The imperative of Restitution

Yesterday, I had a conversation with an extremely powerful man. It’s not the first time I have spoken to him. And now, as before, I was struck by his ordinariness. He is, to be sure, unprepossessing. He is a grey man outwardly, but far from colourless. You wouldn’t notice him in a crowd. You would be unlikely to strike up a conversation with him in the lift. He dresses plainly but casually and he heads a vast, successful multi-continental commercial empire.

He is not afraid to give you his opinion and when he speaks, it is with the authority of a man who is not used to hearing the word “no”. When he speaks, he uses examples from his personal experience. And the examples he uses are engaging and easy to understand. When he speaks, he demonstrates that he has thought about the subject matter carefully. He has reached a conclusion and he shares his wisdom easily, in an unfussy and unpretentious way.

The myths and legends about him are legion. Barely mention his name in the sphere of his influence and you will hear a story of his genius, his vision, his insight, his commercial courage. People quake visibly at the mere thought of his censure.

We were talking about why I had decided to move back into government, to do the job I will be doing for the foreseeable future – the job of Restitution. Now I noticed, right from the start of our conversation, that his position, (which was entirely negative of the endeavour) was not an uninformed one. This is markedly different from many other white people who have shared their opinions with me on my move, recently. Most white people immediately mistake Restitution for Redistribution. The moment they hear the words “Land Claims” they assume the Mugabe position. Why, they want to know, would I want to have anything to do with taking people’s land away from them and giving it to other people who are ill-equipped to run it?

Their lips curl. They bare their teeth at me and they snarl their disapproval. It matters nothing, when I point out that Apartheid did exactly what Mugabe is doing. It took land away from people who were its legal owners and in most cases did nothing to compensate them. But for these people what Mugube is doing is wrong and it somehow wasn’t wrong when the Nationalist party did the same thing. (Or, if not that, then it is just ignored as a comparison). They simply cannot hear the argument.

Not the man I was speaking to. He knows exactly what Restitution is. He can cite precise examples. Nevertheless, he rejects it. He says it is – (and this is a word I found really extraordinary) – “immoral”.

He says it is about the past, and South Africa should be about the future. He says that most of the people who suffered dispossession are dead. He acknowledges easily that what was done to them was terrible – but he says it is too late to compensate them. Even if one could quantify the damage done to them, it is unproductive to travel the path to Restitution. He cites China and Japan as examples of forward looking nations – where the past was the past and the future is the future. So, they simply started again from scratch. What happened, happened. It is over. It happened long ago.

He gave an example of his own family sitting around the dinner table. His father would refer to a party which was taking place at the nearby farm owned by the Van der Westhuizens. “Now I hope”, his father would say, “that none of MY children will be seen at the Van der Westhuizen’s party”.

Why? Because during the Anglo-Boer War, it was Van der Westhuizen’s grandfather who pointed out to the British where the Boers were hiding.

It was a long time ago – and yet the fires were still burning. The hatred still there. Let it all go! He said. Why would you want to get involved in something like that, which can never be solved?

How convincingly I answered, I do not know, but what I said was this: I said that this was the essence of the settlement. This is the reason why we have peace, rather than blood in our country today. That was the deal. There will be no retribution, because there will be restitution.

If that position gets shifted, for whatever reason, whether it be because the claims are too difficult or to complicated; or because there are competing interests; or because “people should just move on and be done with it”, then in my opinion, the deal will collapse and the capitulation to commercial interests will be complete.

Not to mention the moral imperative. Not to mention the fact that people who were driven from their lands and their homes were raped emotionally and robbed of their dignity. Not to mention the effects it had on the children and their children after them. Restitution is the very least that can be done. And white people in this country, in my opinion, should keep very quiet about Mugabe, when we still have our own tragic history to deal with first.

It is all very well, and not a little disingenuous, to say “forgive and forget”, when the person urging everyone to do so is still reaping the not inconsiderable benefits of our inequitable, distorted past. The past is not the past. The past is still with us. It won’t disappear because we might like it to, or because it would be easier if it were buried or ignored. The past is still with us and it will be for a long time to come.

Being an eternal victim

Every now and again throughout my life, I have found myself bowled over by something said, or read, or reported. Something which is so utterly profound, that my entire perspective, from that moment on, is completely altered. They are moments of enlightenment, of nirvana, of extraordinary understanding. Unfortunately, I can’t think of a single instance of such ingenuity emanating from me! But, I suppose, it is that which separates the geniuses from the mediocre.

