Raymond Suttner, The Daily
Maverick
It is no exaggeration to suggest that the legitimacy not only of President Jacob Zuma and the ANC, but also the notion of the liberation Struggle itself is in shreds. For some of us, it was unthinkable that such an alliance of forces could degenerate into a moneymaking, lawless and violent operation represented by people who were prepared to trample on the values that we understood the movement to embody. Certainly, this did not happen overnight. The process leading to the present state of affairs has been long in the making.
In this context, many people like myself are
forced to reflect on the choices we made some decades back and what it is that
we were seeking then, what we saw to be required of us. Did we have an adequate
perspective, and if we find we were right in what we did and believed then, was
this shared by others, or were we naïve?
I was born into apartheid South Africa and
was aware that being white meant that my world was radically different from
that of black people. It was a world of privilege. Given this background, what
did it mean for me to become part of the struggle to liberate South Africa and
to build a democratic society in which all people were equal?
Grappling with what this meant also entailed
preparing myself to become something different from what I had been before, to
transform myself. I had to be ready to leave one form of existence and join my
fate with the oppressed people of South Africa. I had to demand no less from
myself than cadres drawn from the oppressed people did of themselves. It was
more than association with an idea of fighting for freedom. It was
being willing to take steps that could and did actually result in experiencing
repression that was normally associated with being a black person. Was I ready
for this? How would I acquire the discipline required to conduct illegal
activities and to withstand the torture and imprisonment that I knew would come
my way?
It was essential to be prepared. I had seen
how some people had associated themselves with this movement (and they were, of
course, not only white people), but who, when confronted with repression, found
ways of withdrawing or even betraying the Struggle. I needed to become capable
of withstanding blandishments or coercion so that I could remain connected to
what I understood to be a long tradition of resistance, even if it meant facing
death, as had others before me.
Joining the Struggle then, more than 45 years
ago, entailed choices that needed to be clearly understood because of the
consequences that would follow. It also entailed preparation, entering a long
journey, continually learning and trying to apply these insights to the tasks
allotted to me.
At the same time as readying myself for what
lay ahead, I understood that I was not simply associating myself with the struggle
of the oppressed as an outsider bringing specialised skills deriving from my
privileged background. I would be part and parcel of the common struggle we
waged together, as whites or blacks, to free our country.
In so doing, I did not see myself losing –
though I did forfeit some career opportunities – so much as having the
opportunity to regain my full humanity by linking myself with the fate of the
majority of South Africans. There was nothing automatic about this process. It
required a lot of soul-searching and self-examination, and changing of traits
in my personality that I came to see as incompatible with the type of
comradeship and humility that was needed to play this role.
Some who are not or have never been in “the
Struggle” find the use of the term “comrade” amusing or embarrassing. Indeed,
some of those who use the appellation conduct themselves towards other people
in a manner that does embarrass many who have been involved in struggle.
Literally, it refers to a fellow soldier or associate; it connotes shared
values and objectives and working together towards these in one or other
struggle for freedom.
That is precisely why in contemporary South
Africa those who are outside (and some who are part of) the ANC and its allies
often use the term mockingly. This is because those who are “comrades” depart
so far from any practice that may be considered one of solidarity with others.
Nor do they perform service for the oppressed or the greater good, or act in
other ways that may be admirable or exemplary. “Comrade” is seen in many
instances as a code for claims by elites who enjoy the spoils of power, and
privileges deriving from connections. The notion of being a comrade has
paradoxically become, in many instances, a term connoting exclusivity, creating
barriers against those in whose name the Struggle was fought.
Yet this and other words, associated patterns
of conduct and qualities that these are supposed to convey do connote something
that has been lost. They refer to a notion of how individuals, when in a
relationship of comradeship, ought to relate to one another, a notion of caring
and solidarity. Whether or not one uses the word “comrade”, such values need to
be recovered if we want to build a society in which we care about one another.
I became a freedom fighter and a communist
after pestering a man I knew over many months in the late 1960s and early 1970
to introduce me to the ANC and the SACP when I should have been focusing on
preparing for a degree at Oxford.
At the time, I understood the opportunity to
play a role in the Struggle as an honour and I was concerned that I
should do nothing to forfeit the trust I attributed to recruitment as a member.
