An Open Letter to Margaret Thatcher…

An open letter to Mrs Margaret Thatcher from General Olusegun Obasanjo

August 1986

Dear Margaret,

After our meeting on Sunday, I write as one committed democrat to another. Yours is an old country with a lengthy democratic tradition; mine a new country undergoing a press of nation-building­. But as democrats, we can be frank with each other.

As you know, I came to the EPG (Eminent Persons’ Group) mission with reluctance. It was difficult enough for me as an African and especially as a Nigerian to contemplate exchanging pleasantries with those responsible for the institutionalis­ed oppression of so many of my brothers and sisters.

My repugnance was exacerbated by the widely held perception that the EPG was a substitute for action won by you at Nassau for the benefit of P.W. Botha. However, I persuaded myself that whatever the odds, the prize was so great that I should overcome my personal feelings.

Not that I was prepared for what we found. As you know, even Tony Barber – a frequent traveller to South Africa – was appalled by what he was to see in that other South Africa which visitors seldom see. We jointly expressed our shock and dismay in our report.

I have seen extremes of poverty and of oppression in many parts of the world. But South Africa unashamedly moulds both elements into a system which enables the white minority to enjoy a “Dallas” lifestyle at the expense of the great majority forced to endure conditions as degrading as anything I have seen anywhere.

In our discussions, Malcom Fraser and I tried to convey the true nature of the system and were against cosmetic changes which have merely softened the face of apartheid.

However, such was our discussion that I must ask: Did you even read our report?

I infer from what you said that afternoon that you had not. You concentrated on the trivia of the Government’s “reforms” – like the welcome but essentially insignificant repeal of the Mixed Marriages Act – and ignored their implacable opposition to changes in the basic pillars of apartheid.

As we emphasised, to begin to dismantle apartheid, the Population Registration Act and the Group Areas Act must be repealed without being replaced by some measure designed to achieve the same ends under a different guise.

You gave credence to the dangerous notion that the political rights of the dispossessed can be adequately met by what President Botha calls “group rights” at the expense of individual rights and freedoms. Despite all the talk of “power sharing” between different communities, our inescapable conclusion was that this was a cloak for power remaining in white hands, and the essentials of apartheid continuing unchanged.

Nor have you any appreciation of the issue of violence. The apartheid system has an inherent violence which, through forced removals and the creation of barren homelands, has created the fiction of a white land and through the barrel of the gun, denies blacks any form of legitimate political expression.

We are all opposed to violence other than in self-defence. Why should blacks not have a right to defend their own families, homes and freedoms?

Your “moral revulsion” for sanctions struck me as unconvincing. The economic sanctions you so energetically pursued against Poland, Afghanistan and Argentina were brushed aside in your determination to withhold their application to South Africa. Yet to many of us there is only one significant difference: the victims in South Africa are black. Is sauce for the Aryan goose not sauce for the Negroid gander?

Your concentration of the economic effectiveness of sanctions is disingenuous if not hypocritical. Sanctions were imposed against Poland, Afghanistan and Argentina as political expressions of outrage.

Nor can your opposition be based on any assessment of where the best interests of Britain lie. Your country has considerable trade with South Africa, but this is dwarfed by that enjoyed with the rest of Africa: it cannot be in Britain’s interests to encourage them to place their orders elsewhere.

Further, your appearance as an apologist challenges the democratic forces in South Africa to seek help from whatever quarter they can. The longer-term consequences for Britain, the United States and the West could be considerable.

But most of all, I was dismayed by your lack of vision. You offered no action as an alternative to sanctions. You insisted that nothing whatever be done – even though in the final analysis you moved a little. There is no vision of a way ahead; simply a forlorn hope that P.W. Botha would experience a “Road to Damascus” conversion on the road to Soweto. Such hopes are in vain.

Sooner or later, Botha or his successor will be driven to negotiate meaningfully. Sir Geofferey’s visit again confirmed that Botha is not yet under sufficient pressure to do so – despite a dwindling rand, escalating inflation, a declining economy and mounting violence. More pressure must come.

I must tell you that many people around the world view your continued opposition to sanctions as founded on instinct, not logic and as displaying a misguided tribal loyalty and myopic political vision. The consequences of such perceptions are far-reaching for a country which has traditionally claimed the high ground of principle.

Not only does the mental laager of the Boer seem to be mirrored in your own attitudes, but his fatal concessions of too little, too late are paralleled by your actions.