There is a wonderful moment in Peter Schaffer’s play “Amadeus”, where Salieri, a somewhat pedantic and altogether boring contemporary, who is hopelessly outshone by Mozart, lament’s his rival’s genius. What galls him most is the fact that Mozart seems to show no appreciation for the tremendous gift he has. All Salieri can do is watch, and listen, and seethe. He rails against the God that created things so unfairly and so maliciously, by enabling Salieri to recognise that genius, but never to produce it.

Some years ago now, I was reading Albert Luthuli’s autobiography Let my People Go – and words leapt at me from the page. Luthuli was reminiscing about his teaching days at Adam’s college and recalling a white member of staff – a Mr de Villiers, who was later to become Secretary for Bantu Education. Luthuli remarks that this man made him understand something of the way in which Afrikaners understand themselves as being victims of their past. And then. Almost in passing, Luthuli makes a remark which changed my perspective forever. He says this, “The tendency to see oneself perpetually as a victim will lead to the evasion of responsibility and the condoning of evil…”.

I was standing in a queue which was, apparently, going nowhere this week. I was born in June and therefore I needed to take myself off to the licencing department to get a new driver’s licence. I thought it might probably take about half an hour. I was wrong. Hopelessly wrong. It actually took four hours!

But standing in that queue gave me a chance to not only hear some curious conversations, but to reflect on one or two things as well. The sojourn didn’t begin well. Three of Cape Town’s finest members of the master race decided that they didn’t really need to worry too much about the curious, but terribly reasonable etiquette which one follows when standing in queues. Had they been black and jumped the queue, there would have been hell to pay, I can promise you. But they were white. So people behind them just sort of pretended that it wasn’t happening.

I felt my blood pressure peak and said loudly, clearly and in my most indignant and assertive English voice, “Excuse me, but that is not your place”. Now, one would expect some measure of embarrassment. One would expect some sign of contrition.. One might even expect them to move. None of the above happened.

The woman in the group – let me describe her. Shortish, lycra longs, pulled over her stick-insect legs, feet forced into medium high heeled shoes (one heel a bit worn), brightly coloured top with badly dyed hair, blue make-up on her eyes. Anyway, this blommetjie van die veld rounded on me like a snake. Who did I think I was? she asked, not requiring an answer. How long had I been standing there? she wanted to know. Did I have any idea how long she had been standing in the queue? She had been there longer than anyone, and she was sick of it. I looked like the kind of person that was just looking to cause trouble. Why don’t I just grow up!?

I have to say, words, for once, failed me dramatically. I looked around me for support. There wasn’t much, I can tell you. Two blacks who were unfortunate enough to be behind this woman and her cronies looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them up. The people I was with looked supportive, in a non-involved sort of way, but said nothing.
I tried saying something else, I forget what. She with the blue-eye make-up rounded upon me again. “Oh shaddup!” she said between clenched teeth. “I’ll give you a bladdy slap!”

I realised that she wouldn’t be moving. The two men she was with looked minimally more contrite than she did, but they were clearly onto a good wicket, so they just stood around, bodily disengaged in some mysterious way from the real action – parasitic on the ferocious one.

Standing in the queue for the next few hours, listening to their inane chatter, enabled me to ponder the situation in some considerable depth. What I realised was that this woman’s real gripe with the world was that she was somehow owed something. Due to what, in particular, I did not know. But that was the reason behind this patently unfair behaviour of hers. She could justify the clearly unjustifiable, by resorting to the “I am owed” reality in her mind.

I have written often on the issue of black entitlement. Of course, the entitlement is not and never has been a black preserve. There is good reason to argue that the whole edifice of apartheid was built on the belief that whites were entitled. And behind all of this, lurking in the shadows, gnawing at the vitals, is the concept of victim. I am a victim, therefore I am owed.

I was talking, the other night, to someone whose life is spent dealing with victims. Real victims, that is, not the imaginary ones who just believe themselves to be victims. These are people who have been tortured, raped, abused, hijacked and so on. He said that he often holds workshops for victims and in them, there often comes a point when a victim is faced with his or her own ability to victimise. That is the turning point. That is when a person stops being a victim and has the courage to face their own inadequacy – their own evasion of responsibility and condoning of evil. Often they find themselves facing their own much more active victimisation of others. And then – and perhaps only then – they are free.

