Looking at us, the black man would have seen the frame of the window, and in that frame he would have seen bars, and behind those bars three white faces, horribly dirty, unshaven, exhausted: Jarda’s face, round and full, and Duszan’s and mine, thin. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
21
The hours of torture began. The steward had tossed a crumb of hope into our cell and it jolted us out of our state of paralysis and overpowering depression, a kind of self-deafening that I now see was a defence against insanity. For those awaiting death as we were, passive and apathetic, on the verge of collapse, ready to hit bottom, it takes only one flash of light in the darkness, one lucky break, and suddenly you rise up again and return to the living. What you leave behind, however, is an empty territory that you cannot even describe: it has no points of reference or shape or signposts, and its existence—like the sound barrier—is something you feel only once you have approached it. One step out of that emptiness and it disappears. No one, however, who has entered this emptiness can ever be the same person he was before. Something remains—a psychological scar, hardened, gangrened flesh—a fact, finally more apparent to others than to himself, that something has burned out, that something is missing. You pay for every meeting with death.
We watched the airplane take off and then began pacing feverishly among the chairs, talking and arguing, although, for all of the previous afternoon and evening and night, the cell had been silent. Would the steward really inform the United Nations? And if he did, who would he talk to? To someone who will take him seriously? To someone who will wave his arms around and do nothing? And even if he is taken seriously, will anyone be able to free us? And if everything worked in our favour, it would take at least half a day for the steward to fly to Leopoldville and talk with headquarters, and then for Leopoldville to notify the Usumbura headquarters. Before anything happened, the paratroopers could take us out and finish us off a hundred times or turn us over to Muller’s hirelings. Thus came the nerves, the war of nerves, fever and agitation, but all of it inside, in us, because outside beyond the window it was always the same: the helmet and shoulder of the paratrooper and, further off, the plain, the lake (Tanganyika), the mountains. And today, in addition, the rain.
22
In the afternoon we heard a car motor under the window, and a screech of brakes, and then voices speaking in a language I did not recognize. We clung to the bars. Near the building stood a jeep flying the United Nations flag; four black soldiers in blue helmets climbed out. They were Ethiopians from the Imperial Guard of Haile Selassie, who formed part of the United Nations military contingent in the Congo. They posted their own guard alongside the paratrooper.
23
I have no idea what the Congolese who saved our lives was called. I never saw him again. He was a human being: that’s all I know about him.
24
And not only do I also not know the name of whoever it was at the UN headquarters in Leopoldville who saved our lives, but I never even saw him. There is so much crap in this world, and then, suddenly, there is honesty and humanity.
25
I can’t say if there was actually any bartering between the Ethiopians and the paratroopers over our fates. I can say that they didn’t like each other, and they treated each other spitefully. They were competing for the prestige of controlling the Congo.
26
The next morning we took a Sabair flight out through Fort Lamy and on to Malta and then to Rome. In the great glass block of Fumicino airport, we watched the splendid and—to us, at that moment—exotic world of contented, calm, satiated Europeans on parade: fashionably dressed girls, elegant men on their way to international conferences, excited tourists who had flown in to see the Forum, meticulously preserved women, newlyweds flying off to the beaches of Majorca and Las Palmas; and, as the members of this unimaginable world passed by us (we were a disreputable-looking trio, three dirty, smelly, unshaven men in horrible shirts and homespun trousers on a chilly spring day when everyone else was in jackets, sweaters and warm clothing), I suddenly felt—the thought horrified me—that, sad truth or grotesque paradox that it might be, I had been more at home back there in Stanleyville or in Usumbura than here now.
27
Or perhaps I simply felt lonely.
28
The police looked us over suspiciously and I couldn’t blame them. We could not go into the city because we had no visas. The police phoned our embassies, which had been looking for us all over the world. The ambassadors came out to the airport, but it was already late in the evening and we had to sleep there because we would not have visas arranged for us until the next day.
