Everywhere we drove the situation was the same. Blacks following their “traditional lifestyle” on land which grudgingly and barely supported them. The more I saw the more absurd became the Government’s claim that it was nurturing these Homelands toward independence. I reflected on the recent turbulent history of my own homeland, Guyana, and the years of preparation in the management of government and services. How could powerless people learn to exercise power wisely except through experience?
Back in Umtata, I took a stroll to a place which seemed to fulfill the joint purposes of bus stop, taxi stand, and open-air market. Only Blacks in sight. Overlooking this crossroads was an imposing new hotel. A fruit vendor told me that it was a new hotel for Blacks only, as they were not welcome at the other hotels. I didn’t tell him where I was staying but, in reply to his question, admitted merely that I was an overseas visitor passing through the town. Inquisitively, two or three others strolled over to listen in on our conversation. I asked about the fruit on sale, tiny bananas, some hard peaches, and mangoes, and learned that they were grown on the patches of land tended by the vendors themselves. It was too early in the season for anything except bananas and peaches. They were surprised to discover that I knew about mangoes and could tell them about varieties familiar in the West Indies but which they’d never heard of.
Gradually, carefully, I steered the talk to independence, saying I’d heard in Johannesburg that the Transkei would become independent, and adding that perhaps some of them might be in the Government. This amused them.
“Who’s been telling you those stories? Buthelezi?” one asked.
“I read it in the newspapers,” I replied.
“The newspapers are not for African people. They say what the white man wants to hear.”
“I read that this homeland will become independent as a separate state, like Botswana or Lesotho.”
“I’ll tell that to my grandchildren,” one young man said, “and even then they will not believe it.” He was about twenty years old. I suddenly realized that we were conversing easily in English. These rural Blacks were not educated men but they were able to converse with me in my language, and, most likely, they were as comfortable with Afrikaans. Now and then, they would revert to their tribal languages as if to underscore their linguistic range.
“What about you?” I asked. “Any of you preparing to be leaders?” saying it with a smile, making my inquiry sound casual and unimportant. Immediately there was that exchange of glances I’d come to recognize, and with it the withdrawal. Two of the young men walked away.
“Did you say you are from overseas?” the vendor asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Sometimes strangers come here asking questions.” Then turned to one of his companions and spoke in an African language which ignored and dismissed me. Even so tentative an inquiry about political activity had been enough to excite suspicion and distrust. People thinking of independence would be preparing for it, somehow, and there must be some evidence of that preparation. Perhaps, as the man said, it was all white newspaper talk.
Beyond the Transkei borders and into Natal, the countryside changed dramatically. The land was predominantly flat or rolling, perfect for farming on a vast scale. The road wound itself through lovely rural areas with attractive townships spaced between the wide expanses of farmland, mile upon mile of the lush green of wheat or maize, with here and there orchards heavy with oranges, peaches, or mangoes. The glow of prosperity lay over the neat, freshly painted bungalows with smooth, trimmed hedges and lawns. The modernistic spires of the calvinist kirks were a particularly dominant feature of each township. Wealth, comfort, and prosperity everywhere, the well-fed burghers chatting outside their houses, the ubiquitous black servants carefully sweeping, clipping, and tending.
Blacks everywhere in each town, manning the filling stations and delivery trucks, always in the servant roles, the local burghers slow-moving in their untroubled security, seeming hardly to see the Blacks who fetched and carried for them.
Outside Pietermaritzburg we needed directions for the shorter route to Durban and sought them at a police station. Two entrances to the same office, one for Blacks (all Non-Whites) and one for Whites. Three policemen standing outside, two Indians and one White. I approached the white one and asked directions to Durban. He merely stared past me, his pale eyes seeking some distant point beyond my shoulder. After a few moments I left him and returned to the car. My driver sought and received the information from the Indian policemen, the white one looking on. Perhaps the bastard thought himself too important even to speak to a black man. I wondered what kind of relationships obtained in that police station. We drove away.
My driver complained that I should not have spoken to the policeman, and said that, in his view, it would help me if I observed the “Black” and “White” signs where they appeared. He claimed that he did not support the Government’s racial policies, arguing that he was of British stock. Yet he was obviously irritated with me for not falling in line. He predicted that, with my attitude, I’d have a rough time in Cape Town. I told him I’d be happy if he did the driving and left my behavior to me.
Returning to Durban, I telephoned several people, friends of Johannesburg friends, hoping to arrange meetings. They were all Indian, which was not surprising as most of the Indians in the country are located in Natal Province of which Durban is the capital. Indians were originally brought to South Africa as indentured laborers for the sugar plantations in much the same way as they were first taken to Guyana. In both countries they had prospered, emerging mainly as truck farmers, sugar cane planters, and small businessmen. Under the Nationalist Government their fortunes had altered dramatically and, though they still enjoyed a few privileges denied the black African, they were subject to many restrictions. Like other Non-Whites, they are consigned to enclaves and though unlike black Africans they are allowed to purchase land on which to build homes, they may at short notice be moved to some other location if the authorities decide that the one they occupy is more suitable or desirable for Whites. One of these Indian friends, a doctor, accepted my invitation to come and share some tea within the hour.