Robben Island - a pilgrimage by a struggle hero

In the 1980's Pietermaritzburg was a cauldron of warfare between Inkatha and the African National Congress. They were terrifying times. Aided and abetted by the apartheid state, Inkatha rampaged everywhere, killing and intimidating. Priests and ministers of the church who were actively engaged were few and far between. Many of them just battoned down the church hatches and hoped it would all go away. Not the Revd Ben Nsimbi - a humble and remarkable Methodist, who was there for the people who were suffering - who stood out in any crowd, despite his slight stature.

He expressed the hope, some time ago, that he wanted to see Robben Island before he dies. I, together with a struggle lawyer in Durban, have been privileged to be a part in enabling this dream to come to fruition. He and his wife Thoko have been staying with us for the past few days, during which they went to the Island.

What follows below are his impressions of the visit. I will comment, at the end of them, on what I see to be really significant insights - put in a really simple way:

Visit to Robben Island
31 December 2010
Revd Ben Nsimbi

As our feet touched the ground, Cde Madiba’s words during the Rivonia trial came to mind -

“I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”

My soul, my mind, my body – yes, my whole being felt revitalised and rejuvenated. I am not a politician, but all of my life has been unfortunately negatively affected by the notorious apartheid system. I could write volumes about this, but God forbid!

This Robben Island was a curse to our black community and foolishness to the whites. It was foolishness because they thought the size of their army; the huge machinery of their security forces and; (worst of all), the myth of their having been ordained by God to rule over us, could never be challenged.

Like the lepers of the ancient days, political prisoners were dumped here, lest they contaminated the rest of their fellow human beings with their ideology. Today, the Island has become an international attraction for tourists of all walks of life, young and old.

Our minds were challenged and our hearts moved when we met a boy of 10, who had travelled with his father from Australia to see the place whose name is now synonymous with Madiba. In his hand this boy carried a book entitled “Viva Mandela!” On the ferry he was enthusiastically paging through it. The question went through our minds, how many South African children of that age would take an interest in the liberation struggle of their own country? For me, this is a crucial question, because if we forget where we come from, the gains that have been made will vanish into thin air. There are many battlefields inside and outside South Africa, against the apartheid regime, but Robben Island, surely, remains unique.

The young man who was our tour guide in the bus spent time showing us where the PAC leader, Mr Robert Sobukwe was placed in solitary confinement. He briefly outlined his biography. His telling of the story was extremely impressive and reminded me of the special parliamentary session which was called at the time to pass the so-called “Sobukwe Bill” (The General Laws Amendment Bill) This Bill would permit the detention in solitary confinement without trial for 90 days. One particular clause was directed at Robert Sobukwe. He had been due for release, but instead was transported to Robben Island, where he stayed in 24-hour solitary confinement for six years.)

From the bus, a middle-aged ex-convict, Mr Msomi, took us through the different sections and cells in the prison. I did wish that we could have been divided into smaller groups at this stage, because the group we were in numbered more than 100 people. This meant that we could not hear some of his comments or explanations. It was very much a rushed process and we could not ask some of the questions we had on our mind.

To Thoko, my wife, who has never been imprisoned, it was horrifying. To me it was less so (of course, I was not imprisoned on Robben Island).

Ideally, we would have liked to spend more time on the Island. We would have liked time to digest and to reflect on what we had seen. We would have liked to hear what some of the other convicts had to say. In a word, there was not sufficient time for contemplation.

We went to the Island expecting something educational and spiritual. This could have been better achieved if there was more time, less rush, and more interaction with the guides. Instead what we experienced was a commercial one, rather than an educational one. Despite that, however, it was an extraordinary experience and has fulfilled one of my life-time ambitions.

Revd Nsimbi raises several interesting observations which, I would think, need much more further discussion. Firstly, there is the issue of the interest which South African children have in history. He wonders whether a South African child be as interested as was the young Australian boy he encountered, in his/her own history - let alone someone else's history? There can be no doubt that South African learners of today are very much less engaged with the struggle against apartheid. In many ways that is a good thing – something one would want. But it soon becomes clear, when one engages in discussion with many young people, that there is just a simple ignorance about the most basic facts of South African history. Equally because of the way the present curriculum is structured, there is equal ignorance on other struggles, both present and past, in other countries. This has been an issue which has been widely debated and acknowledged – but it remains a blight on our educational system and will have profound effects on the way the future generation understands and interprets itself.

