DON IViILLS C.I. &
M^ UR^aY
LONG WALK
TO FREEDOM
DON MILLS C.I. &
MS LIBRARY
LONG WALK
TO FREEDOM
The Autobiography of
NELSON
MANDELA
Little, Brown and Company
Boston New York Toronto London
Copyright Š 1994 by Nelson Rolihiahia Mandela
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review.
First Edition
ISBN 0316545856
Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number 94-79980
^o.>ou.3f(> ^^^.^C
10 987654521
HAD
Published simultaneously in Canada
by Little, Brawn & Company (Canada) Limited
Printed in the United States of America
I dedicate this book to my six children, Madiba and Makaziwe
(my first daughter), who are now deceased, and to
Makgatho, Makaziwe, Zenani, and Zindzi, whose support
and love I treasure; to my twenty-one grandchildren and
three great-grandchildren who give me great pleasure; and
to all my comrades, friends, and fellow South Africans
whom I serve and whose courage, determination, and patriotism
remain my source of inspiration.
CONTENTS
Part One
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 1
Part Two
JOHANNESBURG 53
Part Three
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 81
Part Four
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 123
Part Five
TREASON 171
Part Six
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 229
Part Seven
RIVONIA 269
Part Eight
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 331
Part Nine
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 391
Part Ten
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 445
Part Eleven
FREEDOM 487
INDEX 545
FR1;Acknowledgments
As readers will discover, this book has a long history. I began writing it
clandestinely in 1974 during my imprisonment on Robben Island. Without
the tireless labor of my old comrades Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada
for reviving my memories, it is doubtful the manuscript would have been
completed. The copy of the manuscript which I kept with me was discovered
by the authorities and confiscated. However, in addition to their
unique calligraphic skills, my co-prisoners Mac Maharaj and Isu Chiba
had ensured that the original manuscript safely reached its destination. I
resumed work on it after my release from prison in 1990.
Since my release, my schedule has been crowded with numerous duties
and responsibilities, which have left me little free time for writing. Fortunately,
I have had the assistance of dedicated colleagues, friends, and
professionals who have helped me complete my work at last, and to whom
I would like to express my appreciation.
I am deeply grateful to Richard Stengel who collaborated with me in
the creation of this book, providing invaluable assistance in editing and
revising the first parts and in the writing of the latter parts. I recall with
fondness our early morning walks in the Transkei and the many hours of
interviews at Shell House in Johannesburg and my home in Houghton.
A special tribute is owed to Mary Pfaffwho assisted Richard in his work.
I have also benefited from the advice and support of Fatima Meer, Peter
Magubane, Nadine Gordimer, and Ezekiel Mphahlele.
I want to thank especially my comrade Ahmed Kathrada for the long
hours spent revising, correcting, and giving accuracy to the story. Many
thanks to my ANC office staff, who patiently dealt with the logistics of
the making of this book, but in particular to Barbara Masekela for her
efficient coordination. Likewise, Iqbal Meer has devoted many hours to
watching over the business aspects of the book. I am grateful to my editor,
William Phillips of Little, Brown, who has guided this project from early
1990 on, and edited the text, and to his colleagues Jordan Pavlin, Steve
Schneider, Mike Mattil, and Donna Peterson. I would also like to thank
Professor Gail Gerhart for her factual review of the manuscript.
Part One
A COUNTRY
CHILDHOOD
APART FROM LIFE, a strong constitution, and an abiding connection
to the Thembu royal house, the only thing my father bestowed upon me
at birth was a name, Rolihiahla. In Xhosa, Rolihiahia literally means
"pulling the branch of a tree," but its colloquial meaning more accurately
would be "troublemaker." I do not believe that names are destiny or that
my father somehow divined my future, but in later years, friends and
relatives would ascribe to my birth name the many storms I have both
caused and weathered. My more familiar English or Christian name was
not given to me until my first day of school. But I am getting ahead of
myself.
I was born on the eighteenth of July, 1918, at Mvezo, a tiny village on
the banks of the Mbashe River in the district of Umtata, the capital of
the Transkei. The year of my birth marked the end of the Great War; the
outbreak of an influenza epidemic that killed millions throughout the
world; and the visit of a delegation of the African National Congress to
the Versailles peace conference to voice the grievances of the African
people of South Africa. Mvezo, however, was a place apart, a tiny precinct
removed from the world of great events, where life was lived much as it
had been for hundreds of years.
The Transkei is eight hundred miles east of Cape Town, five hundred
fifty miles south of Johannesburg, and lies between the Kei River and the
Natal border, between the rugged Drakensberg mountains to the north
and the blue waters of the Indian Ocean to the east. It is a beautiful
country of rolling hills, fertile valleys, and a thousand rivers and streams,
which keep the landscape green even in winter. The Transkei used to be
one of the largest territorial divisions within South Africa, covering an
area the size of Switzerland, with a population of about three and a half
million Xhosas and a tiny minority of Basothos and whites. It is home
to the Thembu people, who are part of the Xhosa nation, of which I am
a member.
My father, Gadia Henry Mphakanyiswa, was a chief by both blood
wd custom. He was confirmed as chief of Mvezo by the king of the
Thembu tribe, but under British rule, his selection had to be ratified by
Ae government, which in Mvezo rook the form of the local magistrate.
As a government-appointed chief, he was eligible for a stipend as well as
a portion of the fees the government levied on the community for vacnation
of livestock and communal grazing land. Although the role of
4 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
chief was a venerable and esteemed one, it had, even seventy-five years
ago, become debased by the control of an unsympathetic white government.

The Thembu tribe reaches back for twenty generations to King Zwide.
