by Larry Writer
South Africa’s new ambassador to Australia, John Mills, came under fire. He appeared on ABC-TV’s influential Monday Conference current-affairs program to defend his government and seek understanding of South Africa’s particular problems. Under questioning by moderator Robert Moore, he explained that those who criticised South African government policy were labouring under the misconception that South Africa was ‘one unitary society’. However, ‘If you can use a bit of empathy and place yourself in our shoes and look at our basic premise, which is that we are not and never have been, and it is extremely unlikely that we ever shall be, one unitary society, then I submit to you that our policy of separate development [i.e. apartheid] is equally as logical as the argument of our critics. There is no South African nation in the way there is an Australian or an American nation.’ The non-white South African nations, continued the ambassador, were separate and independent nations in their own right, with foreign and defence policies of their own. Apartheid, an uncomfortable-looking Mills asserted, was simply a term for awarding independence to these nations, which happened to be within South Africa’s borders. It was a way ‘to eliminate the causes of friction … and there is no wish to inflict humiliation on any person’.
Moore asked Mills if it was not humiliating to deny a sportsman the chance to represent his country. Mills, vexed that Moore was not accepting his argument, snapped, ‘Here we come back again to the hub. If we are in the process of setting up separate states, would it be wise to encourage the people to think of playing for South Africa if, in fact, they are Zulus and they should be playing in the course of time for Zululand, or whatever the name of the country is that they will eventually choose?’
The feeling of the majority in South Africa, Mills went on, was that there were ‘substantial and permanent groups who were as diverse in their characteristics and their ways of life as were the white people, and there can only be friction and competition for power if they were put into a melting pot or unitary society.’ The South African government was not racist, he averred. Far from it.
Moore reminded Mills of a statement made by Prime Minister Verwoerd to the South African parliament on 25 January 1963: ‘Reduced to its simplest form, the problem is this. We want to keep South Africa white. Keeping it white can only mean one thing, namely white domination. Not leadership, not guidance, but controlled supremacy.’ The ambassador shifted uneasily in his seat and replied, ‘That was in 1963. We have come a considerable way since then. [Verwoerd had more recently said that] we wish to get away from discrimination in every form and in every way and we believe that our policy of separate development is the way … We have moved from segregation, which was a vertical thing: top dog, middle dog, bottom dog … We’ve moved away from white domination to separate development.’ Moore, along with many viewers at home, raised an eyebrow.
CHAPTER 21
LAST HURRAH
Their Toowoomba idyll done and red-dusted, it was back into the cauldron for the South Africans when they returned to Sydney to play their 13th and final match, the Third Test against Australia at the Sydney Cricket Ground, on Saturday 7 August. If they won, the 1971 Springboks would be the first South African rugby union team to complete a tour of Australia undefeated. After six intense weeks, the footballers were at the end of their tether. They gathered in their laager and regrouped.
The demonstrators were also feeling the pinch. Although bruised physically and mentally, and with many of their leaders on bonds that would see them jailed if broken, the AAM nevertheless dragged itself to its feet for one final tilt. ‘We’ll be outside the Springboks’ Bondi Junction hotel all this week,’ pronounced Meredith Burgmann. ‘Then on the morning of the match around 4,000 of us will march to the ground where we’ll demonstrate. Probably it’ll just be a lot of noise but some of us will be trying to get onto the field during the match. And we’ll be at Sydney airport to give them a fitting send-off when they fly home the following day.’
CARIS, too, planned to make its presence felt. ‘We’re hoping for 2,000 to join us outside the SCG,’ said Jim Boyce.
With no tour match yet stopped because of the protesters, Police Commissioner Norman Allan was determined that the Springboks’ last match would not be disrupted. He personally guaranteed that there would be no trouble at the test. ‘Anti-apartheid demonstrators have learned that the NSW Police is more than capable of handling any disorder from them. I’m hoping the protesters will take a leaf out of the Brisbane demonstrators’ book. They made their point by boycotting the matches rather than risk confronting the heavy police numbers at the Exhibition Ground.’ But just in case, Allan added, 700 police would be at the ground.
As the AAM promised, there were protests outside the Squire Inn all week, but chanting and singing seemed perfunctory, and this time the footballers had no trouble sleeping. The evening before the test, a crowd of around 100 gathered at a rally organised by Sydney church groups. They sang hymns and protest songs in the driving rain and then all, except for a die-hard handful who huddled together for warmth in the car park, went home to bed.
The tepid protests may have lulled the tourists and their minders into a false sense of security, and when an attack came next morning, they were off their guard. As the footballers were seated in their bus outside the Squire Inn waiting to take the short ride to the SCG for the big game, a protester approached the bus without attracting police attention — and casually lobbed a phial of tear gas through a window (despite the edict against its use by the AAM). The glass tube shattered and showered the South Africans with chlorobenzylidene-malononitrile gas. Tears streamed from eyes, and mucous from burning nasal passages. The footballers poured, spluttering and gasping, off the bus. Worst affected were Martiens Louw, whose shirt and blazer were drenched, and John Williams, the tall line-out jumper, who vomited. Police formed a protective ring around the players and shepherded them back into the hotel, where they doused their faces, changed their clothes, and tried to compose themselves. Two police minibuses were fetched to take the shaken and angry players to the game. The Springboks planned to make the Wallabies pay for the tear-gas attack with a resounding victory and a series clean-sweep.