The second observation he makes is that Robben Island needs to be celebrated as a primary site of black consciousness. A visit to the Island does highlight the importance of certain people such as Robert Sobukwe, but somehow the contribution of Black Consciousness, in particular, seems to have got lost in the "rainbow nation" dream. It was (and to my mind, remains) a hugely important contribution to our struggle and I don’t think there is nearly enough focus on it.

Finally, Revd Nsimbi expected (not unnaturally) the experience of visiting the Island to be spiritual one. In some rather limited senses, it was. But there was not enough opportunity to pause, to reflect, to be contemplative. I would say that that must be a grave flaw in the tourism design of the place. Robben Island is not an ordinary museum. It is much more like a Cathedral, a Mosque, a Temple. It is a World Heritage Site and it was chosen to be that, because it is entirely unique. That, in itself, should be a limiting factor on the commercial opportunity – and a pointer to the design of an experience that enables the visitor to engage with it and be changed by it. It has not achieved that, unfortunately.

Terror and Courage

For the past few days, I have had someone staying with me who goes back well into my past. We were together in the underground in Lesotho, in the early 1980s and in Pietermaritzburg in the mid to late 1980s. Needless to say, these were extremely difficult times.

In Lesotho, there was continuously the threat of raids from the South African Defence Forces. They came across the border in 1983 and again in 1985. They killed at will. They targeted specific buildings and killed anyone inside those buildings. People were killed while they slept. One had her throat slashed, as she slept in a hotel room in the middle of Maseru. As it happens, they killed someone with absolutely nothing to do with the ANC. They had been given information that a particular cadre was staying in room “x” which was (say) three rooms to the left on the right hand side of the building on the third floor – they counted from the left hand side, instead of the right hand side, and that was the person that died. In the aftermath of the raid, I drove with two friends to the houses of those who had been killed. The horror still lives with me today.

In Pietermaritzburg, during what was called the “Seven day war” we saw yet more horror, as the state backed Inkatha and the ANC fought each other. (This was after Nelson Mandela had been released). We were living in the “black” township of Imbali and lecturing in the Federal Theological Seminary, at the time.

We were just remembering some of the moments which continue to haunt us. Bodies lying in the road. Bodies piled in the mortuary. Bodies found in the forest. Remembrance services held in the Lay Centre in an attempt to help people come to terms with the tremendous loss we were suffering.

I said to my friend, that when I think back on those days, the thing I struggle with is remembering my own cowardice – the extraordinary level of fear I had. And, she reminded me, it was not the way I behaved. People were not aware of that fear and that cowardice. I was glad to hear of things I did, which were not cowardly, but still I remember it being there. And it has made me somewhat less judgemental of cowards, I think.

Journeying for Justice - Stories of an ongoing faith-based struggle

Journeying for Justice – Stories of an ongoing faith-based struggle”, compiled by the PACSA 30th anniversary Collective, Cluster Publications and Jive Media, Pietermaritzburg, 2009, 144pp
It is undoubtedly the case that the Pietermaritzburg Agency for Christian Social Awareness (PACSA) was, and perhaps still is, a highly significant organisation, in the life of Pietermaritzburg and the surrounding areas of that city. The book correctly locates the beginnings of the organisation within the context of a developing Black Consciousness ideology in the 1970s. The major premise on which it was formed was to start a white organisation, which would set about “converting” white people – or rather to win them over to a more democratic frame of political consciousness.

Now, whether it actually ever really did that, is difficult to tell. The book does not deal with the question directly, but rather suggests that although that may have been the impetus for its beginnings as an organisation, it soon found itself pulled into the whirlpool of broader political involvement in the late 1970’s and 1980’s.

At the same time, the book (and I would understand here that the book comes from the organisation itself) also seems to give the impression that the issue of white “conversion” was so vast and so impossible a task, that perhaps it would be true to say that not even PACSA itself believed that achieving this was ever a real possibility – certainly not to the extent which would have been needed to change the outcome of a whites only election.

What happened, and what is engagingly documented in the book, is a range of information dissemination - “Factsheets” - which provided white people (and indeed anyone else) with the kind of information they would not get easily elsewhere (because of draconian government restrictions at the time, on the media).

Another way in which PACSA sought to create solidarity around the cause of liberation was through “Agape” (fellowship) meals. These were Ecumenical quasi-Eucharistic events in which like-minded people could come together to affirm each other and to share bread and drink in a meal of fellowship. These, apparently died away after a while – but their significance in creating a committed community of like-minded and mutually supported individuals seems hard to overestimate.