I am glad that the Commonwealth has moved on without you and I know that sooner rather than later, Britain will have to join us. I also know that apartheid will end, and its demise will be the product of a combination of internal and external pressures. The equation is a simple one. The less the external pressure, the greater will be the price to be paid internally.

Those who seek to minimise sanctions and their effect will have the blood of thousands, if not millions, of innocents on their hands and on their consciences. My heart will be heavy but my hands will be clean. Will yours?

(General Olusegun Obasanjo was Head of the Federal Military Government of Nigeria 1976 – 79 when he handed over power to an elected civilian government. He is also a member of the Commonwealth Eminent Persons’ Group)

With thanks to Scelo Gcabashe for sourcing the content

The man that shaped #Gogo, a retrospective

The man that made #Gogo.

First Published in Loocha Magazine, July 2011

In the last months that we shared with our beloved Gogo, MaAlbertina Sisulu, my generation of the family increasingly found that her many moments of quiet were filled with what must surely have been happy memories of her childhood.

They must have been happy for her face was very often lit in mirth. They must have been of her childhood because she very often referred to people and places of this era in her life.

At times like this a special treat for us would be to venture back in time with her, reading her chapters of her joint biography with our grandfather, Walter Sisulu, called In My Lifetime (by Elinor Sisulu), and quizzing her on the happenings of times long since past.

At times like this we would be privileged to glean some measure of insight into what made Gogo tick; we learned of the little things that eventually made her into the grand old lady that so many people across he world would come to respect and honour as we saw first hand in the days following her passing last month.

One of Gogo’s fondest memories was of her own grandfather. Qingqiwe was the local headman in Xolobe in the Eastern Cape. A well heeled wool farmer, he was highly respected, a member of the Bunga (a tribal parliament) and a great philanthropist. He would arrange assistance for the old and infirm and organized groups of youths to plough their fields and those of widows.

Whilst not Christian, he distributed the donations of the local missionaries. And whilst a staunch traditionalist who proudly wore the red ochre blanket of the amaQaba, he was a huge proponent of education and instructed every man to ensure that the children of the area went to school. This appreciation for scholarly education meant that soon child-labour fell away in the area and much later raids would be conducted on homesteads that kept children away from school. Perhaps this is what informed Gogo’s own love for education, one that she herself tried to imbue in all who spent time with her.

In her own time she was a diligent student that was always at the top of her class. A disciplined scholar she was prefect and later head girl and keep far from the distractions that afflict so many of us today. Barely a teen she dreamed of furthering her education at the least cost to her grandparents. So she enrolled for and won a bursary on the strength of her academic achievements. She was soon in boarding school, excelling there on her way to becoming a conscientious nurse, which in those days was a very laudable profession. 

Growing up under a headman one witnesses many instances of difficult decision making, with the best interest of the community always the deciding factor. The sense of responsibility that he had for everyone within his dominion could not have gone unnoticed. Could this have inspired Gogo’s own devotion to her community, starting with her family?

At a tender age her parents passed away, one after the other, with her dad specifically asking her on his death bed to look after her brothers and sister. Even though she wasn’t the eldest, she undertook this duty and carried it forth into adult life. Only with the passing of her last surviving brother last year did she see fit to join to her beloved partner’s side in the afterlife. Whilst she had missed TataMkhulu terribly over the years (there was a time after his passing that many believed Gogo would not see the ripe old age of 92 as she did) perhaps it is a sense of purpose, deeply etched into her, that allowed her to keep her commitments to her dying father.

Qingqiwe’s own participation in the Bunga meant that the concepts of justice, law and punishment were not foreign in his homestead. Could this then have been the source of Gogo’s own lifelong thirst for justice and fairness? Perhaps it is this background that gave Gogo the steely courage to pursue her ideal of justice even as she faced many tribulations?

In the many long arduous years that Gogo found herself seeing her husband very infrequently and only through a window pane in the visiting cells of Robben Island, she often spoke of the state of their gardens. This was code for the underground movement that they had both worked tirelessly to foster. A harvest of seedlings germinating into strong plants with deep roots meant that the cadreship was growing in spite of many worms (Apartheid government agents) or the arid conditions that bannings, arrests and harassment presented.

Had any of the guards listening in on such a conversation become suspicious then even a cursory check on Gogo’s background would reveal that she was indeed a keen gardener. She devoted much time to her garden even when it was a tiny patch in the back of a small Soweto home. She had come into a love of gardening when as a child, her and the other girls amidst her 31 cousins growing up in the care of her grandfather Qingqiwe helped their mothers and aunts cultivate fields abrim with potatoes, pumpkin, beans, oats, barley and sorghum.