Being tear-gassed is hardly ideal preparation for a test match, but to their credit, as they had done all tour, the Springboks rose to the occasion and won the match 18–6. The game was punctuated by flare-ups between the opposing players. The Australians were aggressive, trying to unsettle the South Africans in a bid to finally win a test, and the Springboks were taking out on the Wallabies their righteous fury at the morning’s tear-gas attack in particular — and in general, the hounding and shunning to which they’d been subjected all tour. For once, there were more blows exchanged on the field than in the spectator areas. The most notable set-to was when Australia’s Bob McLean punched Springbok forward Piet Greyling, and Greyling’s teammate Morne du Plessis flattened McLean with a left hook.
The demonstrations were few and small, and there were only 28 arrests. The large numbers of police and the presence on the SCG Hill, previously the protesters’ stronghold, of groups of tetchy rugby men had much to do with that. One last time, a few demonstrators threw Nazi salutes and chanted ‘Paint ’em black and send ’em back!’ or ‘Go home racists!’ Yet nobody made it onto the field. A small group of protesters snipped the barbed-wire barrier and tried to clamber through, but were easily repelled. Just four smoke flares were thrown, and these were soon extinguished.
One casualty was prominent communist and anti-apartheid campaigner Mark Aarons, who would become a journalist and author, and a political adviser to New South Wales premier Bob Carr. Aarons was standing quietly in the crowd, breaking no law, when a policeman recognised him and punched him.
At one point, plainclothes police moved in on a well-dressed middle-aged man carrying an umbrella and wearing a protest badge because they thought he was Denis Freney. A bystander would claim he saw a policeman try to slip something
incriminating, perhaps a knife or a smoke flare or marijuana, into their captive’s pocket. One of the arresting officers kept asking, ‘Is this Freney? Is this Freney?’ To the officers’ embarrassment, it wasn’t, and the man had the ID to prove it. Freney was, for once, obeying the order that barred him from coming within 100 metres of the SCG.
Meredith Burgmann acknowledges that she and the AAM leadership realised ‘We couldn’t get the same numbers again for the final test as we had for the earlier games. The number of demonstrators who showed up for the Springboks’ first match, against Sydney in Sydney, was extraordinary. The last match, at the end of that exhausting campaign, was an anti-climax. We were physically and emotionally wrecked, and in no fit state to get it all back together again. Besides, most of us were on bonds …’
Denis Freney conceded that after weeks of tumult, the protesters, like soldiers too long at the front line, were now drained, and with their defences down they were intimidated by the police and rugby vigilantes when they had not been in the heady early days of the campaign. Yet, ever the activist, he put his side’s spin on the situation. Part of the protesters’ uncharacteristic lassitude was a result of their realisation that ‘we had already won the war. We decided to call for a silent protest at the last Test, in mourning for the harm done to Australian democracy by police thugs and Tory governments, particularly in Queensland. We were confident that our protests were victorious and that there would be no more tours.’
The test was the international swansong of the Springbok stalwarts Hannes Marais and Frik du Preez, and at the end of the match they were chaired from the field by rejoicing teammates. As the South Africans shook hands with the vanquished Wallabies and left the arena, the vast body of the 21,800 spectators farewelled the Springboks with three cheers and a passionate, if off-key, rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. In so many ways for the South Africans, this had been a disastrous tour, but as far as their football was concerned there was much to cheer and sing about.
In the days following the test, all protagonists claimed victory.
The Springboks had won all 13 of their matches, beating the best rugby union players Australia could pit against them. They amassed 396 points and conceded only 102. Their behaviour off the field and on it was faultless. They were shocked and angered by their treatment in Australia, but largely they did not react publicly, refusing, like any good rugby player, to let an opponent know he’d hurt you.
The anti-apartheid movement was clicking its heels because, as Peter McGregor explained, ‘The price of the tour, the animosity that divided the community, the State of Emergency in Queensland, the blood spilled on the streets, police out in force and the cost of security were all seen to be too high a price to pay for a rugby series. Also, the world now realised that there were elements in Australia, a country previously considered apathetic and occasionally reactionary, who opposed apartheid. No, we didn’t succeed in halting games, but we were more successful than we hoped in our demonstrations because of the number and cross section of people who joined us to protest. I do not believe the cricket tour by the South Africans can now possibly go ahead.’
Indeed, rumours were swirling as the rugby series wound up that the five-test cricket series would be reduced to three to shorten the tour and so give the protesters fewer opportunities, or be cancelled altogether. McGregor said that while AAM would continue to educate Australians about the evils of apartheid, it was ‘now time to concentrate on Aboriginal rights’.