Punctually on the hour, my telephone rang. The doctor was calling from the lobby. She had arrived, but on entering the lobby, had been stopped and told that Non-Whites were not allowed in the hotel. She explained that she was calling on me and was eventually allowed to telephone my room. Angered, I went down to the lobby and without a word to anyone, escorted her up to my room. She seemed quite unperturbed by the experience, and wryly amused at my anger.
“I quite expected that they’d stop me,” she said.
“Even when you said you were here to see me?”
“Sure. They have to remind us that the presence of a black visitor in the hotel really makes no difference. We are still not welcome. Anyway, welcome to Durban.”
“Thank you. Shall we go down and have some tea?”
“I think it would be better if you had it sent up. I’ve had enough of white contempt for one day. Besides, we can talk more freely up here.”
While waiting for our tea she told me of her practice among her people, many of whom were able to make a good living, in spite of the increasing restrictions placed upon them. She, like so many of her friends and clients, had been born and raised in Durban where a thriving Indian community had developed. They had built a mosque and several good schools, cinemas, a community center. About seven years ago, the Government had rezoned that part of Durban where they lived and redesignated it a white area. Except for some businesses, the Indians were to be relocated some miles out of Durban. Their homes would have to be sold, either privately to Whites, or through compulsory purchase by the Government. In either event, the purchase price was frozen at the price obtaining when the order was first announced. The Indians protested the order but they had no political power base from which to make their protest effective. Sh
e said that as a result of the order, many families had become dislocated, and the community demoralized.
“If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you,” she offered. The tea arrived, we drank it and set off. We drove about the Indian section of Durban while she pointed out a house here, a bungalow or office there, all evacuated and desolate awaiting either new white occupancy or the bulldozer which would level the lot for a new park or shopping center. We visited an arcade where I was introduced to some Indian traders, nearly inarticulate in their bewilderment and frustration.
“Is there no way of protesting these orders?” I asked.
“It is dangerous for Blacks to protest,” I was told. “All it could bring you would be a cell in jail, or, at best, a cracked head.”
I was struck by this Indian doctor’s inclusive use of the word “Blacks,” especially in a country where shades of color were so important in determining where one lived, or worked. Perhaps it was her way of responding to my sympathetic interest.
“Have you heard?” someone interposed, excitedly. “They’re rioting out at New Germany.”
“Who’s rioting?” I inquired.
“The Blacks at Frames.”
“What’s Frames?” I asked the doctor.
“It’s a textile factory complex, with plants scattered around Durban. Cheap black labor, Indian and African, at starvation wages. Seems the workers have gone on strike. Something must have happened out there to make the workers risk a confrontation with the police and their guns and their dogs.”
“Where’s this New Germany?”
“In the suburbs. Not far away. Would you like to go out there?”
“Could we?”
“Oh, we could. The important thing would be to keep well away from any trouble areas, but it would be an eye-opener for you if your stomach can take it. The police can be quite brutal, you know.”
I assured her that my stomach would be fine and we drove off toward New Germany and the Seltex factory. My friend told me that nearly ten thousand workers were employed at ten factories around Durban, five of them owned by the Frames company, reportedly notorious for their bad working conditions.
Even before I caught sight of the factory, we could hear the sound of human voices, a loud, unintelligible rumble punctuated by shouts. Around a bend in the road, we saw a large number of Blacks milling about in front of the main office building, and my friend pulled the car onto the grass verge, well away from the action. We got out and walked to a point of vantage some distance away from the crowds but with a clear view of what was taking place. Several police vans were parked in an orderly row, and near them stood several groups of policemen, both black and white, some holding large dogs on the leash, others carrying walkie-talkies or armed with riot helmets, nightsticks, and rifles or Sten guns. A few dogs were straining at their leashes, but most of them sat obediently at the heels of their handlers.
We moved to the outer edge of the crowd to find out what had happened. My friend beckoned two Indian workers who came over to speak with us. They said that the situation was very explosive. The strike had been in progress since early morning and, so far, nearly four hundred workers had been arrested and carried off. Similar strikes were in progress at factories in Pinetown and Hammarsdale, all located within the environs of Durban.
From some of the workers I was able to get the story of the circumstances which led to the strike. They had long been promised a pay raise, ranging from ten cents to two Rand per week, depending on length of service. When they received their latest pay envelopes it was discovered that management had reneged on the promise. Such conduct by management was familiar, but the decision to strike was spontaneous and unexpected.