Could there be even the casual link between the patience, care and attention that cultivating a garden requires and the same attributes that enabled her to keep cultivating freedom fighters even when the seasons were particularly unforgiving? If so it would thus have been a fitting code to use. Today many recognisable leaders credit her green fingers for having a hand in their development.

Whilst history tells us the tale of a woman that contributed much to South Africa’s people and begs us aspire to the sort of impact and legacy that she left behind, there exists also the little-known story of a man who through the example of his life’s must certainly have inspired this legacy.

This isn’t necessarily a story of a unsong hero, rather the story of the chains and linkages of people’s actions and decisions that shape a future unseen to themselves. It is a story of hope that suggests that each virtuous action doesn’t go unnoticed, rather it lives on and perhaps even multiplies in the action of those who see them. And whilst I miss Gogo terribly, I take comfort in the knowledge that like Qingqiwe a life well lived can create another Gogo in someone else.

Shaka at the Knysna Literary Festival

In March, I had the pleasure of heading off to beautiful Knysna to attend their fourth annual Literary Festival. I was touched by the response I got when I addressed some of the local kids, and we shared different stories and story telling techniques. This is me in their midsts…

I invited the kids to send me some of their stories. Here is one from a girl called Heather. I advised her to make a few changes to make the identity of Buhle a surprise towards the end. What would you suggest:

Beauty Is In All

Up at the crack of dawn, the sky begins to lighten up and the sun starts to show. I hear footsteps come into the kitchen. The smell of mieliepap fills the room. Breakfast is served.

“Buhle,” my name is called and the action is obeyed. “Buhle” is Xhosa for “beauty”. I don’t particularly consider myself a beauty but the name is still flattering.

Taxis drive up and down the streets taking people to work. Dogs, goats, chickens, cows and bulls all roam around, as free and mellow as can be. Children are waking up; some going to school, others staying at home with granny. This is just the beginning of my day as a township dog. Nekkies: my home and my playground. 

I follow my owner’s footprints down the street, along the trail and across the field. Then, beside the N2 all the way to Knysna. Not enough money for a taxi, so walking is the only option. When it is time to say goodbye to my true companion, the moment passes with a twinge of sadness. 

“Goduka, Buhle.” 

The command is taken into action and I begin my walk home. The early morning sun hits me like boiling water spilling out of a rusty cooking-pot. I find a pathway that leads down to the cool blue water of the Knysna lagoon and splash around happily.

I continue the long trek back home, along the N2 on that burning tar and hot red brick walkway. Panting, I take a break in the shade of a tree. While under the tree, a large vehicle pulls up beside me. With a mixture of surprise and exhaustion, I don’t resist as hands grasp me.

“Oh, you are a cutie, aren’t you? Don’t worry, you’ll be safe now; Animal Welfare has saved you,” a voice tells me. I am put in the back of the vehicle and driven off. I start to whine and yelp in anxiety, desperately wishing to be taken back to my owner or my home. 

The driver pulls up outside a building. A rope is put around my neck and I am put in a cage. I hear a lock slide shut.

Barking and whining, I circle the cage endlessly. People try to calm me down, but their meaningless words do nothing to take away the stress that they have caused me.

As the light of day fades, nothing feels worse than lying on a cold concrete floor in a strange place. I knew that no sleep would come to me.

Birds, unlike those back home, bring in the morning with their shrieking squawks. Time passes, slower than ever before. The ticks and tocks of a nearby clock laboriously work their way towards noon.

As the sun begins to fade behind the hills, I hear footsteps. Not just any footsteps; heavy meaningful footsteps. I smell a strong scent that brings images of power and leadership with it. I sense the feeling of relief, mixed with anger and hint of happiness. The lock of my cage opens with a click. My head looks up towards the sky, finding a vision of comfort and safety standing right in front of me. My master. I watch a smile broaden on his face as he leans down and ruffles my hair.

“Yiza, Buhle.” 

My owner tells me to come and we walk out, now and again looking at each other just to make sure the other is there. That may have been my happiest moment yet.

 I leave behind my tracks, walk along the trails and follow my master’s footprints.

* * *

A few days I addressed a small crowd on the political future of SA alongside Adriaan Basson and Ivo Vegter who moderated. Our panel was meant to include Mandy Rossouw, who was relishing the event, but alas that was not to be. Her memory was however immortalized as her seat was covered in copies of her book about the ANC’s last conference in Mangaung in December called Kings and Kingmakers.

Here is a clip to a local newspaper article about the entire Festival, which was great fun indeed.

