by Larry Writer
The catalyst for this momentous and welcome event came in 1990–91, when President F.W. de Klerk — a former National Party hardliner who had evolved into a compassionate and enlightened man given to negotiation, and so as different as can be from his predecessors Verwoerd and Vorster — set about repealing the racially discriminatory laws that were apartheid’s foundation. In 1993, de Klerk and the African National Congress’s Nelson Mandela introduced a revised constitution that enfranchised non-whites. The 1994 election with universal suffrage resulted in the ANC winning 62.65 per cent of the vote. A coalition Government of National Unity was formed, comprising 12 ANC representatives, six National Party members, and three from the Inkatha Freedom Party. Nelson Mandela, who had been arrested for armed resistance and treason, and incarcerated from 1964 to 1990, became South Africa’s first black and first democratically elected president. F.W. de Klerk and the ANC’s Thabo Mbeki were his deputies.
When apartheid was dismantled, Leon Wessels, who had served as minister for local government, national housing, and manpower in the National Party Government, said ‘Sorry’. He was one of the few members of his party to do so. ‘I am now more convinced than ever that apartheid was a terrible mistake that blighted our land. South Africans did not listen to the laughing and the crying of each other. I am sorry that I had been so hard of hearing for so long,’ he said. ‘I do not believe the political defence of “I did not know” is available to me because in many respects I believe I did not want to know.’
The nations of the world now welcomed the new South Africa, Mandela’s Rainbow Nation, back into the fold. Trade and cultural connections were re-established, as was sporting contact. After having been banned from the previous Rugby World Cups, in 1987 and 1991, the Springboks were reinstated for the World Cup of 1995 — and for good measure, it was to be held in South Africa.
At the Rugby World Cup final on 24 June 1995, at Ellis Park in Johannesburg, the Springboks, with black winger Chester Williams in the team, defeated New Zealand 15–12. That day, Mandela, president of the new multi-racial, democratic South African state, donned a green-and-gold Springbok jersey (the jersey that John Vorster had assured Jim Boyce that no black man would ever wear) to walk onto the field after the match, and was cheered to the heavens by the crowd of 59,870. Mandela listened to calls from his ministers to abolish the springbok emblem from the national rugby team’s jersey, because they felt it still symbolised white rule and apartheid; he turned them down, saying that the springbok would remain the symbol of South African rugby union, as a message to all that South Africa was now an inclusive country in which whites and non-whites were as one. Retaining the springbok emblem would now and forever reinforce the significance of his party’s achievement.
The number on the back of Mandela’s Springbok jersey was 6, that worn by tall, blond, jut-jawed Springbok captain Francois Pienaar, an Afrikaner from central casting. In the black townships, people watching on television danced with joy. They now embraced the sport they had once shunned. Mandela’s open-hearted, inclusive gesture had proved that the Afrikaners’ beloved rugby union could be a sport for all South Africans. His wearing of Pienaar’s number and his beaming, proud smile remain defining images of reconciliation and South Africa’s emergence from the darkness. On the field, a television reporter informed Francois Pienaar that an estimated 65,000 South Africans in the stadium were supporting him. You’re wrong, said Pienaar, ‘We didn’t have 65,000 South Africans, we had 43 million South Africans’ — that figure being the entire population of the Rainbow Nation. Non-whites and whites partied, often together, across the land. Years later, Pienaar would recall with a shiver of pleasure the predominantly white crowd shouting ‘Nelson! Nelson! Nelson!’ at the diminutive black man wearing the springbok over his heart. ‘When the final whistle blew,’ said Pienaar, ‘South Africa changed forever.’
Well, perhaps not all South Africa. Some old attitudes, it seemed, die hard. At the post-match dinner, the Afrikaner president of the South African Rugby Union, Dr Louis Luyt, a man renowned for his arrogance and endorsement of apartheid in the bad old days, gloated that the victorious Springboks were the first ‘true’ world champions because 1987 and 1991 winners New Zealand and Australia had won in competitions that did not include South Africa. ‘We have proved our point.’ New Zealand, English, and French players at the dinner promptly left in protest.