The law of South Africa expressly forbids strikes by Blacks, and only very grudgingly nowadays allows them limited negotiating action. In striking the men were risking prosecution, especially under the vague but comprehensively punitive Suppression of Communism Act. I noticed, here and there among the crowd, white men in civilian clothes equipped with cameras and recording devices. I was told that they were members of the Security Police, collecting information for use in later prosecution of individuals.
The workers had reported for work as usual at 6:00 A.M. but had refused to go into the factory. Management had promptly called the police who arrived in their vans within minutes and stationed themselves in full, threatening view of the workers, waiting for any provocation. I noticed two Whites, a man and a woman, both civilians, moving among the Blacks, talking and quietly exhorting small groups. I was told that they were labor union organizers, advising the Blacks to continue to strike until better pay and working conditions were negotiated. In so doing, they were breaking the law, on several counts, and my informants assured me that, eventually, they would be severely punished.
Why eventually, I wanted to know.
“Probably any attempt to arrest them here would ignite the already volatile situation, beyond any power of control by the police. However, the police will get those two—later.”
Suddenly the police were moving forward, in a spaced line, the dog handlers in the vanguard. The black officers seemed as ruthless and brutal as their white comrades. The crowd fell back before them. From the front ranks of the crowd a young black man broke away, hat in hand, moving toward the edge of the crowd. In an instant a police dog was loosed, swiftly and silently overtaking him. As the crowd roared in protest, he looked backward, stumbled and fell. The dog seized him by the bare forearm, worrying it from side to side as the young man screamed. The dog’s handler reached the young man, roughly dragged him upright before snapping the leash onto the snarling animal, which reluctantly let go of his arm.
The young man had in no way threatened anyone. He was now roughly handled toward one of the police vans and shoved inside. The crowd kept up its noisy protests as the police continued their steady advance. Suddenly, without a sound, one of them clutched his face in both hands and fell forward. Someone whispered that he had been struck by a stone. The advancing police stopped and two of them rushed to help their brother officer. To my amazement, several black workers left the crowd and knelt to help the stricken policeman, gently cradling his head on their knees. Two policemen quickly brought a stretcher and placed their comrade on it, brushing aside the helpful Blacks.
The injured policeman safely away in an ambulance, the police continued their advance on the crowd until it was encircled on three sides.
“Start thinking up a story to explain why you’re here,” the doctor whispered to me. “Just in case they come this way.” A young black worker came over to us.
“You reporters?” he asked.
“No. Just strangers, looking on,” I said.
“Strangers from where? Durban?”
“No, from overseas. I heard about the strike and came along to see what was happening.”
“This isn’t a strike,” he said. “It’s a set up. The big boss Frame has been promising a raise for weeks, then they said we’d have it last Friday. So we get our pay and it’s the same as always. No raise. So we walk out and they bring in the police. Always the same. They’re saying that the news from the other factories is the same. I just heard that the Minister for Community Affairs of the Kwa-Zulu Homeland is on his way here for a meeting with management representatives.”
“Is he white?”
“No, he’s black.”
“Don’t you have any local representatives to negotiate with management?” I asked him.
“Representatives? The police look to see who’s doing the talking and they pick him up. Sometimes the police send in their spies among us to start us talking, then they come along and pick us up. What about you? Suppose they find you here?” he asked me.
“Suppose who finds me here?”
“The Security Police.”
“Well, I’m not interfering. Just looking on. The most they can d
o is ask me to leave.”
“Don’t be too sure. You’re black. They could rough you up first and ask who you are later. In any case, my friend, when you move, walk. Never run. They’re always looking out for black men running.” With that cryptic remark, he wandered off.
It was frightening. All of it. The bewildered Blacks temporarily courageous in the rightness of their cause; invisible management exploiting their weakness; and the big brutal police, ready, willing, and able to wield their power. Helen Suzman’s daughter was right—it seemed as if the Blacks were being deliberately harried toward breaking point. The time must soon come, I told myself, when no show of police strength would be enough to contain the workers’ explosive anger and destructive rage.
Early next morning, I left by plane for Cape Town, after promising to route myself once more through Durban on my return journey to Johannesburg. Arrived at Cape Town I booked into the President Hotel at Sea Point. I had hardly settled into my room when the Assistant Manager came to see me, apologizing for what he had to tell me. It appeared that when my reservation had been requested by telephone from Johannesburg, he, knowing who I was, had applied for and received a permit allowing the reservation. However, the permit was granted on condition that I, a black man, did not use the bar at the same time as white patrons. He said he way sorry to inform me of that proscription, but he had no choice in the matter.
I was furious and told him so. I was paying for my accommodation at the same rate as anyone else and warned him that if I wanted to take a drink in the bar at any time, I would do so. Either he accepted my reservation or he did not, but if he did I demanded to be treated exactly the same as any other guest. He showed me a copy of the letter and permit issued by the Interior Ministry. I asked for copies of both so that I could study them and he promised to let me have them, but never did.
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