According to Slovo, the police went away empty-handed as none of their black guests was caught with drink. Many had poured the contents of their glasses into a large vase that Slovo had bought with the proceeds of a poker win. Mosie Moolla, an enthusiastic participant on the social scene, had been dancing when the police came in. “It was a lovely party, man.”
This was the mixed racial world of the Treason Trial that was shaping Mandela’s cultural landscape, just as it was defining his political development. It was a unique existence within the racist, segregated society of South Africa. Many white South Africans would not even share a pavement with black Africans and would cheerfully push them out of the way as they passed, if they didn’t voluntarily move.
Out there, on the streets of the apartheid state, the worlds of white and black were almost entirely polarized, for the benefit of the whites. Black Africans were denied access to many places and institutions that the white minority preferred to keep to themselves. Not so, however, the white communists, and a few others, who opened their lives and their homes, sometimes uncomfortably but invariably with the best of intentions, to their comrades across the color line.
Mandela had once taken Winnie to a dinner party at a white comrade’s flat, high up in one of Johannesburg’s most famous apartment buildings. Okay, they had been obliged to ascend in the nie blankes service lift, as they were not allowed to step inside the main lift, which was for whites only, but still, they had been welcomed and accepted once they arrived at the door of Cecil Williams’ apartment.
Mandela had sometimes been to dinner with the lawyer Harold Wolpe and his wife AnnMarie, who described how readily she had accepted Mandela into her home. It was no different from anyone else, she said breezily. However, some days later she admitted—to her great credit—that she had thought long and hard and the truth was that there had been a frisson, part awkwardness, part thrill, at having a black man at her dinner table.
Like all children, the children of the white middle-class communists did not want to stand out from their peers, but of course they did not blend in at all, because their parents had black people as house guests, not just as servants. As Toni, the daughter of Rusty and Hilda Bernstein, put it, “Africans weren’t considered people by most of white South African society.” She remembered overhearing a conversation on a bus once where a white madam was explaining that she had been forced to move home after catching her maid having a bath in her bathroom. Toni recalled coming home with a schoolgirl friend and finding Mandela sitting in the living room, having tea with her father. It was deeply embarrassing as black men just weren’t supposed to sit in one’s living room. She hustled her friend into her bedroom and explained that the black man was actually a chief.
Barbara Harmel relates how, as a child, she hated her parents mixing with Africans, all except the Mandelas, whom she adored. She had school friends who were banned by their parents from visiting Barbara’s home, because they had Africans there. Neighbors would say, “How can your dad have lunch with natives?” Barbara just wanted to be like the other children. “Please don’t do this to me,” she wanted to say to her parents.
AnnMarie Wolpe says that, even though “crossing the color line” was difficult, that did not stop everyone flirting at parties. It was sexually exciting and just became the norm without ever leading anywhere, in most cases. The women would be sitting lined up against the wall and the men would approach them. The older ANC women, such as Albertina Sisulu, would keep themselves apart from these goings-on.
AnnMarie remembers dinners with the Slovos and the Mandelas, Winnie sitting quietly while the men told jokes and legal anecdotes. Ruth First was rude about AnnMarie’s cooking, which devastated her when she had spent hours “looking at the fucking cookery book.” Ruth was dominant, and for years AnnMarie felt excluded by her from conversations, as if she was unworthy of Ruth’s attention. Joe Slovo would tease AnnMarie and flirt with her, especially at the whites-only tennis parties, which many of the communist comrades used to attend.
AnnMarie could remember the Sunday-afternoon pool parties at the Fischers (the Bernsteins had a pool too and open house on Sundays) where she would try to avoid getting caught in conversation with some of the deadly comrade bores, whom she refused to identify, even all these years later.
Ilse Fischer, the daughter of Bram and Molly Fischer, could not remember many Africans at those pool parties; there were more guests from the Indian community, many she didn’t know. Complete strangers would still come up to her sometimes and say they had been at her pool. Amina Cachalia would take her children there and could picture the ANC crowd around the pool, basking in the sun.
