groups arrived and took their places, amid the visible presence of several "heavies" from a private security firm. There had been bomb threats and rumours that the meeting would be disrupted and I was disconcerted to see even the national coordinator of IDASA with a gun bulging out of his belt. As the meeting was co-sponsored by the Black Sash, I was chairing it, and while waiting in the wings I was reassured to see how nervous Van Zyl Slabbert was too!
His message was clear: if the political will was there, negotiation was still possible. If not, the alternative would be destruction. As the audience broke into shouts of “We are the future!” and “Slabbert! Slabbert!” I was amazed to see what reservoirs of hope and exuberance were released when people encountered signs of change. After the meeting we watched busloads of singing and chanting people drive off to the townships, followed closely by a phalanx of police vans. In the midst of this joyous scene I overheard a tight-lipped bystander remark, “And they expect us to treat them like human beings!” I was not surprised by the comment but nevertheless saddened that the uplifting evening should end on such a sour note.
In April 1989 my own chance came to meet the ANC in exile. I was invited to an IDASA conference in Harare, Zimbabwe, entitled “Women in the Struggle for Peace”. Eighty South African women met at the conference, 55 were in the IDASA party and 25 were exiles from ANC missions around the world. This was an undreamt-of privilege and there was great excitement in our delegation, but also considerable anxiety. How would we all get on? Would there be police plants among us? Would we even be allowed to get there? I realised just how jittery some were when the woman who sat next to me on the plane clutched my arm and asked fearfully, “What's happening?” when the cabin lights went off for landing.
For me the overriding emotion was elation, and in that mood I fell in love with Harare. The broad streets and flowering trees, and the modest scale of the cathedral and law courts appealed to me. In so many colonies the architectural language was one of domination, with vast government structures dwarfing the buildings around, but in Harare it seemed to me the state buildings were perfectly proportioned. Each morning I got up early to pound the streets, relishing, as I walked, a sense of freedom from daily concerns and even from the chance of being followed or watched. The streets were clean and well kept and I was amazed at the size of some of the suburban properties, no doubt still tended by legions of servants. Cars seemed to be at a premium and I don't think I saw a single smart one. On one occasion a group of us hired a taxi that appeared to be held together by string â we had to hold onto the door to prevent it falling off! During a lunch break, a few of us were taken shopping by a member of the ANC delegation whose husband was the head of the organisation's mission in Harare. At one point her battered little car cut rather recklessly in front of another, and the obscenities yelled from that car window by its young white occupants were horrific. Our chaperone ignored the incident. “Don't worry,” she said. “Be above it. We call them Rhodies; they aren't Zimbabweans.”