Winnie Mandela

by Anné Mariè du Preez Bezdrob

  For the first 200 days, she had no normal contact with another human being. She heard no other voice, spoke to no other living soul. The first few days were the worst of her life. She had only her thoughts for company, and she was overwhelmed by excruciating uncertainty and insecurity, a sense of hopelessness, the feeling that this was the end.

  It was deathly quiet, and the silence became another instrument of torture.

  The light burned constantly and there was no way of knowing whether it was day or night.

  Time had no beginning and no end. She was trapped in an infinite vacuum of nothingness.

  Winnie had nothing to keep her hands or mind occupied, except troubling thoughts of Zeni and Zindzi. Their cries echoed over and over in her mind. She beat her head with her clenched fists to try to kill the mental images that came unbidden. Where were her children, what had happened to them? What if the police had not taken them to her sister, but thrown them out of the vehicle somewhere? If only she could know that they were safe. In helpless frustration she rolled her hands so tightly into fists that her nails bit into the flesh. From somewhere deep in her subconscious came Mandela’s voice, telling her he was proud of her courage, and she realised she could not afford to lose control of her senses. She had to think clearly, try to remain lucid, no matter what. She sat on the mat, prayed aloud and talked to herself. She lay on her stomach, turned onto her back, rolled onto her side. She got up, sat down, got up again, sat down again. She tried to remain rational, to analyse the situation objectively and not give in to panic. The knowledge that she could be kept there indefinitely, denied any contact with anyone, could drive her over the edge. She had to find ways of driving off the utter despair hovering over her like vultures waiting to feed on carrion. She had to come to terms with her revulsion over the conditions in the cell that made her want to scream and bang her head against the wall. She started pacing up and down the tiny cell. Four steps from one end to the other, three steps from side to side. One, two, three, four. One, two, three. One, two, three, four. One, two, three.

  She made a ninety-degree turn. One, two, three. One, two, three, four. One, two, three. One, two, three, four. Turn. One two three four. One two three. One two three four. One two three. Turn. One two three. One two three four. One two three. One two three four. Turn. Onetwothreefour. Onetwothree. Onetwothreefour. Onetwothree. Turn. Onetwothree. Onetwothreefour. Onetwothree. Onetwothreefour. Turn. Onetwothreefouronetwothree. Onetwothreefouronetwothreeturnonetwothreeonetwothreefouronetwoonetwooneoneoneone. She felt dizzy, she needed air, she needed to see whether the sky was blue and bathed in sunlight, or cold and dark and dotted with stars.

  In the morning her body felt sore and bruised from a long night on the cold cement. She started doing the Canadian Air Force exercises for women, which she had always done at home. It helped to focus her mind on something other than her surroundings. But without decent food or proper rest, she tired quickly. Her obsession with hygiene was the most difficult obstacle to overcome. It was many days, perhaps weeks before she was given a small plastic bucket with water to wash herself. She was certain it, too, was a sanitary bucket, because it smelled dreadful. The entire cell stank. Her sanitary bucket was removed once a day for emptying, but was never properly cleaned. At mealtimes her plate of food was placed on top of the stinking bucket. She started dreading the sound of the cell door being unlocked, even though that was the only time she saw another person. The three locks had to be opened with three different sets of keys. After what felt like an eternity of meshing and grinding, a white wardress would kick open the door and a black prisoner would dash in, put the food on top of the sanitary bucket and dash out, not even glancing at Winnie. Then the locks were turned again, one after the other, mocking her, sealing her fate again and again.

  Breakfast was porridge, often not properly cooked, and without sugar or milk. Lunch consisted of whole maize cobs, and supper was porridge again, sometimes with a small helping of spinach, slimy and unwashed. Winnie shuddered when grains of sand crunched under her teeth. On Sundays, a small piece of tough pork, with more fat than meat, was added to the porridge. The only drinks were black and bitter coffee, or a beverage made from maize and served in clay pots. The food was clearly not meant to sustain, but literally just to keep the prisoners alive. Even behind bars, apartheid reigned – coloured and Indian prisoners were also given bread, tea and sugar, but black detainees never saw such luxuries.

  Winnie scratched the dates on her cell wall, but the complete isolation and utter silence made it difficult to keep track of time. The days could be measured only by the three meals she received, and sometimes she got confused, uncertain whether the food was for lunch or supper, so she started marking every day as soon as she got her plate of breakfast porridge.

  Two weeks after she was arrested, the police began their interrogation. Ironically, she was relieved when they came to fetch her. At least she would be with other people, hear their voices, escape from the endless hours alone in the claustrophobic cell. But her relief was short-lived. Her chief interrogator was Major Theunis Jacobus Swanepoel, described by many prisoners before Winnie as a skilled torturer, who had been implicated in Babla Saloojee’s death in detention. Joel Carlson had described him as a man with an evil soul, and said Swanepoel made him shudder. Winnie knew that she would have to draw on all her resources, courage and resolve to survive whatever lay in store for her.

  Swanepoel was flanked by other officers, all in uniforms with shiny buttons, and it seemed to Winnie that they took a sadistic pleasure in appearing before her neatly groomed, emphasising their superiority, while she was unkempt and confused after a fortnight in the most unhygienic conditions imaginable.