Having lived in Pietermaritzburg during the 1980’s and early 1990’s, I knew many of the personalities featured in this book. I never involved myself very directly in the work of PACSA, because I was, in fact, working underground for the African National Congress. And this was the problem: For me to have been an active member of PACSA would have unnecessarily exposed the work I was doing elsewhere to the security police, so I could not. Pietermaritzburg was, however, an extremely small place and whites involved in the struggle at any level were few and far between – so we all knew each other fairly well – and I am sure the security police knew all of us too!

This is one of the features of the organisation which the book does not deal with adequately, in my opinion. I suppose it is understandable in what amounts to a commemorative publication. But the fact is, PACSA also had its problems. It was a small organisation. Its connection to the liberation movements was somewhat idiosyncratic at times. It was, or at least appeared to be, a church organisation, but it seemed to operate almost like a political organisation – taking orders from no-one. This made it fairly unpredictable on the one hand and on the other, sometimes much too close to some of the highly problematic positions taken by the Heads of Churches , at the time.

Let me say immediately that Peter Kerchhoff, founder and major driver of PACSA between 1978-99, was a man I admire greatly. I have said so elsewhere and I have no hesitation in saying so again now. But he did not function politically. He functioned, 99% of the time, from his heart. And that could be extremely difficult, every now and again, from a political perspective.

This aspect, the book does not deal with. It is, of course, part of the bigger issue of the relationship between the Church as a whole and the struggle for liberation. That there was a relationship, is obvious. That the Liberation movements needed the Church, is also obvious. What is not so obvious is how timid the Liberation movements were in the presence of the churches, on the one hand, and how difficult it was, from within the Liberation movements to work with them, because of their almost total lack of strategy and accountability. PACSA seems to me to have fallen, frequently, between these two stools of church accountability and political responsibility.

Bar that point – and I would say it is a fairly significant point – the book is well worth having, if one is either interested in the period, of if you lived through it. It certainly brings us now, to a point of anamnēsis - “remembering”. A remembering beyond nostalgia. A remembering which takes the lessons of the past to be used in the present, in order to change the future. PACSA certainly did that when I was living in Pietermaritzburg. I understand that it continued to do so on a range of issues, including Land and Gender, after I had left. I have no doubt it will continue into the future.

The question for me is always going to be – to what extent is an organisation an extension of the Church, sometimes at its most difficult and its most reactionary and to what extent is PACSA prophetic to both Church and society. Because I am fairly certain the latter is what the organisation wants to be.

Which makes me wonder why such an important issue was, seemingly, avoided in this book.

Does bad politics necessarily mean bad art?

I bought, some time ago, a Naxos CD of the music of one Geirr Tveitt – a Norwegian composer that I had never heard of before (being Naxos, one can afford to experiment a little!). I was immediately engrossed in this strange, melodic sound-world. The music cascades and overflows, tugs and pulls at you, before sweeping you away. There are hints of the wild rhythms of Bartok, some of the melancholy and ethereal reality of Debussy, snatches of Ravel. It is really fresh and wonderful music!

So, I started finding out what I could about him. Now, besides the fact that his house burnt down in 1970, destroying most of his manuscripts, it also seems as though he held some highly suspect views. Not outright Nazi, apparently, but tending very much in that direction. There are hints of anti-semitism in some of his writings and he displays, certainly, Nordic nationalism of a fairly extreme kind. And so, after the 2nd World War, his music was apparently generally ignored. Of course, the fire did little to enable the spread of it, either!

Now, I wonder, what does one make of this? If the composer is a fascist, does one not listen to his or her music? I know there are many Jews to this day, for instance, who will not listen to Wagner, because of his very extreme nationalistic and anti-semitic views. Personally I have never managed to fathom him, despite force-feeding myself every now and again.

In Wagner’s case, I have always been slightly aware of the history. As I say, it has not been particularly significant either way, because I am not crazy about him. But Shostakovitch is another matter entirely. Him, I am crazy about (besides one or two of his choral symphonies which I can’t seem to relate to no matter how hard I try!). Now, while there seems to be some doubt, and the action is passive rather than active – he seems to have completely caved in to Soviet demands to produce music which was not “Formalist” – basically meaning what the authorities (and in particular Stalin) didn’t like because it didn’t have enough of a tune.

The debate is on whether this was actually the case, or whether Shostakovitch just behaved tactically. But whatever the case, that is something very different from Wagner, who was an active proponent of anti-semitism and a nauseating German nationalist.