Thanks to the organizers and of course, thank G*d for the splendour of Knysna

A Sisulu, A Verwoed, and a Vorster walk into a coffee bar….

My Latest Growing Pains Column in City Press

Driving down one of the town’s main roads into the morning brightness, I felt as if I had taken somewhat of a step back into time. Passing authentic Cape Dutch style buildings and the old bank which still had Eerste Nationale Bank pinned up on the wall, my little time travel ended on the steps of the local Art Museum. 

I was in Stellenbosch, the last bastion of Afrikaaner might. I got a sense of this when the first item that caught my eye in the museum was a massive painting of the Battle of Ncome River, or as the Boere would say “Bloed Rivier”. The day of their vow. 

I grew up knowing this day to be MK Day, the day the liberation struggle became the armed struggle. Interesting how differently we see the same things isn’t it? So how do the children of the heroes of the Apartheid regime see the world? 

 Having long wondered how the other side lives, I relished meeting the grandsons of Hendrick Verwoed and John Vorster, at Woordfees, Stellenbosch’s annual Afrikaans Literary Festival. Carel Boshoff jnr, grandson of Voerwoed and son of Carel Boshoff the founder of Orania, John Vorster jnr and I were on a panel talking about our views of South Africa’s future.The entire discussion was to take place in Afrikaans in front of an audience of about 120 largely retirees and be broadcast live on RSG. Oh my, What was I in for? 

 Surprises, I was in for surprises. 

 The first came when I was invited to participate in the first place. Mandy Rossouw, introduced Rapport (City Press sister paper) editor designate, Waldimar Pelser and I. He, surprisingly was as internationally urbane as his name is deeply Afrikaans.

 Shockingly, found myself nodding at many of the comments that my fellow panelists were making. Not only did those dreaded Afrikaans classes eventually did come in handy, but I actually found myself in agreement with these chaps from time to time.

Carel, who is president of the Orania Movement, made a compelling case for the self-directed investment in our different national groups. I could the “hear hear” from my inner Bikoist. But he is still a separatist, which to me is decidedly monasterial, most of us don’t have the option of dropping out to get ahead in life.   

It was in response to a comment from an octogenarian about leaving Apartheid in the past, that the young Vorster caught my attention. He spoke of our need to address the past. 

Even more astonishing was they audience’s reception when I shared the hard truth, if we don’t take the pain of dealing with the decisions of our ancestors now we bequeath it to our own kids. They listened. 

 It seemed that here was not the community of embittered, angry, hateful verkramptes holed up in hidden privilege that I had secretly expected. Here were South African, concerned and interested in how to win together as a nation. How unexpected. 

 Later, in a private chat with John Jr, he speaks about meeting the family of the Iranian Shah in London and the conversations they had about being on the wrong side of history. He eschews his grandfather’s outlook on race, as does his sister who remarkably embraced her right to marry an Indian man this past Human Right’s Day. 

The Shah’s family, whilst accepting that history judges their scion had noted that the current administration wasn’t covering itself in glory and that one day history my in fact revise it’s opinion – and de-vilify the Shah. 

Was this possible here? I wondered. 

John Vorster, the last male in his grandfather’s line smiles before responding. “No, African liberation movements will be proven right by the economic growth that the continent is about to experience.”

An afro-optimist?! And I had to come deep into the boer’s lair to find him. Perhaps that’s what growing up is about – looking past our expectations, and forward to our inspirations. 

Happy Easter 

First Published in City Press on 31st March 2013

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A Sisulu, a Vorster & A Boshoff by Waldimar Pelser

A week ago I met the grandsons of Vorster and Verwoed. And we had tea. The guy who organised it is the young incoming editor for Rapport, City Press’ (the weekly paper I write for) sister paper. He himself comes from influential Afrikaaner stock.

This is an article in Afrikaans. Click here to take it to google translate

I will ask the author to translate it himself so that the context is correct. In the mean time enjoy this read.

The Comeuppance of ShakaSisulu; how a girl changed my ways…

Men, we’ve been in the dog box lately haven’t we? With good reason.

Many of our fellows are letting the team down you know. Perhaps, if we had been in the dogbox more frequently as youngsters, maybe we’d all be acting right? Maybe.

In the event, there is always a moment that sets one on the correct path. And I don’t think it’s always glorious. Here is my here-thereto unspoken tale of what set me right (sorta, kinda).

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The Magic of Story Time

An interview on my love of stories for the Times in support of the wonderful Nal’ibali Initiative.

Bip Up to New Africa Books for the incredible gesture!