Using the Springboks as a stalking horse, conservative politicians had succeeded in vilifying trade unions and protesters in the eyes of many Australians, and succeeded in putting law and order onto the election agenda. Judging by the results of the Queensland by-elections, they exulted, their strategy was a winner.
As for the ARU and the state rugby union bodies, the sting of defeat was assuaged by record-breaking profits (between $80,000 and $100,000) from large attendances. The ARU’s investment had paid off. And it was considered a triumph for the organisers, too, that every match was played to the final whistle.
Daily Telegraph sporting scribe Phil Tresidder was adamant that Australian rugby union was richer for the Springbok tour. ‘The amateur code has struggled for decades to keep its head above water. Suddenly the Springboks have come and gone, and the undreamed bonanza of $100,000 profit is in the bank … The Union is richer, too, prestige-wise. The game’s administrators, notably president Charles Blunt, showed strength and character in their resolute faith that the tour should be completed. On the premise that any publicity is good publicity, the Springboks have projected the code onto the front page and lead items of every newspaper and radio bulletin. One side effect of this high-pressure publicity has been the over-shadowing of rugby league for a time in this city.’ There was, however, a downside to the Springbok tour, grumbled Tresidder, and this was ‘the grim exposure of Australia’s playing standards. Our football was never so frail. There isn’t one solitary Australian player who would earn a guernsey with the Springboks. The lack of technique of Australian footballers, the shortcomings in method, control and finesse, have been disheartening.’
On 8 August, after a farewell barbecue at the home of former Wallaby Peter Crittle, the South Africans were driven to Sydney Airport to catch their SAA flight home. Relaxed at last, with the job done, they chatted to supporters and even to some of the two dozen anti-apartheid campaigners while they waited to enter customs. There was some slogan-yelling and singing, and a stink bomb was thrown, but nothing the 30 police on duty couldn’t easily handle. A couple of players asked for an anti-apartheid banner to take home as a souvenir, and the demonstrators sheepishly obliged. In bidding goodbye to Charles Blunt and officials from the ARU and NSWRU, Flappie Lochner even managed a joke. He reckoned his men were so flummoxed by the lack of protests in Brisbane that they didn’t play as well as they had when the protesters were running onto the pitch and the smoke flares were being thrown at them.
As the Springboks traipsed into immigration, a couple of the players waved to the crowd, friends and foes alike, and called out, ‘Tot ziens!’ (‘I’ll be seeing you!’)
Old friends Peter McGregor and John Myrtle went to the airport together to make sure on behalf of the AAM and CARIS that the South Africans got on the plane. ‘We knew there’d be coppers there and it was a waste of time putting on a protest,’ says Myrtle, ‘so we were in a fairly laid-back state of mind and just wanting to stay out of strife. Peter and I chatted to the Boks. It was friendly. I guess everyone was relieved that the whole thing was over at last. Peter said to one of them, “Next time you come to Australia, we’ll be better prepared and you won’t complete the tour.” The player smiled and replied, “Rubbish, man, we got through this tour. We had the police and the military support us. Bad luck … that’s the state of the world.” We went back to our car depressed that we hadn’t been able to stop even one game. Then, at the realisation that the cricket tour was coming up, we brightened, imagining all the things we’d get up to. “Just think,” Peter said, “we could take little compact mirrors into the grounds and reflect the sun into the batsman’s eyes just as he was making a shot … We’ll wreak havoc!”’
It was nearly 11.00 p.m. when the South African Airways plane ascended over Sydney and turned west. The protesters had dispersed long ago, although not before Aboriginal activist Gary Foley, wearing his circa-1963 Springbok jersey, was called ‘nigger’ and punched by a rugby supporter. When Foley complained to police that he’d been racially abused and assaulted, the officer snapped, ‘You’ve been asking for that all night. If you hang around with shit, you have to expect to be treated like shit.’
Sixteen hours later, at Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts Airport, more than 20,000 were gathered to give the Springboks a heroes’ welcome. Politicians and journalists praised them for their results and grace under pressure. One, a Johannesburg-based Australian named Ernest Shirley, rejoiced in the Springbok triumph in the Joh
annesburg Sunday Times, but warned that it had come at a heavy price. ‘The tour has been a disaster for both countries. South Africa won the series, but lost a good friend in the process.’
On 9 August, at around the same time that the Springboks were touching down, Meredith Burgmann appeared before Deputy Chief Magistrate Bruce Brown SM in Sydney’s Central Court. She pled not guilty to behaving in an offensive manner at the Springbok–Sydney game on 6 July. ‘By running onto the field I thought I could show my dislike for apartheid without hurting anybody,’ she explained to Brown. ‘I was demonstrating against the all-white sporting team coming to Australia. It was a peaceful, symbolic gesture. I may have offended some rugby supporters.’ Instead, she herself had been hurt. ‘I was dragged off the field by a policeman who pulled me by my cardigan. I was choked and was hurt very badly. I was dragged up some steps and my heels began to bleed.’ Brown was unmoved. Burgmann, he said, was ‘a professional demonstrator’ who had persistently demonstrated ‘outside the law’ and needed to be taught a lesson. He sentenced her to two months’ jail with hard labour.