So the question is this. Can an active Nazi be a good artist? Can a Verwoerdian apartheid proponent be a wonderful musician? And at what point does one simply cut them out, because their views are so repugnant that they should not be allowed any platform to showcase them?
Perhaps an allied question would be, is there such a thing as pure art?

I am just asking – I have no clue as to what the answer might be.

During Apartheid, we had what was called a “cultural boycott”. It was extremely effective, in that it isolated South Africa from the rest of the world. Major artists were barred from performing here; our artists were barred from performing anywhere else. It worked, by and large. But that was a tactical thing. It did not mean that the artists themselves were necessarily bad, or to be avoided.

So, to get back to Tveitt. It is only now that his work is being reconsidered, apparently – in a context which is far removed from the ravages and exigencies of the 2nd World War. Is this just because of the way things were – or was he done an injustice as an artist? And should I be on the look out for anything which may smack of Nordic nationalism, and reject it?

20th Anniversary of the 1989 Cape Town Peace March

There was a slight whiff of self-congratulation in the air in St George’s Cathedral, this afternoon, when people, many of whom are greying at the temples and thickening around the waist, from all walks of life gathered to celebrate and commemorate the 1989 Peace March. That, I think, is what most depressed me about it all. The whiff of self-congratulation.

I mean, it was a wonderful (and I think necessary) event. I was not in the march. I was in the march in Pietermaritzburg on exactly the same day. And during our march, news filtered through that some 30 000 people were marching in Cape Town, and that the government had done nothing to stop them.

The government did nothing to stop the Pietermaritzburg march either. I remember it well. We had organised it under the banner of the “Standing for the Truth” Campaign – which was, by and large, a cover for the Mass Democratic Movement. If memory serves me correctly, there must have been 10 000 at least people on the Pietermaritzburg March. It started with an interfaith service in the Cathedral. And then leaders of the faith community strode into what was then Longmarket Street. They (and I with them) wore full clerical garb. I remember marching next to the Revd Victor Afrikander. We sang revolutionary songs; we shouted slogans; we raised our fists and chanted “Amandla!”It was heady stuff indeed.

I remember looking up at the offices above what was then Longmarket Street and seeing, far above us, framed by windows, white office workers watching us pass by. I remember the discipline of the marshals, who kept the massive crowd in order and off the pavements. I remember the sullen policemen (they were all men) in cars watching us, but doing nothing. I remember the security police from the balcony of their dreaded headquarters in Loop street, filming us as we stopped to deliver our memorandum to them.

I remember the huge hope we had. I remember our bravery and our sense of purpose. I remember our complete, racially non-divided sense of justice and of what needed to be done to achieve it. I remember all that.

Cheryl Carolis was one of the speakers at today’s event. I think she could be captivating even if she were drunk. She is, and always has been, one hell of a speaker. She said something which I found so extraordinarily pertinent. She spoke of the fact that since the age of 13, she gave her life to the struggle. She made up her mind, that early, that freedom was something she was prepared to die for. She says she thought that freedom was not something which would happen in her life time (neither did I, I must confess).

And then we had it. One day, De Klerk announced that the Movement was unbanned; the leaders were released and we marched triumphantly to freedom. It was just like that! It happened just like that. And then, somewhere down the line - beyond the euphoria, and the rainbow nation, and the South African miracle – unsettling things started happening. The strict codes of ethics which the liberation movements had maintained, started to blur a little; the high moral standards; the noble ideals; the unassailable standards – these started to wash away. At first imperceptibly, but then it became a definite trickle, then a stream, then a rivulet and eventually there was no more place to stand.

“And it happened on our watch”, said Cheryl Carolis. “On your watch and mine”. I felt my blood rise to my face in shame and recognition. Because it is true. We have let things go. We have not spoken out when we should have. We have kept silent, or muted our criticism. We have done so – all of us.

She also said, at another point in her speech, that she found it just a little bit insulting when the people who were so enthusiastically implementing apartheid, started telling “us” how to implement democracy. Yes, I agree. It is irritating. But is it necessarily invalid? After freedom, we were all free. Even the implementers of apartheid. That was the necessary consequence of freedom. And freedom doesn’t only apply to certain categories of people. It applies to everyone.

The thing is, all is not right here. (Neither is everything wrong – but I am not talking about those things). All is not right, and those of us who marched for freedom in 1989, should also be prepared to march, in whatever way may be required now, to protect that freedom which we won back then.