Bram Fischer had built the pool from the profits he had made fighting a case for a tobacco company and he always seemed completely at ease in mixed company. Paul Joseph, an Indian communist who was as alert as anyone to the casual racism of the times, thought the Fischers on a par with the Mandelas, a rare white couple, Bram having made huge sacrifices of his own to the struggle.
Although the Mandelas were not often at the bigger gatherings, the Sisulus would be. Once, when Paul’s wife, Adelaide, was being harassed a little by frisky African colleagues, Walter Sisulu came over and called them off. “Don’t behave like that, it’s not nice.”
Joseph knew that some people complained that the whites were always trying to make up for the guilt they felt. He remembered talking to a Cape Town colleague during the Treason Trial who said you couldn’t set foot at a party without the whites rushing over to offer you food and drink. The colleague told him how unhappy some black, Indian and colored colleagues had been when a white activist, Lionel Foreman, had got married and held two parties, one for the riff-raff and the other for the select few. The “riff-raff” (those who were not white) had decided to march on the second party in protest. Paul told the Cape Town man that their action was wrong, that the activist had probably just wanted his family there and shouldn’t have to have his loyalty tested.
In Joseph’s view some colleagues were so damaged by racism that they regarded having sex with a white woman as some kind of triumph, a form of getting one over on them. He was shocked when he heard that one or two of their women comrades had had affairs with Dennis Brutus, an African colleague. Ruth First was mentioned, which upset Joseph because she was a dear colleague. Whom she slept with was her business, and it was wrong for Brutus to be going around talking about it.
Latent resentments sometimes spilled over during drink-fueled moments, such as the occasion when after drinking in the shebeens, Robbie Resha and an Indian comrade had made their way to a party at the home of white Jewish activists, Ben and Mary Turok, in the Johannesburg suburb of Orange Grove.
As the story was related by Mac Maharaj, the hosts gushed over the pair arriving from the shebeens, who were keen to carry on drinking and went straight to the bar, only to discover that the well was dry, the spirits having all been consumed. They decided to leave but the Turoks pursued them down the drive. Comrades, please don’t go, the party’s still alive.
The Indian, none too sober, turned back, and said, yes, baas, to Ben and, yes, missus, to Mary. Ben went to Sisulu to complain about the Indian’s “racist” behavior. Sisulu, ever the diplomat, calmed Turok and said he would speak to the offender, who “blew his top” and couldn’t see why there was a problem. Sisulu told him they did not want unnecessary friction among colleagues. OK, said the Indian, according to Mac, but tell me, was I not right with those bloody white arrogant bastards? OK, OK, said Sisulu, but just don’t say it.
Ahmed Kathrada said there were often gatherings at his apartment in Kholvad House on Saturday nights and though he could not buy his own liquor he had a white comrade who would get it for the parties. AnnMarie Wolpe says that the supplier of spirits was her lawyer husband, Harold. On this particular night there was some brandy left over from the Friday-night session the night before. Suddenly vice squad cops turned up, around fourteen of them. Kathrada was carted off to Marshal
l Square and charged with possessing alcohol. He knew it was just political harassment and the case was dismissed when the vice officers admitted they had been put up to it by Special Branch.
Joe Mogotsi remembers that he used to go to mixed parties where he might have to stand in the kitchen pretending to be a waiter if the police came. There would be white women and African women there but not many Indian women. The Indian men would get involved with the women but the guys with Mogotsi would say, bring your own. Where are the Indian chicks?
Mogotsi was on stage playing the second male lead at the opening night of King Kong, the musical, on February 2, 1959. The first ever musical—a jazz opera—with a black cast, it raised the roof in Johannesburg, then went on tour in South Africa, and again later in London’s West End. Normally a white and a black audience could not have shared the same theater. But on this special occasion, at the great hall on the Wits University campus, they had been allowed to sit in alternate rows. Esme Matshikiza was in the first non-white row, three rows from the front, with her husband, Todd, who had composed the songs. This had come about through a song he had written, “Sad Times Bad Times,” to mourn the premature deaths of friends. What had they done to deserve their fate? asked the song. It had been performed by Joe Mogotsi’s group and was heard and remembered by King Kong’s producers.