29
I returned to Warsaw. I had to prepare a note on what I had seen in the Congo. I described the battles, the collapse, the defeat. Then I was summoned by a certain comrade from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. ‘What have you been writing, you?’ he stormed at me. ‘You call the revolution anarchy! You think that Gizenga is on the way out and Kobutu is winning! These are pernicious theories!’
‘Go there yourself,’ I answered in a tired voice, because I still felt Stanleyville and Usumbura in my bones. ‘Go ahead and see for yourself. And I hope you make it back alive.’
‘It’s regrettable,’ this comrade said, concluding our discussion, ‘but you can’t return overseas as a correspondent because you do not understand the Marxist-Leninist processes that are at work in the world.’
‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve got some things to write about here, too.’
30
I went back to work at Polityka, travelling around the country, writing up what I saw. In the Congo things turned out the way they had to, which in the end had been obvious to everyone who was there. A few months later I received an offer to travel to Africa for several years. I was to be the first Polish correspondent in black Africa and was to open a bureau office for PAP, the Polish Press Agency. At the beginning of 1962 I was sent to Dar es Salaam.
MARRIAGE AND FREEDOM
What follows is the complete and exact text of a letter sent to me by Millinga Millinga, an activist in the Frente de Libertaçao de Moçambique, the Mozambique Liberation Front. Millinga Millinga is a close friend: influential, serious, a figure at political rallies and diplomatic receptions.
L. Millinga Millinga
P.O. Box 20197
Dar es Salaam
Tanganyika
Dear Friend,
PERSONAL MATTER
At this critical moment in my life, compelled by an immense and unsolvable DILEMMA, I feel no shame in revealing deeply concealed problems that I have incurred in the preparation of my future, nor do I feel any shame in revealing them to you especially, a friend whose kindness and assistance have never been wanting on occasions of this kind in the past.
As you know, I am one of the Freedom Fighters who has devoted all his time to the struggle and receives no compensation. But in view of the fact that a human being cannot escape from his natural needs, I have for two years been plunged in heavenly love for Miss Veronica Njige (district secretary of TANU, the Tanganyika African National Union) of the Morogoro district, whom I have promised to marry. However, as I have been so deeply engaged in the struggle, and, moreover, given the particular circumstances in which FREEDOM FIGHTERS live, I have been unable to fill our treasure chest with funds sufficient for the preparation of a festive wedding. In addition, the parents of the Lady of my Heart are demanding fifty pounds as a dowry, plus, in lieu of cows and goats, another twenty-five pounds as a gift for the cousins. After calculating precisely all the necessary expenditures incurred from the preparations and the wedding day ceremony, the total sum of money required to meet my aims amounts to not less than 200 pounds, including the items mentioned above.
In the opinion of my Beloved the date for the wedding has been delayed too many times already and so she has taken to writing to me three times a week, demanding that a wedding be held before November 1962. In these lette
rs there is nothing more than one simple and clear statement: ‘FREEDOM AND MARRIAGE BEFORE NOVEMBER 1962.’ Despite my relentless declarations on the theme of my present financial situation, with which she has no sympathy whatsoever, the Lady of my Heart insists resolutely on a wedding IMMEDIATELY because, a Freedom Fighter herself, she states categorically that she would prefer to suffer with me in our own home than remain in her parents’ care. To a certain extent, I feel sorry for her. She is a grown woman, ready for marriage, and is always telling me, passionately, that she has, at present, strong desires, unprecedented desires, to become a wife without delay, and, acceding to her many requests, I have been compelled to agree that by 3 October I will pay her parents and relatives the seventy-five pounds and that the wedding will take place on 1 November 1962.
Dear friend, I would like you to turn over in your mind the true meaning of the sentence: ‘LOVE IS THE MISTRESS OF THE WISEST MEN AND THE MOTHER OF EVERYTHING.’ If you think about this sentence in relation to the matters presented here, you will certainly adopt an attitude sympathetic to my present situation. Under these conditions I have nothing more to say, except to ask you to give me as much financial help as you can afford. I should stress here that this support is to be treated as private aid to me, MILLINGA, and not as aid to the Mozambique Liberation Party or to me in the role of its General Secretary. For this same reason, all payments should be addressed to my private post office box: Millinga Millinga, P.O. Box 20197, Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika. Payments sent in connection with the matter presented above will be confirmed by myself personally or by my cousin W. L. Mbunga, whom I have appointed to the post of Personal Secretary in Charge of Fundraising for my Wedding. His signature is to be found below.
