The State of Emergency

The events of 21 March 1960 and those of 4 April, when hell's fury was let loose on the African people, were to bring me closer still to my people. After 21 March and the shootings in Langa and Sharpeville, the African workers in Cape Town downed tools and very few of them reported for work. After the big funerals on 26 March there was virtually a complete work stoppage in the African townships in and around the Peninsula. One of the provocations that made Africans march to the centre of the city on 30 March was the police raids on their living quarters, unleashed in an attempt to drive the people to work.

The 30 March walk to Caledon Square, the central police station, was not pre-planned; it developed spontaneously as the police were driving workers out of their quarters into the centre of Langa. When thousands had gathered near the iNkundla, they all decided to proceed to parliament, and on they marched. I was at work and did not know about this until lunchtime, when the people were already converging on Caledon Square. A.C. and Pallo were at the university at Groote Schuur, Nandi was downtown at the Little Theatre, Ninzi and Lindi were in school in Athlone.

When Pallo and the other students heard that African columns were approaching Mowbray, they flew down and joined the marchers, just as the first column was entering De Waal Drive, and marched with them to Oranjezicht. A.C. had followed in his car with one or two other professors. He did not know that Pallo was with the marchers. He only saw him later, resting with the others under the trees, as they debated whether to go to the House of Assembly or to Caledon Square. A.C. called out to Pallo to let him know that he too was there. I was on my way to lunch in the Cape Town

Gardens when, as I crossed Long Street, some white woman told me that Africans were reported to be marching to the Houses of Parliament. I flew through those gardens, heading for the House. As I came out, I saw other people streaming past, running towards Plein Street. I followed and got to the area around Caledon Square, just as the people were coming in and taking their places. In no time, the whole area filled up and there was nothing but a sea of black faces all around. The few whites, Coloureds and Indians were hardly visible in that sea of black. A helicopter was already droning above us. It was a tense moment. Nobody knew what was going to happen. All stood there, silent and determined. Now and again, through the din of the helicopter above us, came a lone voice: 'uSana olungaliliyo, lufel' embelekweni!' [A baby that does not cry dies in its mother's back-strap.] Whose voice this was, no one knew. We were to learn later that this was Vernon February, A.C.'s Coloured student in his Xhosa II class at UCT.

Patrick Duncan limped past us and headed for the door of the police station, asking: 'Where's Kgosana? Where's Philip Kgosana? Did anyone see him go past here?' I do not know if he received any answer to his question. We all stood there, silent.

After a wait of about two and a half hours in that hot sun, Philip Kgosana climbed on a police van to address the crowds. But as his voice could not carry, and because he did not speak the language of the majority of the people gathered here, Mlamli Makhwethu got up next to him to tell the people to go home, their grievances had been noted and would be passed on to the Minister in charge; passes were suspended and the police would not harass them anymore.

The people quietly turned round and went home, 30,000 of them! They had come to town on foot, marching fourteen miles over De Waal Drive, orderly and quiet, reminding each other 'No violence, Ma-Afrika!' Others had followed by bus and train and caught up with the marchers in front of Caledon Square. Those from Nyanga, on hearing of this, followed on foot. But by the time they got to Claremont train station, the crowds were already going home, and they turned to go back with them.

Where I was standing, some Africans doubted the wisdom of going home, saying it was all a trick. This was just a way to defuse the situation. They were right. By the time the crowds reached the townships, the government had declared a State of Emergency, giving the Minister of Justice and any officer in his department

arbitrary powers to deal with Africans. In terms of the State of Emergency of 1960, the South African government did away with habeas corpus . That suspension was to be incorporated later in the General Law Amend-ment Act of 1963.

Pallo had marched back with the people, all the way from Caledon Square to Langa junction, where he took the bus home to Sunnyside. A.C. and the other faculty members had driven back to varsity to collect their bags and they too headed home. It had been an exciting day. Passes suspended! Does it really mean a change in policy? Yes, suspended they were for more than two months. The State of Emergency would have stopped any black stampede into the towns. It covered the whole country; it was ruthless. Under it, men, women and children, especially boys, were arrested for all sorts of infringements of the laws, real and imaginary. That same evening after the State of Emergency was put into effect, the whole PAC executive in the Western Cape was arrested for incitement, the same charge that had been levelled against Sobukwe and others in the Transvaal and against Chief Albert Luthuli, after he had burnt his pass in public. By the morning of 31 March all entrances to the locations were sealed, with army units in fours, standing at each entrance, with instructions to shoot anyone leaving or entering.