Esme said that Mandela was not then the world celebrity he later became and so was sitting even further back in the audience with his young wife Winnie, who was pregnant. During the drinks interval they stood chatting on the non-white side of the segregated foyer. Mandela told Todd how much he liked “Sad Times Bad Times” with its Xhosa lyrics and how clever it was of him to have written about the Treason Trial. What had they done to deserve their fate? Todd stole a glance at Esme. That was not what the song was about at all, but never mind, it seemed to fit.
The mid-1950s bus boycotts in Alexandra and elsewhere were intended to resist fare increases. In reality, they posed a wider threat to the economy as literally thousands of people opted to join the boycott and walk several miles each day, to and from their jobs. Though the boycotts were led by an alliance of community representatives, Mandela was frustrated that the ANC could not offer clearer leadership and feared the Africanists were trying to manipulate the boycott towards a violent confrontation with the government that they could not hope to win.
Unable to take command himself, Mandela eventually pushed for an end to the boycott and a compromise acceptance of the modest subsidy offered to keep the fare prices in check. It was a poor solution, dictated by leaders far from the “front line,” and it cost the mainstream ANC a considerable loss of popularity, which the Africanists were able to exploit.
The Africanists were still looking to the 1949 Programme of Action, which had been promoted by the ANC Youth League as a declaration reclaiming the land for the African people. As they would say, the Freedom Charter was in “irreconcilable conflict” with the 1949 Programme. At the 1955 Congress of the People, the land that was theirs had been auctioned for sale by the ANC. Now, suddenly, the land belonged “to all who live in it.”
Some Africanists still hoped to turn the ANC in their direction while others wanted to break away and form a new organization. Meanwhile the core issues had ceased to be harmless political differences and had begun to descend into vicious rivalry with an encroaching air of violence. There was a struggle for power within the ANC—the entire future direction of the liberation movement was at stake.
By mid-1958, it looked as if the issue of the multiracial Congress Alliance would split the ANC. The historians Karis, Carter and Gerhart later said it was impossible to gauge with any accuracy “the extent to which Africanist hostility to the multiracial front actually reflected the sentiments of Africans either inside or outside the ranks of the ANC. The Africanists were convinced they were closer to the mood of the masses than were the Congress leaders.”
The Africanists had chosen the Transvaal ANC—where Mandela had once presided—as their battleground, because it was their own heartland, from their Orlando base, and because the branch was beset by problems. They had tried and failed to gain control of the branch and again met resistance when they attempted to dislodge the incumbent local leaders. Just when it seemed they might succeed, the chairman closed the meeting and began singing the African anthem. There was some fist-fighting in the hall and, later, a raiding party of Africanists broke into the ANC offices and drove off with the official ANC car. Two of the leaders, Potlako Leballo and an Alexandra activist, Josiah Madzunya, were expelled from the ANC.
Leballo worked at the Information Service of the US Embassy (USIS) where he often used their facilities to make copies of papers and perform other simple administrative tasks for the Africanists. His role there would give rise to the suggestion within the ANC that the Africanists were being manipulated by the CIA. There is no evidence this was true, but it was the height of the Cold War and any anti-communist activity would have held some appeal for the United States.
While Mandela worked with Tambo and Sisulu to try to reorganize branches and eradicate local corruption, they had also planned a three-day stay at home to protest against the general elections of 1958. “The Nats Must Go!” was the slogan. However, the Nats won the election and the stay at home was ignored, so that the ANC were forced to call it off after the first day. This was the latest humbling failure to galvanize popular support and it strengthened the hand of the Africanists.