In hopes of hearing from you before the deadline,
With fraternal greetings,
[Two illegible signatures]
I gave Millinga as much as I could afford, but it was obvious that some of the embassies must have given Millinga as much as he needed for the wedding took place (Millinga had mimeographed his letter and sent out many copies). I met both of them several days ago at a reception at the Soviet Embassy. Millinga, small, delicately built, permanently unshaven, stood silent and musing beside a stout, big-busted, gloomy girl, the Lady of his Heart.
THE CHILD-SUPPORT BILL IN THE TANGANYIKAN PARLIAMENT
The Tanganyika Standard of 21 December 1963 reported that ‘the discussion over the child-support bill that erupted in the last session of parliament was the stormiest debate in the nearly two years’ history of independent Tanganyika’s Legislative Chamber.’
Delegate Lucy Lameck, the Vice-Minister of Cooperatives, an activist known for her emancipationist stance and a proponent of European examples and models of behaviour for African women, introduced the government-sponsored bill on child support (the Affiliation Ordinance Amendment Bill of 1963). She began by saying that in a country like Tanganyika, which has embarked on the path of modern development, ‘newer and newer problems’ will continue to arise. ‘In earlier African society,’ said the delegate, ‘moral principles were not exposed to such great external pressures as today, and for this reason there was no need to create laws to protect the fate and upbringing of children born out of wedlock.’ Now, however, it is imperative to find ‘new remedies for the new problems affecting the population of urban centres.’
‘The child-support bill,’ Delegate Lameck stressed, ‘arose as a result of research into the situation of African women in the cities. It turned out that, in Dar es Salaam, 155 out of 340 working girls had from one to six illegitimate children. The average monthly income of these single mothers was only 168 shillings a month, and no more than eight of them received any help from the fathers of their children.’ The delegate also cited testimony from a school principal in Dar es Salaam, who stated that each month three or four girls dropped out of school as a result of pregnancy. This school taught girls between the ages of eleven and fifteen. The principal knew nothing about the ultimate fortunes of the drop-outs. ‘In this situation,’ concluded Delegate Lucy Lameck, ‘it is necessary to introduce a statute requiring the payment of child-support by the fathers of illegitimate children.’
The debate that, as the Tanganyika Standard reporter wrote, ‘destroyed the traditional seriousness of parliament’ now began.
Delegate P. Mbogo (Mpanda) expressed the opinion that the child-support bill would lead to a widespread increase in prostitution. ‘Girls are going to want to have as many illegitimate children as possible, because that way they will make money for cosmetics. Those girls will be like an underdeveloped country—they will have to be invested in.’
According to Delegate B. Akindu (Kigoma), the child-support bill would create ‘a special danger for wealthy people, such as for instance delegates to parliament, because pregnant girls will be able to falsely proclaim that the fathers of these illegitimate children are government ministers or delegates to parliament … These perfidious beings,’ the delegate said, ‘will sow neo-colonialist propaganda in the hope of extorting money from rich men.’ The delegate stated that many ‘TD men’ (the letters ‘TD’ appear on the license plates of cars belonging to high state officials) invite girls walking the streets into their cars. In such cases, it is up to the girl to refuse. ‘If you cannot restrain your desires, find yourself a husband and do so quickly,’ the delegate begged the girls of Tanganyika.
Delegate R. S. Wambura (Maswa) saw no need to introduce a child-support law since—in accordance with African tradition—legitimate and illegitimate children were treated the same way. ‘This law,’ the delegate stated, ‘can only incite women to make money from their charms. And besides,’ the delegate said, ‘our girls usually have many men, which is going to make it hard to decide who the father is.’ The speaker advanced another argument. ‘This bill runs against the laws of nature, because it is known that the unemployed are equally capable of making babies, and yet the unemployed have no money for paying child support.’