There were many 1971 Springboks in the crowd to see South Africa’s triumph at Ellis Park. Tom Bedford and Morne du Plessis applauded the men to whom they had passed the Springbok flame. Both today concede that the demonstrations they’d endured in Australia 24 years earlier had impacted on them personally and on rugby.
Living and studying in England in 1965 and then touring and playing rugby union in the UK, Ireland, France, Australia, and New Zealand had instilled in Bedford a belief that things had to change in South Africa and that steps needed to be taken sooner rather than later to ensure that the national rugby team contained the best players regardless of colour. Bedford had told everyone who would listen among his football and political contacts that South Africa was dooming itself by adhering to a policy of apartheid. On his return from Australia in 1971, Bedford did everything in his power to affect change. His reforming zeal, abetted by his stature as one of the finest Springboks, led him to play a pivotal role in South Africa’s post-apartheid rugby revolution. ‘I tried to be a catalyst for change,’ he told me. ‘I made it clear to the Rugby Board that no team should have to endure what we had on not one but now two tours. I said, “Australia and Britain will never have us back. If we want to play overseas we have to start adapting, change the way we live and think about ourselves, and change apartheid.”’
Bedford took it upon himself to try to tackle apartheid in South Africa through sport and specifically the sport identified with the Afrikaner ethos, rugby. His efforts saw him have black players involved with his club, Durban Collegians, and organise and lead a team of black rugby players on a tour to the UK and the US, followed a couple of years later by a multi-racial team to the US. Bedford was made an honorary vice-president of the Kwazakhele Rugby Union, the black fiercely anti-apartheid rugby body near Nelson Mandela’s Port Elizabeth. By his involvement with black rugby players and speaking out against apartheid in sport, Bedford wanted to show rugby authorities and the South African government that integration could succeed in sport and make them understand that if apartheid could be eliminated from sport, it could be eliminated in every facet of South African life.
In 1987, Tom Bedford was one of 53 South Africans who went to Dakar, Senegal, to hold talks with the leaders of the ANC, who were then banned and in exile. In Dakar, he preached the benefits of integration and put forward his plan to bring together the warring and disparate black, brown, and white sporting administrations and as a result effect change in rugby, cricket, and the Olympic sports. The ANC agreed with Bedford’s beliefs and, with him, set about, in secret, bringing them to fruition. This collaboration played a role in paving the way for the new South Africa, in which the Springboks contain white and black players and are supported by the entire country.
Tom Bedford was not at the Heroes’ Dinner in Sydney in 2001, but he would not have been out of place there.
In 1991, Morne du Plessis, a youngster in the ’71 Springboks who went on to captain his nation (albeit in the period before integration, when the only teams who would face South Africa were the British and Irish Lions, French Les Bleus, South American Jaguars, and New Zealand All Blacks during the reign of Kiwi prime minister Robert Muldoon), reflected on that tour of Australia and agreed that it had made him question apartheid and embrace new selection processes that led to the non–racially selected Springboks of today. He told ABC-TV’s 7.30 Report that the controversies his team experienced on tour ‘hurt us … it’s where you got at us … when I say “You” I say collectively you. We didn’t like the protesters or appreciate their cause at the time. We were un
der instructions … to ignore them even under provocation and we did that. But we realised that things had to change … And certainly it moved [South Africa] to change a lot faster [than] if it hadn’t happened. So many people can’t be against you if there isn’t something wrong and some of us went back and had a look [at South Africa’s apartheid policy]. I certainly did and I think that was for the first time in my life. We lived in a very protected situation, white people in South Africa, protected from what was happening under the apartheid regime and suddenly you were taken out from that protection and it was a good education for me. And for many South Africans. I would have adhered to the slogan that you shouldn’t mix sport with politics, but, really, if one looks at it, politics is life and certainly in our country … Walking down the street … for many years you were only allowed to walk on one side of the street depending on what colour you were. So we were naive to think that sport would not be involved in politics and politics not involved in sport.’