  Clearly, the first two weeks had been a ‘softening-up’ period. At the end of this time, many prisoners were already mentally broken, and readily supplied the information the police wanted. Those who resisted usually obliged after application of a minimum amount of brutality. But Winnie was a special case, and the security police knew it. Apart from being Mandela’s wife, she had become well known in her own right and they dared not subject her to the same physical torture they meted out to less prominent detainees. They would have to make use of other ways to break her spirit. Few people could withstand solitary confinement and prolonged sleep deprivation, and neither left any visible scars.

  The questions centred on Winnie’s ANC activities and the banned organisation’s ‘communist’ contacts outside South Africa. Standing under a bright light, she was interrogated for hours about the assistance she had organised for the Nylstroom prisoners, and told that a number of other people were also in detention, and that her sister and Peter Magubane had been arrested. She had thought Zeni and Zindzi were with her sister, and was filled with fear for her children. The police said they had eighty witnesses against her, and named many of her close friends and confidantes, claiming that these people had already told them virtually everything they needed to know, and that all they required from Winnie herself was corroboration. A policeman was sitting at a typewriter, ready to take down her confession.

  In the present age, when the world has become a global village, when communication across several continents and many oceans is instantaneous, when flesh and blood have been reduced to a series of DNA symbols and sequences on the human genome map, the human psyche remains the last true frontier of exploration. Science and technology can help us to understand how we function, even explain certain behaviour patterns, but nothing and no one has yet been able to dissect the soul, that unique and ephemeral core that not only makes us who we are, but governs the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of our actions.

  In writing this book, I have constantly been confronted by the ‘why’ of Winnie Mandela’s choices. Some are easily explained by the circumstances that presented themselves at various stages of her life. Others, however, demand far deeper examination. In the absence of empirical evidence, I found it impossible not to wonder about, and imagine, her reflections and fears, and
in particular those that might have been conjured up by her gruelling ordeal at the hands of her interrogators. I trust that readers will indulge my use of poetic licence to share the pictures that unwittingly came to mind as I tried to place myself in another woman’s shoes. Some of the interpretations are mine alone, while others are based on pointers to Winnie’s thoughts, observations and perceptions, as recorded in various publications and paraphrased here.

  In classic manner, the interrogation switched between polite and gentle prodding and naked brutality. After a while, Swanepoel complained that she was being tiresome, boring and useless, and assured her, menacingly, that she would tell them everything they wanted to know. Then he told another man, Gert, to take over.

  Gert was a large man with a red face and a malevolent manner. He didn’t talk, he shouted, and Winnie constantly felt as though he was about to assault her. She tried to think of other things, to remain in control of her mind and not allow fear to take over. She tried to remember Nelson’s voice, and how he recited the verse from his favourite poem, ‘Invictus’:

  It matters not how strait the gate,

  How charged with punishments the scroll,

  I am the master of my fate;

  I am the captain of my soul.

  Winnie tried to imprint the words on her mind: I am the captain of my soul … She knew what they were trying to do, she’d heard about it often enough: the good-cop, bad-cop technique. Determined not to let this well-known tactic, accompanied by much shouting, scare her, she tried to think of something else in order not to focus on the questions. She wasn’t planning on telling them anything, anyway. Gert’s red face turned a deeper shade of red as the shouting continued. Winnie quite feared for his blood pressure, and the thought momentarily amused her. She willed herself not to smile, knowing only too well that the police had no sense of humour. She concentrated on keeping her mind occupied: I am the captain of my soul …

  Gert shouted that all the others were cooperating; what made her think that she was so special? He wanted to know who she was protecting, shouting that they had taped information of Mandela’s secret instructions to Winnie, of her telephone conversations with Tambo. In short, everything had been recorded! They were going to put her away in any case, so why didn’t she just cooperate?

  Winnie smiled inwardly at the thought of calling Tambo from her telephone at home. She could just picture herself telling him about Nelson’s latest secret instructions and his suggestions for overthrowing the government. And, of course, about the sabotage they had in mind, and how they were going to spring Nelson from Robben Island, and then fly Tambo back to South Africa in triumph … and all the while knowing that the security police were listening to their every word. Winnie wondered what kind of fool Gert took her for. And wasn’t it illegal listening in on other people’s private telephone conversations?

  Time dragged by. She had no idea how long she had been in that room. A day? More than a day? There was no way of telling whether it was day or night, because the room was constantly flooded in bright electric light that invaded every corner, every bit of space. In Soweto, Winnie thought bitterly, there were no street lights, and most people didn’t have electricity in their homes. Here, they kept the lights on night and day.

  She tried measuring time through the changing shifts of the interrogators. She calculated that each shift was four hours, but this calculation only worked for a while. As the interrogation wore on, the shifts – and time – blurred into one long torturous harangue. She didn’t look at her questioners, identifying them by voice alone. She allowed the blinding light to blot out as much of the appalling surroundings as possible, trying to visualise the light as a barrier between her and her interrogators. One would bombard her with questions, another would shout and threaten. Swanepoel’s speciality seemed to be personal insults, while one of his colleagues would feign compassion, offer to help her – if she would just cooperate and give them satisfactory answers. Food was brought in during the ‘good cop’ sessions, but although her stomach was burning with hunger pains, she couldn’t eat, and just drank some water. When she needed to use the toilet, a woman warder went with her.