As soon as I got to work, I told Mrs Matthews, the secretary, under whom I worked, that I would like to check what the situation was like in Langa, whether it was possible to go in through the footpaths. She agreed that I leave as soon as I could. I left at eleven o'clock. The suburb of Pinelands is separated from Langa by only a broad boulevard, running from east to west. There are many footpaths from Pinelands into Langa, which many workers from Langa use. I thought I would try one of these. I knew that going through the gate was well-nigh impossible, and I did not want to answer any of the questions at the gates, still more go through that barrier of armed soldiers. From town, I took the bus to Pinelands, and got off at a spot just below the Langa Hospital where I knew there was a footpath. I crossed the street, walked through the bushes towards Langa, and right there, in front of me, among the bushes were the soldiers. Another woman coming from Paarden Eiland and going home to her children joined me. We stood there for a few minutes and both of us decided not to try this entrance. Further on, east of us, there was another footpath, near Thornton. We decided to try that one, even though we figured we would find the same situation.

At this one, too, soldiers were standing guard. I gave up and went home. That Saturday, A.C. and I tried another path through Bridgetown-Kewtown into the barracks and zones south of Langa. The soldiers were there too. They were so young; they looked bored, standing there with nothing to do, defending white supremacy.

The African workers were home, doing their domestic chores for a change. All the industries where Africans worked were losing money. Managers were getting desperate and something had to be done. By the morning of 4 April more army units were called in, flown into Cape Town the previous night. That morning and right through the day and the next and the next hell's fury was let loose on the African people; they were beaten out of their houses, beaten in the streets and driven to work. This was the day a seventeen-year-old white boy, a policeman, assaulted A.C. in Rondebosch. He had gone to the post office to send off some examination books, and was returning to his car. The young policeman ran across, telling him to stop. 'I did not even think he was calling to me,' said A.C. When the young officer reached him, he demanded to know why he did not stop.

'Me?' asked A.C.

He had his cigarette in his hand and the officer knocked it out with 'Yes, you!' and a slap across the face.

At that point another officer, older, ran towards them calling: 'Stop it! Stop it!' When he got up, he said: 'I am sorry, Sir. Sorry!'

A.C. went back to the university, and made a report to the head of his department, informing him he was going home and would remain there until the university guaranteed him safe passage to and from his work. His nephew Bransby, who was serving articles with a firm of lawyers in town, called home on the off-chance that his uncle might be there.

'You are home early,' remarked Bransby.

A.C. told him what had happened that morning. He had just finished writing an official letter to the head of his department. At once Bransby called Donald Molteno S.C. and reported that his uncle had been assaulted by a young white officer in Rondebosch. Mr Molteno at once called Mr Harry Lawrence, MP for Salt River, and told him to bring the matter up at once. All these were people who respected A.C. and felt outraged that such a thing could happen to him just because he was black. Only two years before, Lawrence's son had

been in A.C.'s class and the young fellow had nothing but praise for his professor, both as a person and as a teacher. Lawrence was furious and raised the matter at once, demanding a public apology, to A.C., to the University of Cape Town and to the African people at large. The House adopted such a motion.

Sometime during the State of Emergency, the Commandant of the Wynberg Police came to our house, with a written apology to A.C. from his department, the Department of Native Affairs and the Department of Justice. It was Lindi who answered his knock at the front door. After he had introduced himself Lindi made him stand on the stoep while he went to the study to call his dad.

Many people sent messages of sympathy to us. Only one person, a member of staff in the English Department at UCT, a friend of A.C., thought he had made an undue fuss for other 'Natives' were also being assaulted. Why should he have imagined an exception would be made of him?

After calling Mr Molteno, Bransby had phoned me at work. I called home at once and A.C. answered.

'Are you hurt?' I asked.

'No! No! Don't worry. I am all right. I am not even angry any more. I'll tell you when you get home. Please, don't worry!'

It was only in the evening that I heard the whole story.

Yes, hell's fury was let loose on the African people that 4 April. This was the day the police shot and killed Mkhwane in Nyanga West. They had driven him and other men out of their shacks and as they ran round the fence, the police opened fire and killed Mkhwane on the spot. His wife was the first to reach him, just as he was gasping for his last breath. I met Mrs Mkhwane a week after, still in shock. Another worker, Nkohla, of Nyanga East, had been shot while running away and had caught a bullet with his forearm as he cowered to protect his head. When he fell, the police took him, threw him in the van, and sent him to Worcester jail where his broken arm was attended to some ten hours later.