In his memoir, Mandela played down the events that led to the formation of the Pan-Africanist Congress, perhaps preferring not to incite further bloodshed by dwelling on the violent mood that overtook the ANC during this period. His book characterizes the breakaway leaders as motivated by personal grudges or disappointments and feelings of jealousy or revenge. “I have always believed that to be a freedom fighter one must suppress many of the personal feelings that make one feel like a separate individual rather than part of a mass movement. One is fighting for the liberation of millions of people not the glory of one individual.”
These were high-minded sentiments but, in the late 1950s, across Africa, the tide was with the Africanists, as Ghana and Guinea led the way to independence for black Africa, without the help of white people or communists. There was a dream of a United States of Africa, but that too did not include white people. As Mandela would soon find out, it was he who was then out of step with history, not the Africanists.
Matters came to a head over the first two days of November 1958 at the provincial conference of the ANC, chaired by Oliver Tambo and held in Orlando Communal Hall. Chief Luthuli made the opening address and blamed the re-elected Nationalists for injecting the “virus of prejudice and sectionalism” into the African community. Some Africans, he said, were trying to emulate the Nationalists and claim exclusive control of their country, which was encouraging them backwards, towards a mentality of tribalism. The Africanists, around 100 of them armed with sticks, heckled the mainstream ANC speakers from the back of the hall, while backing their own speakers with much foot stomping and cries of Afrika!
The Africanists hoped to take over the conference and vote in their own representatives. At a meeting beforehand they had agreed to take violent action if necessary—a near unanimous decision, with Robert Sobukwe the only voice of dissent. According to Benjamin Pogrund’s biography of Sobukwe, the Africanists had actually planned to kidnap Mandela, Luthuli and the other leading ANC figures the night before the conference started. They had been dissuaded but Sobukwe went to the conference still fearing bloodshed.
As the conference progressed the atmosphere became increasingly threatening. Pogrund, who was there as a reporter, was the only white person in the hall. He left after being warned that he was about to be attacked. His support for Sobukwe and their friendship were no protection.
At the end of the first day, Tambo concluded that the only way to defeat the Africanists was to meet fire with fire. He rounded up a posse of thugs of his own who appeared on the
Sunday, armed with lumps of wood, sticks, iron bars and truncheons. There were rumors that he even had a stash of guns in the back room, just in case. Tambo himself stood at the door with his menacing-looking gang. The Africanists backed down from a confrontation and left, believing that they were about to be murdered.
As the conference proceeded with the elections, the Africanists returned to deliver a letter, which they handed over at the door. The letter declared that they were waging a political battle against the oppressor and were not a “para-military clique, engaged in the murder of fellow Africans.” They had come to a parting of the ways and were “launching out openly on our own as the custodians of the ANC policy as it was formulated in 1912 and pursued up to the time of the Congress Alliances.”
The Africanists returned to the Orlando Communal Hall the following April for the inaugural convention of the Pan-Africanist Congress. The hall was bedecked with placards bearing slogans such as “Africa for Africans, Cape to Cairo, Morocco to Madagascar” and “Forward to the United States of Africa.” There were cables of greetings from Kwame Nkrumah and Sekou Toure, the respective heads of state of independent Ghana and Guinea.
In spite of his quiet presence, Sobukwe had revealed himself as the intellectual heart of the new movement and from his opening address it was clear he would become its leader. His inspiring speech spoke of the new scramble for Africa, which was being wooed and flirted with by both America and the Soviet Union. Sobukwe did not agree with the idea of South African “exceptionalism” and made common cause with those who had achieved—as well as those who were still seeking—independence in Africa. He agreed with Kenya’s Tom Mboya who rejected both Western imperialism and Soviet hegemony.
Less appealing were Sobukwe’s racist views towards Indians, pandering to the stereotype of the Indian merchant class who, he said, “have become tainted with the virus of cultural supremacy and national arrogance.” It had not been that long since there had been murderous race riots in Durban. His words lived up to the fears of many in the ANC and the wider congress movement who believed the PAC would “play the race card.”
Young Mandela Page 22