“In this society,” another said, “if you entertain liberal views, you are soon forced by circumstances into testing the strength and honesty of your liberalism.”
“Strength?” a young woman asked. “How can you use that word? The fact is that we assume postures. For a short while. When the pressures begin we cave in. We don’t necessarily change our views but we do the treacherous thing, the humiliating thing. We cave in to the pressures applied by the university and the Security Police. We learn that there is no such thing as intellectual independence. We don’t see it in our professors. We don’t see it in our parents. We don’t see it. Period.”
“You spoke of having liberal views,” I said to them. “What views?”
“That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” one young man replied. Red-haired, with a full, neatly trimmed beard, he’d sat quietly since they’d arrived. “We read an interview of you in the paper the other day, and some of us have been talking about what you said. You spoke about ‘social conscience.’ Okay, in this society the moment the words ‘social conscience’ are used, we’re talking about our racial situation. About Blacks. As soon as we look around to assess our social or economic situation we see Blacks. Everywhere. And we see what we do to them.”
“Well, what’s your attitude to them? I mean you, individually, how do you react to them?”
“I’m not sure. I try to be—”
“We’re supposed to be afraid of them,” the brunette interrupted him. “Everyone warns that they’ll kill us in our beds one day. We’re advised to be watchful of them, to keep ourselves armed always.”
“Are you afraid of them?” I pointed the question directly at her.
“Not ordinarily. Not in the streets, if I see them walking. Not in the shops or offices,” she stammered, then recovered. “Well, not those in our home. I mean, not when you can see them. But it’s different when you think of them away from you. Where they live. What do they think? What do they talk about? My father worked many years in the Ciskei. He says they never forgive, they can go years biding their time.”
“Do you think that’s because they’re Black? People everywhere resent injustice. If you mistreat people they are likely to turn on you. Whites do. Why should Blacks be any different?”
“It’s not that they’re different.” From the bearded young man. “The real fact is that we don’t really know them. They’re all around us and we don’t know them.” I was glad he’d cut in. He seemed to have given the matter a great deal of thought.
“What’s stopping you from knowing them?” I wanted to stir something up, get under their skins. “They’re in your homes all day long. You can always begin there.”
“My father said that when he was at Wits it was multiracial,” a blonde girl intervened, but before she could divert him the bearded young man said, “Last summer I worked on a job with two Blacks. Okay, it was only a summer job, not much for me to do. They did all the work. One thing I had to do was sign their work permits. I suppose you’ve heard that a Black has to have his work permit signed by a White. Each month. Sometimes the most junior White is assigned that job. Even a girl typist might be the one to sign the permits of men old enough to be her father. I think the idea is to keep them in line, you know, humiliate them, remind them of their dependence.” He licked his lips, looking around at his peers.
“Anyway,” he went on, “there wasn’t much to do so I’d get talking with those two. We never talked about politics and they never talked about themselves, I mean about where they lived, or their families, anything like that. We talked about sports or books or about the American and Russian moon trips. Things like that. It was nice talking with them, they seemed to know a hell of a lot, you didn’t get the feeling they were inferior or anything like that. Anyway, they got laid off, for some reason or another. I can’t remember. Well, if a Black is unemployed he cannot get a monthly signature and is likely to be picked up and jailed or deported. If he goes looking for a job people always suspect the worst as the reason he was sacked. See the dilemma? Anyway, these two came to see me, met me outside one day and asked me to help them out with the signature until they could find another job. They were having a tough time, but they didn’t ask for money, only the signature. Well, I knew nobody would check it, so I signed their permits. It was a funny feeling. Twenty-two years old and I held the destiny of two men at the tip of my pen. If I’d refused to sign they would have been lost. You know how it feels to have people beg you for their lives? I did it, but I never felt good or proud. Each month they’d meet me in a park and I’d sign for them. Nearly eight months. Now they’ve got jobs in a warehouse. I was glad when it ended, my signing, I mean. I think they even hated me a bit. They never came to tell me they’d got the new jobs; I heard it by accident. When they came for the signatures I’d sign and they’d go. No more talking together, so we never really knew each other. I don’t even know what they really thought about me. Could be they hated me for having become so dependent on me. Thing is, I never felt good about helping them.”
“If it’s so difficult for you, it’s a hundred times worse for a woman,” the blonde said. “We cannot be seen talking to a black woman in a public place, let alone a black man.”
“We’re getting away from the point,” a young man intervened, then to me.
“We’re here because of the things you said in your interview. We think you probably believe that we are either unwilling or unable to protest Government policies.”
“Critical examination and challenge mean nothing in the abstract. The social, political, and economic realities all around you are crying out to be challenged,” I insisted.