Under the State of Emergency, people disappeared into thin air. A boy who had run an errand for his mother after school would not come home; a man who had gone to Langa to renew his pass would disappear; a worker waiting for his train at a railway station would not be seen or heard of again. Nobody knew what had happened to them. All had been taken under Article 4 bis of the Emergency Regulations. Their relatives came to our office in Bree Street to help

them find their loved ones. This was my assignment. It seemed a hopeless task, for we had nothing to go on; the police precincts in and around Cape Town did not keep any records of such people. Under the Emergency Regulations a 'mock' court was established in Cape Town where those arrested appeared before a magistrate, were sentenced and sent to goodness-knows-where. It was to this court that I directed my inquiries. It was not much help to us. All I could obtain was the name of the person arrested (in most cases misspelt), the date of appearance in court, the date of departure from Cape Town, the train the said person was put on, the destination, and the last train station on the other end. Where the person landed up nobody knew or even cared to know in the 'mock' court. Mrs Kathleen Rose Matthews, then secretary of the South African Institute of Race Relations in Cape Town, was just marvellous. Somewhere I have said of this woman: 'I shall never forget the humanity and the courage of Mrs Kathleen Rose Matthews, then secretary of the SAIRR office in Cape Town, under whom I worked, for though we had so little to go by, she held on doggedly, and we followed every lead, checking and rechecking every bit of information. It was the sympathy and courage of this woman that comforted those who came to our office for help and gave them hope that something would someday turn up.'

Putting bits of information together, little by little, we were able to trace most of the people who had disappeared. I was in the townships on Tuesdays and Thursdays and later every weekend. Here with some good news perhaps, or here to check on a name. To this very day I can still see the happy faces when the news was good, but how sad they looked when the news was bad. When they cried, I cried with them and, locked in their embraces, I knew that the situation we were all in had bound us together. It was during these trips that I met in Nyanga West a tall black man, a six-footer, muscle all over. His whole body was covered in weals, his legs were swollen up to the waist and he told me that for a whole week he had urinated blood. He had been beaten with sjamboks and truncheons by the police on 4 April. 'There were six of them,' he told me. 'If only I had had two to face, I would have shown them.' I believed him. He was a giant. 'Nkosazana, I was not in this campaign. But the police beat me into it. Now I am in it heart and soul.'

I learnt a lot from the people during those days and months. One thing was that no matter what the odds, how long the road, they

were determined to walk it to the very end. One had to be in the magistrate's courts, where batches of them were facing trial. The people were defiant and unafraid. The Xhosa call them amaDelakufa – those who defy death. Those to be charged would be called up to the well of the court, before the magistrate – six or eight of them. The charge would be read out: Guilty or not guilty? 'Not guilty!' would be their response, and they would be remanded for some later date. Then they would turn round to go to the basement where they had been kept and where others were waiting. As soon as they left the well of the court, each would call out 'iZwe Lethu!' , and from the basement came a thunderous response: 'Afrika!'

'Amandla!'

Response: 'Ngawethu!'

There was nothing that any court orderly could do to silence them.

The African people knew that history was on their side. They still know it today.

After 30 March my brother Mzukie was one of the few contacts that the PAC members in Langa had with the outside world; through him they could send and receive messages. This meant he had to go through that cordon of armed units, with bayonets at the ready, every time he entered Langa. Was I scared for him! Would Mzukie know what to do and say when asked questions? I would ask myself. A.C. always told me that Mzukie would handle the situation much better than I ever could. I could not believe it. For all the serious discussions we had had, to me he was still that small, innocent boy, shooting marbles on the stoep or moulding clay cattle under the table in the kitchen at home, who would be fed up with me when I said: 'No clay in the house; clay belongs to the side of the cattle-fold, not inside the house.' So I always breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him enter our gate, cool as ever, calm and controlled. Running to meet him, I would say: 'Nqoko, you are here! How are you? How are things?' Then I would think to myself: 'Perhaps A.C. is right; Nqoko is no longer a child.'

This anxiety for him never left me. I remember in 1961, when he and five others were arrested in Langa for 'furthering the ends of a banned organisation, the PAC' and were under interrogation for more than two weeks, I was all torn inside, fearing they would beat him up, wondering if he would give a consistent story every time he came up for questioning. Knowing that the police would search his

room in Crawford, I went there, looked through his bookcase for any books that might be thought subversive and removed these, as well as papers he had in his dresser, and left these in the custody of the family in the next room, great friends of his, whose three-year-old daughter just adored him. When the detectives brought him to the house to search his room, this three-year-old, I was told, seeing his hair unkempt, came out with a brush and comb and started combing him. Mrs Plaatje, the mother, said: 'I was so glad when Ntuthu did that, to show them that he was a good man who would not hurt anybody.'

'Is this your child?' the police had asked.

'No, she is my friends' and we are good friends,' he had told them.

To me Mzukie will always be my little brother, the baby I prayed for when I was five years old.

Throughout those six months of the State of Emergency, a black Dodge police car always parked at the corner of Unity Road and Covington Road, right in front of our house. Mr Forbes, our next-door neighbour, alerted us to its presence there every night. For three months I could not sleep. I, too, stood by the window, watching them. The car would come up our street at about eleven o'clock, slowly go down to Port Jackson Road, then back again at about midnight, up the road; at about one o'clock, it would stop just before the light and remain there until four in the morning. After three months of watching, I decided I might as well get my sleep. I am certain now that after three months of watching our house, they knew that no people came to us by night. But they maintained their vigil, just to keep us on tenterhooks.