Delegate R. S. Wambura enjoyed the support of Delegate Chief A. S. Fundikira (Tabora): ‘The illegitimate child poses no problem in the African family; on the contrary, it is another pair of hands to work in the fields.’
The Minister of Justice, Delegate Sheik Armii Abedi, spoke in defence of the proposed government legislation. In the minister’s words, ‘If a man doesn’t want it, he can proceed in such a way that the woman with whom he is dealing will not become pregnant.’ The minister urged that the child-support law cover both working and unemployed men. ‘If the law does not apply to those without money, the unemployed are going to feel that the government has given them full freedom to produce children by the dozen. The production of children—that will be the work of the unemployed,’ stated the minister among applause and laughter from the delegates’ benches.
Delegate F. Mfundo (Handeni) mentioned that the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate children was erected only under colonialism—traditional African law makes no distinction—and that therefore, a child-support law revealing a preference for illegitimate over legitimate children (the bill does not, after all, require the payment of support for legitimate children) was ‘a reflection of the colonial mentality’.
Urging acceptance of the bill, Delegate Lady Chesman (Iringa) challenged Delegate Mfundo. Thanks to this legislation, she said, financial responsibility for illegitimate children would rest on the men, freeing the state of the obligation to build orphanages and allowing it to assign more funds for the struggle against Tanganyika’s three principal foes: ignorance, poverty and disease.
The next speaker, Delegate A. S. Mtaki (Mpwapwa), stated in a lengthy presentation that the child-support law would have dreadful social consequences. First, it would cause a widespread increase in murder. ‘People who are forced to pay support for illegitimate children are going to murder them—murder costs nothing.’ Second, the rate of marital infidelity would rise: ‘As a result of this legislation, men will avoid contact with unmarried women, and inste
ad seduce the wives of others.’ Third, the divorce rate would go up, ‘because, as the married man would have to pay support for an illegitimate child, his wife was bound to discover what occurred and demand a divorce, or perhaps even leave him at once.’ Summing up, Delegate Mtaki opined that ‘experts in this field, such as Karl Marx, teach us that prostitution is capitalism.’
Victor Mkello (Dar es Salaam) vigorously supported Delegate Mtaki, demanding that the government withdraw ‘this unfortunate legislation.’ In the delegate’s view, the law would force men to marry chance female acquaintances merely to avoid payment of child support. ‘Such marriages will never be happy.’ The government should take steps towards ‘making girls aware of how to avoid pregnancy.’
The Vice-President of Tanganyika, Delegate R. Kawawa, argued on behalf of the government and denied that the proposed legislation would lead to a growth in prostitution, since the growth of prostitution is already restrained by other laws. The Vice-President also criticized the idea of teaching women how to avoid pregnancy. ‘Such views are alien to our society and have been imported from outside,’ the Vice-President said. ‘Teaching women to avoid pregnancy would be nothing but an inducement for people to perform immoral acts.’
Delegate Bibi Mohammed (Rufiji), the director of the women’s division of the governing TANU party, defended the bill. ‘In some tribes,’ she said, ‘girls are locked up at home on attaining maturity, so that their parents can be sure they will not become pregnant. Yet men are like rats: they sneak into the house, and, as a result, the dumbfounded parents realize after a certain time that the girls, despite being kept under lock and key, are pregnant. Men never have enough: every one of them, even if he has conquered sixty women, will keep chasing and trying to get his hands on women whenever he has a chance.’ Delegate Bibi came out strongly against the speakers who had objected to the bill: ‘Delegates, as representatives of the entire Tanganyikan nation, ought to think about women as well as men, and they should not take advantage of the fact that they outnumber women in parliament to block legislation that would be of great benefit to women and men alike. Who of you, delegates, can say that he has a clean conscience? Many women come to me from all over and tell me that this or that delegate is the father of their child. I have promised these women that I will stand up in parliament and name names …’
The Soccer War Page 7