“You may not know it,” he replied, a bit testily, “but Wits does have a reputation for criticism and protest, in spite of administration pressure and police harassment. Have you heard anything of NUSAS, the National Union of South African Students? Let me tell you. It was founded by an Afrikaner student in the old days, to encourage and support the interests of white students. It had its beginning at an Afrikaans university, and in spite of the prevailing policies of discrimination and bigotry, opened its membership to black students. That hasn’t changed. If you charge that the society at large is becoming more and more polarized you may be correct, but if you looked a little closer you would soon discover that NUSAS members, black and white, are in the vanguard of action for social and political change. Many former members of NUSAS were imprisoned, sometimes in solitary confinement, for pressing for social reform. My father was one of them. I was in prep school in 1964 when the Security Police began mopping up anyone who was an activist, faculty or student. Wits. Cape Town. Rhodes and Natal. They raided all the places with NUSAS affiliation. The economics lecturer at Rhodes, Norman Bromberger, was picked up and held in solitary for a hundred and sixty-eight days. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“Nowadays students are not openly activist, but they’re active nonetheless. No point in getting beaten up or jailed if you can avoid it. Long before black students had formed unions, the Whites were bearing the heat of protest. Did you know that until this Government came to power there were black students at the English language universities? Did you know there were even integrated campus dances? The Government banned them in 1965. Ever heard of Sir Richard Luyt?”
“Yes. He was Governor of British Guyana just before it became independent.”
“Right. He’s now Principal of Cape Town U. After his appointment they resumed integrated dances there. He even offered a lectureship to a black anthropologist trained at Oxford, Archie Mafeje, but the Government forced the U. to withdraw the offer. Nearly a thousand students and faculty sat-in to protest. Dr. Mafeje was not appointed, even though the sit-in lasted nearly two weeks. Would you say that the students have been sitting on their hands?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” These were the things I’d been hoping to hear, not the nice, self-deprecating no
ises which had been made so far. But still, he was telling me of the old times. I wanted to hear about now. About here. About them.
“Meanwhile the police have become rougher in their tactics and more sophisticated in their methods. Their chief weapon was intimidation. They could easily get Afrikaner students to infiltrate student organizations. Anyone who expressed anti-Government sentiments was a target, no matter who he or she might be. Did you ever hear of Philip Golding or John Schlapobersky? They were both at Wits and were detained in 1969. A favorite police ploy was to confiscate the passport of any student or faculty member suspected of anti-Government sentiments. An American student named Rex Heinke was deported for the same reason. Don’t think that all these activities were by Whites pursuing their own selfish interests.”
“Weren’t they?”
“No. Even after Blacks were banned from attending white universities the white activists would meet with Blacks, surreptitiously, even in the black townships. Like everything else, the informers soon got wind of it. Some white students were arrested in Soweto, for being there without permits. That was really the year of the raids. The Security Police were everywhere, picking people up and detaining them on the flimsiest pretext. One student named Ahmed Timol died in detention it is said because of a severe beating by the police.”
He seemed unable to stop himself. The stuff was flowing from him, rushing out of him, while the rest of us listened.
“Did you see in the newspaper that Abraham Tiro has been killed by a parcel bomb? They’ve been after him a long time. In 1972, soon after I came up to Wits, he made a graduation speech at Turfloop U., the black university in Natal. In it he attacked the racist philosophy of the Bantu Education Act. For this he was expelled. As a result all the Turfloop students staged a sit-in and all were expelled, the police helping with the expulsions. Naturally. This set off a chain reaction, as students from black universities at Fort Hare, Westville, Bellville, Zululand, everywhere, joined in spontaneous protest. The high point was a peaceful demonstration by more than ten thousand Whites on the steps of St. George’s Cathedral at Cape Town. As you would expect, the police charged at them, with batons and guns, and even followed them into the Cathedral to beat them up and arrest them. Can you imagine that? Inside the Cathedral. And the Prime Minister defended them.
“I could tell you more. Do you know why? I plan to document it all; maybe I’ll use it as the basis for my thesis. I was in Cape Town for that protest demonstration. I saw what happened with my own eyes. I stayed out of the way. I don’t think I could take that kind of brutal beating. The police don’t care whom they hit, man or woman. Or where.”
“What about the black students?” I asked.
“They’re harassed all the time. Even before they open their mouths they’re banned. I guess the informers are even more active among them. Black informers. Every day you read of some more being banned, restricted to their own homes from dusk to dawn. However, you seem to take their protest for granted. What you wanted to know about was our involvement. If you see little evidence of it, that’s because we’re copying the tactics of the Blacks. We’ve been operating underground since 1972, when the editor and the cartoonist of the “Wits Student,” our university publication, were suspended from the U. for publishing anti-government material. They were subsequently charged with offenses under the Publications and Entertainments Act and convicted. The same thing has happened at other universities, black and white. The Government has strangled protest in any overt form. I don’t believe they will succeed in silencing protest. We’re being forced to operate differently, that’s all.”
“How has the murder of Tiro affected your underground activities?” I asked. “Seems to me the Security Police have demonstrated how very easily they can reach anyone, anywhere.”
“Perhaps,” a young woman said, “but not necessarily. The police knew that Tiro depended on help from friends. He’d fled to Botswana, but he needed help, and the police found a way to get to him. Here we are learning to be very careful. We hadn’t agreed to tell you all these things because we couldn’t take the risk of your mentioning your source, if you decided to write about it.”