Even though Australia was eliminated from the 1995 World Cup by the eventual winners, the Rugby Seven derived deep satisfaction from the Springboks’ victory, and from the joyous scenes they witnessed on television half a world away. Says Anthony Abrahams today, ‘If you’d said to me when I was in South Africa in 1969 that the situation there would be resolved without bloodshed, I’d have bet heavily against it. Things seemed to be heading for a conflagration, and it was to the credit of de Klerk that he was able to defuse that situation, release Nelson Mandela in 1990, and allow South Africa to move on. To see Mandela walk onto the field wearing the Springbok jersey, which the National Party had made the ultimate symbol of Afrikaner oppression, was an extraordinary moment. Since 1994, I’ve enjoyed watching the Springboks play, and been delighted by the contributions of such non-white players as Chester Williams, Breyton Paulse, Bryan Habana, and Tendai “The Beast” Mtawarira, and by the celebrations at matches when blacks and whites dance together.’
Jim Boyce sums up his contribution. ‘[The South African rugby team] is no longer purely representative of the white minority, it represents all South Africa, and I’m proud to have played a small part in that … We tried to maintain the integrity of our sport, rugby union, and in doing so were instrumental in bringing South African rugby into a state of honesty and equity. We were rugby players who had developed a hatred of apartheid in South Africa as a result of what we’d read and seen for ourselves. None of the so-called Rugby Seven was a member of a political party, and none of us have been involved in other political campaigns. Our stand made us figureheads for the anti-apartheid movement in Australia. We certainly have never considered ourselves as heroes. We simply did what we felt. As far as we were concerned, we did what was right, and there were no other options. We remain friends, just as we’re friends with teammates and opponents who opposed what we did. The ties that bind have proved to be stronger than temporary discord. Paul, Anthony, James, Barry, Bruce, and Terry are part of what I like to call the “rugby fraternity” and part of the heritage of rugby. Paul Darveniza and I have presented jerseys to the Australian team before a match, and we have all partaken in team reunions of our respective tours with no acrimony. I’m proud of the stand we took and, speaking for myself, because I’m the only person I can speak for, I would do it again.’
James Roxburgh shies from the hero tag. ‘It all just fell into my lap,’ says this private and self-effacing man. ‘I couldn’t have done anything else. Making myself unavailable to play against the South Africans in 1971 was probably the thing I’ve done in my life that made the most impact. I’m just a guy who is pretty involved with my family and I haven’t achieved great heights. I’ve been a schoolteacher, which I’m not knocking, but I haven’t achieved huge things. I’m just pleased that when I had the chance, I did the right thing. The Heroes’ Dinner made me feel good, but it was a bit undeserved. I think Meredith was overstating our role. I mean, “heroes” is a bit of a stretch.’
Numerous factors led to the scuttling of apartheid and the consequent changes that have come to South Africa, most wrought by brave and determined South Africans of all colours and creeds. Yet much of what they achieved could not have been, or would have taken far longer to come into play, had not the wider world refused to compete against and work with a racist regime. Australia did its bit. The stand of the Rugby Seven, the anti-Springbok demonstrations, and intense national debate on apartheid in 1971 … the cancellation of the South African cricket tour and Sir Donald Bradman’s condemnation of apartheid … the Whitlam Government’s ostracising of South Africa and subsequent Liberal and Labor Governments’ support for that position … Gleneagles … Australians’ admiration for Nelson Mandela. All, to a greater or lesser degree, were a part of the fabric of the new South Africa.
Former Australian foreign minister Gareth Evans, who, as a student, painted his face black and was crash-tackled by a policeman when demonstrating against the Springboks back in 1965, rejoiced at South Africa’s transition to democracy and explained Australia’s passionate commitment to the righting of a wrong that ‘was so little of our making’. There were many inequalities and injustices in the world, but apartheid stood so far ‘beyond the pale … that it simply could not be regarded as just another unpalatable regime. If we had washed our hands of apartheid, on the comfortable but indecent justification that it was too far away or intractable a problem, we would not only have failed in our humanitarian duty, but have debased the very values which are the core of our sense of human dignity.’