  During one of Swanepoel’s sessions, he asked if she wanted a cigarette. She said she didn’t smoke. He offered her coffee and, without even waiting for a response, instructed one of the policemen, in Afrikaans, to get her some. Then, suddenly switching to English, he added that the policeman should get Mrs Mandela some toasted chicken sandwiches.

  He then made a preposterous suggestion. If Winnie cooperated and made a radio broadcast calling upon ANC forces on the country’s borders to lay down their arms and start talking to the government, she would be released. Moreover, she would be flown by helicopter to see Nelson on Robben Island, and he would be moved to the cottage where Robert Sobukwe had been held, so that he could hold secret talks with high-ranking police officers.

  Winnie was appalled that Swanepoel could think, even for a moment, that she would betray Nelson’s dream in order to save her own skin with the mediocre justification that he was suffering in more comfort. And after he had given the best years of his life to the cause. Did they honestly think her and Nelson’s principles were for sale?

  When she refused, he became menacing again, threatening that she would be broken completely, and that she might as well accept that she was finished. People thought that Nelson was a great man, and that he was in prison because he was prepared to sacrifice himself for his people. But, said Swanepoel, he knew better. He knew that Nelson had run away from her – and who could blame him? If he, Swanepoel, had a wife like Winnie, he would have done exactly the same, seeking refuge from such a woman in prison.

  A harsh voice called out her name. Bad cop was back.

  Winnie wondered what kind of person Gert was. What kind of man becomes a torturer, makes a living out of tormenting others, and accepts money for it? She speculated, sardonically, on where he had been trained; was there a training college for torturers? In that case, Swanepoel must have passed the advanced course. Did they have practical assignments to do? Was she Gert’s practical assignment?

  Swanepoel again. He shouted that her innocent act wouldn’t work with them! He threatened that if she didn’t tell them what they wanted to know, they would tell her people a few things about her. That, Swanepoel said, would finish Winnie’s ambitions of being a great ANC leader. Who, he asked, did she think she was anyway? All she deserved was a kick on the arse!

  Then he lowered his voice and hissed that he knew she had all the secret plans written in code in invisible ink. She needn’t think that they couldn’t decipher them. Swanepoel said that they were giving her a chance to help herself. If she was smart and helped them, they would make life easier for her.

  Winnie would not even contemplate the idea, and scoffed at his mention of the non-existent, coded letters. Even in her current dire straits, she could see through his absurd lies. She knew that Swanepoel would not be talking to her if he had what he needed – he’d be presenting her with the evidence in triumph, as befitted his over-sized ego. They mistakenly thought she was stupid, but that was not necessarily a bad thing – it might even help her.

  She caught a glimpse of him and quickly looked away. His face was puce and he was looming over her. She thought he might pick her up and throw her on the floor, and almost wished he would, so that she would be knocked unconscious, maybe even die. That would put an end to the agony.

  When ‘good cop’, Major Coetzee, took his next turn, she told him she was feeling faint and had severe palpitations. He promised to get her a doctor, then asked: ‘Why go through this hardship?’ She was young and beautiful, and she owed it to Zeni and Zindzi to live a normal life, he said.

  Although Winnie’s heart was shattered at the loss of her daughters, she vowed that they would not break her by reminding her of Zeni and Zindzi. They had to know that she was anxious about her daughters, and that she was in agony not knowing what had happened to them, but that
cheap tactic would get them nowhere. She was exhausted and in pain, but they could forget it – she was getting out of there, even if only in her mind. She was going to go to Pondoland, to its soft green fields in summer, to the voices of the boys as they run and laugh and fight …

  He could get her a job with the police, Swanepoel said. Someone like her could easily become one of them.

  Suddenly, Winnie understood. This was the point where informers usually stumbled and fell. They would feel like she did now, or worse, because of the beatings and the pain inflicted on them, and they just wanted it to end. They would be convinced that they could take no more, and when they agreed, they would sell their birthright for a pot of apartheid soup. But not Winnie. They had just said exactly the wrong thing if they wanted her to cooperate. She would never become one of them. How could they think, even for a second, that she could become one of them?

  In his soothing voice, good cop urged her to think about his proposal – then all her problems could soon be over.

  Winnie willed herself to remember Madiba’s voice, planning a holiday in Durban, images of the waltzing waves, the sun bouncing off the water, Zeni and Zindzi building sand castles on the beach …

  Good cop woke her up abruptly, telling her she could not sleep. They had to finish so that she could get out of there. Winnie wondered where Gert was. But then she was back in Pondoland, walking in the fields with her Tata, picking mealies. It was a good crop, and Tata promised that with the money he made from the sale, Winnie would go to boarding school. Then Winnie’s mind drifted from the Pondoland fields to Orlando, her home; Buthelezi and Mandela were standing in the doorway …