Some may read this with a smirk, immediately
alluding to Stalin and Gulags and deaths under Mao and Pol Pot. But we should
remember that the SACP, while it had its rogues, embraced heroic figures such
as Bram Fischer, Josie Mpama/Palmer, Moses Kotane, JB Marks, Chris Hani and it
now appears also Walter Sisulu and Nelson Mandela. Many were widely admired
then, not only by communists, but also by people such as Chief Albert Luthuli,
whose trust in Kotane was greater than any other person with whom he worked.
No doubt I was romantic about notions of
revolution and revolutionaries, then reading my fair share of revolutionary
novels depicting cardboard characters without any trace of human weakness, but
single-mindedly dedicated to the “common good”. When I did eventually find
myself within a collective of political prisoners, almost all of whom were
communists, it was a rude awakening to find that far from having the qualities
I had imbibed from my readings and self preparation, many of them had
personality traits that one found among all other sections of the population,
and ones that were in many cases very irritating and made living together for
years extremely difficult.
Nevertheless, among this collective we
adhered to a code of conduct governing our relationships with the authorities
and among ourselves. In general and for many years the patterns of these
relationships, which were essentially comradely in the sense of sharing tasks
and consulting over matters that could affect other prisoners, were followed in
a community that practised “primitive communism”. In general, there was no thought
of any individual gorging himself alone on the little pleasurable treats that
came his way.
Despite our different personal traits, we
were a highly politicised community. We were denied newspapers, apart from
those we managed to smuggle in, but we held intense political discussions.
There were assumptions about our relationship to politics that did not need to
be articulated. We were there precisely because our politics entailed praxis,
unifying our understanding and our actions in order to prosecute the struggle
against apartheid and, being white people, through our identification with the
oppressed majority, from which we did not come.
In my periods outside of prison and after
release I realised that many of those with whom I related in struggle did not
possess the traits of dedication that I had expected of all who were in the
Struggle. Indeed, those who formed the leadership of the UDF, ANC and SACP, of
whom I became a part, were a very mixed bunch. Some were very cold and
calculating. While in prison, I assumed that we shared an underlying empathy
with the poor. In retrospect, I wonder whether there ever was that feeling, and
indeed whether there was more in the way of calculation, even while in prison.
I came to see that there were many who bore
the name of the ANC and SACP, but who embodied quite different personalities
and ethical systems. I gradually came to understand that behind the outward
unity represented by programmes and emblems, there could be very different
values and motivations driving the various comrades or “comrades”.
By the time of the election for the first
democratic Parliament, I was already disabused of any notions of commonality
shared by all who were in the SACP and ANC.
The passion that I had expected to share and
find more broadly, though it was there in people like Chris Hani, was generally
pretty limited. This absence manifested also in an embryonic rupture of the ANC
and SACP connection with the masses that followed after they became the
government. My understanding, which I have articulated only in recent times, is
that members of a liberation movement and its allies are connected with the
oppressed and take their burden on as their own. It is clear that this is no
longer the case, notably with the endorsement of Nkandla by ANC MPs and
leaders, even though the monies used included diversion of funds meant for poverty
reduction and intended for the communities with whom I had assumed the
liberation movement to be connected.
The question I ask now, in 2016, is: When did
this start? Am I mistaken or naïve in thinking that the rupture is relatively
recent? Or has it always been the case that many who wear the garb of
liberation and revolution have made an intellectual or business calculation
that brings them there? Was I naïve in thinking that there was a sense of
passion, compassion and connectedness in the thinking of many of those with
whom I worked?
I grapple with the choices I have made
because I have now to go backwards, to try to reconnect with where I began. I
am sure many South Africans are doing the same. Whatever our earlier journeys,
the pressing question is: What do we do now? Whatever the challenges of the
present, which pile up on top of long-standing historical challenges that have
barely been touched on here, one thing is clear – we need to listen more, and
to meditate carefully on the options we face. We cannot afford to rush headlong
into it and to indulge outrage at the expense of methodical and sustained
evaluation of potential forms of organisation and struggle.
This is essential for a future that may take
us closer to meaningful freedoms for all people in our society. This will not
happen overnight. I retrace my political footprints to make sense of the past,
the assumptions I and many others made. I go back there, look deep within
myself and around me once again. I believe I must learn a new language of
emancipation for the present and enter into communion with others to claim our
freedom. Even now. Especially now.