In 2009, Taafe felt certain that the wounds of 1971 had healed when, 40 years after the 1969 Wallabies’ tour of South Africa, the ARU asked him to do the honour of ceremonially presenting their jerseys to the Wallabies before their Tri-Nations Test against the Springboks at Newlands Stadium in Cape Town. ‘Was it a way of making amends to me? I like to think so. I was just an average Joe Blow player. I interpreted the gesture as reconciliation, putting to bed the rancorous past. After I said I’d be honoured, I contacted ’69 Wallaby Barry Honan, who was in the travel business, and suggested to him that we organise a tour to Cape Town for the match and then a trip around the new South Africa for members of the 1969 Wallaby side and their partners. A couple of the fellows, Greg Davis, Phil Smith, had died, but about 25 of us were keen. The SARU got right behind the trip and treated us like kings. They had TV shows about us. The old teammates and their better halves were a big, happy family, despite a number of us having not seen the others for decades. We enjoyed each other’s company. I had always sensed on tour in ’69 that there was a bit of distance between some of the salt-of-the-earth bushies in the team and the intellectual and erudite Ant Abrahams, but now they realised what a terrific fellow he is, and of course in 2009 Ant was different, too, more worldly and perhaps accommodating of different views, less intense. It was a wonderful thing to see.
‘Our hosts kept asking us, “Why would a side that lost all four of its test matches ever want to get back together, and Hugh Rose gave the best speech ever, saying that Australia was held together by Gallipoli and other glorious defeats and, guess what, this is the same! They got it! Then they said to me that I had 10 or 15 minutes in the dressing room to make a speech and hand out the guernseys, and I said, “Well, how about it’s not just me handing out the jumpers, but all 25 of us? And can the girls be there, too?” So the old Wallabies and their wives came into the sheds, and I gave the speech and handed out the jumpers. We lost that test, too!’
Journalist Norm Tasker took his place among the former players on the tour, and reports that the camaraderie between the ’69 Wallabies still burned strong. ‘The affection these men have for each other was summed up by [the team’s coach] Des Connor. Des was interviewed by [former Wallaby and commentator] Greg Martin, who said to him, “You’ve played tests for Australia and played tests for New Zealand, you coached the Wallabies. What’s the best moment in your career?” Des said, “This tour.” To maintain that spirit and respect for all those years
is remarkable.’
Bruce Taafe found South Africa circa 2009 much changed from the terrible days of apartheid. ‘To see non-whites working and playing freely. To see them being treated humanely and as equals in an integrated society. It was another country. I spoke to some whites I knew in the insurance industry, and, because the money is now with the non-white middle classes, these people were going to live in black communities so they would be better able to service the growing market.
‘But while much has improved, aspects of South Africa today make me sad. There is corruption and violence. Companies I deal with through my IT organisation have to employ their own police forces to keep their employees and property safe. People say to me that what we did in supporting the transfer of power to the majority non-white population helped to create the corruption among some black leaders and the violence, and I say, “No. Fighting apartheid was the right thing to do because it was wrong. Corruption followed, but it wasn’t caused by the end of apartheid. Corruption is a separate wrong, and needs to be fought, too.”’
Today, Meredith Burgmann remains inordinately proud of what was achieved in 1971. ‘While we divided the community and made Australia a pretty unpleasant place for a while, we put the issue of racism on the agenda in this country, racism as regards non-white South Africans and our own Indigenous people as well as the White Australia Policy that was then in place. I’m confident we converted a significant number of Australians to our belief that racism must never be tolerated. I had a cousin who believed that the way to solve the Gurindji problem was to place a bounty on their heads, and after hearing us out she hated racism as much as any of us. On an international level, we showed the rest of the world that there were Australians who would not stand for racism.