“I won’t mention names,” I promised, “nor will I ask which of you are involved in what movement. But I’d like to know whether it really is a movement or just the posturings of a few?”
“We’re more than a few. Much more. Even some faculty members are with us. The same is true at other universities. Unfortunately, we can’t expect any public support, not even among our parents or relatives. Everybody is afraid. Even the priests. Most of them, the English-speaking ones, are sympathetic, but they can’t all be martyrs. Did you know that there’s a violent right-wing group operating with the knowledge and consent of the Government and Security Police? They call themselves Scorpio. They’re terrorists, but because they’re White there’s no mention of them. In ’72 they fire-bombed the home of the student president of Cape Town U., Geoff Budlender. Naturally, no arrests, no prosecutions. So, you see, we’re like lambs surrounded by predators. From the distance of the U.S.A. you might imagine that this is a struggle between Blacks and Whites. It’s much more than that. Under this government it’s also become a struggle by some Whites for freedom to live in peace with justice for everyone, Black and White. We do not plan to turn this country over to the Blacks, but we’d prefer to see it governed democratically, justly, and without recourse to fear and intimidation.”
We were interrupted by a call from the hotel lobby. Dr. Bozzoli, President of Witwatersrand University, wished to speak to me. He came on the line and reminded me that I’d promised to dine with him at his house that evening. Covering the mouthpiece, I told the students that the President of the U. was at the hotel and I thought I’d better meet him downstairs.
“On account of us?” one asked.
“Well … ”
“I think you should ask him up,” one said. The others nodded.
I asked him to come up, checked my diary and found that it was true. I’d made the entry, but on another page. I told the students of my dilemma, adding that I was sure Dr. Bozzoli had heard at the desk that I was entertaining a group of his students. The front desk seemed to know everything I did.
“They wouldn’t know,” I was told. “We drove into the basement garage and took the lift right up here. We knew the number of your suite from when we’d phoned earlier.”
“You’ll have to go with him,” one said.
“I suppose so, but I was really enjoying this talk with you. And I’ve invited you to be my guests for dinner. What shall we do about it?”
“Whatever you say,” they told me. I was unhappy to have to leave them, because we’d finally broken through the earlier resistance and were reaching each other.
“Here’s my suggestion,” I offered. “I’ll go with Dr. Bozzoli for two hours. Meanwhile you order your meal here, whatever you like, and take your time about it. I’ll be back before you’re through and we can have coffee together and continue our talk.”
They agreed. The President arrived and seemed quite surprised to see me with a roomful of young people. I made no attempt at individual introductions, bearing in mind some of the things we’d been discussing. They seemed a little jittery at having been discovered by him.
On the way to Dr. Bozzoli’s home, I told him of my predicament and explained that the students had offered to wait for me while I kept my dinner engagement with him.
With the Bozzolis were a few members of the university community, one or two businessmen and their wives and the author Nadine Gordimer with her husband. Before dinner we sat outdoors and made small talk. For much of this pleasant interlude I listened, observing these charming, urbane, gracious people who seemed untouched and untroubled by the sinister air which foamed and rumbled about them. They talked knowledgeably about their country’s economy and the implications of the extraordinary fluctuations of the go
ld prices. They commented on the equally dramatic changes taking place in diplomatic procedures, largely due to what they called American “instant” statesmanship as practiced by the very peripatetic American Secretary of State. They discussed the international effect of oil shortages, but assured themselves that South Africa would suffer less than most because her economy depended more on her massive coal reserves than on oil.
From where we sat, the women gowned and coiffed, the men elegant and worldly, national disaster seemed light years away. Part of me wanted only to enjoy this short respite from the hustle of six extremely busy weeks, but another part of me was watchful and listening, remembering that under the selfsame stars that glistened overhead, and within a short distance from where we sat, the pain of exclusion was being acutely felt and deeply resented by others, Blacks like myself. Within earshot of our sophisticated banalities, the fuse was already set for a tragic explosion.
Things changed when we went in to dinner. Mrs. Bozzoli, who had said so little outdoors, being content to supervise the introduction of newcomers and settle them down with drinks, now emerged as a highly articulate and well-informed hostess, displaying a surprising independence of spirit which defied compromise of her personal principles. As if under her stimulating influence, the conversation became more sober and careful, and was directed to the fundamental issues of South Africa’s domestic and international situation. Inevitably, I was asked to state my impressions of the society even though I protested that I had seen very little and learned even less in the six weeks of my visit. However I said that it seemed to me the Government was deliberately trying to goad the black people to the point of revolt.
Even though their expressed attitudes vary in form, all Whites benefit from the cruel exploitation of the Blacks and are disinclined to any change likely to threaten those benefits in any way. Some of those sitting and talking with me took a distant, intellectually objective view of the racial situation, assuring me that in spite of what I might see many changes for the better were in progress. They could recall the conditions and circumstances of ten or fifteen years earlier, and were themselves impressed by the dramatic way in which changes had occurred since. They drew my attention to the recently publicized decisions to abandon some of the “petty apartheid,” the segregation signs so familiar on park benches, buses, and public buildings.
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