According to tradition, the Thembu people lived in the foothills of the
Drakensberg mountains and migrated toward the coast in the sixteenth
century, where they were incorporated into the Xhosa nation. The Xhosa
are part of the Nguni people who have lived, hunted, and fished in the
rich and temperate southeastern region of South Africa, between the great
interior plateau to the north and the Indian Ocean to the south, since
at least the eleventh century. The Nguni can be divided into a northern
group -- the Zulu and the Swazi people -- and a southern group,
which is made up of amaBaca, amaBomyana, amaGcaleka, amaMfengu,
amaMpodomis, amaMpondo, abeSotho, and abeThembu, and together
they comprise the Xhosa nation.
The Xhosa are a proud and patrilineal people with an expressive and
euphonious language and an abiding belief in the importance of laws,
education, and courtesy. Xhosa society was a balanced and harmonious
social order in which every individual knew his or her place. Each Xhosa
belongs to a clan that traces its descent back to a specific forefather. I am
a member of the Madiba clan, named after a Thembu chief who ruled in
the Transkei in the eighteenth century. I am often addressed as Madiba,
my clan name, a term of respect.
Ngubengcuka, one of the greatest monarchs, who united the Thembu
tribe, died in 1832. As was the custom, he had wives from the principal
royal houses: the Great House, from which the heir is selected, the
Right Hand House, and the Ixhiba, a minor house that is referred to by
some as the Left Hand House. It was the task of the sons of the Ixhiba
or Left Hand House to settle royal disputes. Mthikrakra, the eldest son
of the Great House, succeeded Ngubengcuka and amongst his sons were
Ngangelizwe and Matanzima. Sabata, who ruled the Thembu from 1954, was the grandson of Ngangelizwe and a senior to Kalzer Daliwonga,
better known as K. D. Matanzima, the former chief minister of the
Transkei -- my nephew, by law and custom -- who was a descendant of
Matanzima. The eldest son of the Ixhiba house was Simakade, whose
younger brother was Mandela, my grandfather.
Although over the decades there have been many stories that I was in
the line of succession to the Thembu throne, the simple genealogy I have
just outlined exposes those tales as a myth. Although I was a member of
the royal household, I was not among the privileged few who were trained
for rule. Instead, as a descendant of the Ixhiba house, I was groomed, like my father before me, to counsel the rulers of the tribe.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 5
father was a tall, dark-skinned man with a straight and stately
posture, which I like to think I inherited. He had a tuft of white hair just
above his forehead, and as a boy, I would take white ash and rub it into my hair in imitation of him. My father had a stern manner and did not
spare the rod when disciplining his children. He could be exceedingly
stubborn, another trait that may unfortunately have been passed down
from father to son.
My father has sometimes been referred to as the prime minister of
Thembuland during the reigns of Dalindyebo, the father of Sabata, who
ruled in the early ipoos, and that of his son, Jongintaba, who succeeded
him. That is a misnomer in that no such title existed, but the role he
played was not so different from what the designation implies. As a
respected and valued counselor to both kings, he accompanied them on
their travels and was usually to be found by their sides during important
meetings with government officials. He was an acknowledged custodian
of Xhosa history, and it was partially for that reason that he was valued
as an adviser. My own interest in history had early roots and was encouraged
by my father. Although my father could neither read nor write,
he was reputed to be an excellent orator who captivated his audiences by
entertaining them as well as teaching them.
In later years, I discovered that my father was not only an adviser to
kings but a kingmaker. After the untimely death of Jongilizwe in the
1920s, his son Sahara, the infant of the Great Wife, was too young to
ascend to the throne. A dispute arose as to which of Dalindyebo's three
most senior sons from other mothers -- Jongintaba, Dabulamanzi, and
Melithafa -- should be selected to succeed him. My father was consulted
and recommended Jongintaba on the grounds that he was the best educated.
Jongintaba, he argued, would not only be a fine custodian of the
crown but an excellent mentor to the young prince. My father, and a few
other influential chiefs, had the great respect for education that is often
present in those who are uneducated. The recommendation was controversial,
for Jongintaba's mother was from a lesser house, but my father's
choice was ultimately accepted by both the Thembus and the British
government. In time, Jongintaba would return the favor in a way that my
father could not then imagine.
All told, my father had four wives, the third of whom, my mother,
Nosekeni Fanny, the daughter ofNkedama from the amaMpemvu clan of
the Xhosa, belonged to the Right Hand House. Each of these wives -- Ac Great Wife, the Right Hand wife (my mother), the Left Hand wife, snd the wife of the Iqadi or support house -- had her own kraal. A kraal w^ a homestead and usually included a simple fenced-in enclosure for snimals, fields for growing crops, and one or more thatched huts. The
6 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
kraals of my father's wives were separated by many miles and he commuted
among them. In these travels, my father sired thirteen children in all, four
boys and nine girls. I am the eldest child of the Right Hand House, and
the youngest of my father's four sons. I have three sisters, Baliwe, who
was the oldest girl, Notancu, and Makhutswana. Although the eldest of
my father's sons was Miahlwa, my father's heir as chief was Daligqili, the
son of the Great House, who died in the early 1930S. All of his sons, with
the exception of myself, are now deceased, and each was my senior not
only in age but in status.
When I was not much more than a newborn child, my father was involved
in a dispute that deprived him of his chieftainship at Mvezo and revealed
a strain in his character I believe he passed on to his son. I maintain that
nurture, rather than nature, is the primary molder of personality, but my
father possessed a proud rebelliousness, a stubborn sense of fairness, that
I recognize in myself. As a chief-- or headman, as it was often known
among the whites -- my father was compelled to account for his stewardship
not only to the Thembu king but to the local magistrate. One
day one of my father's subjects lodged a complaint against him involving
an ox that had strayed from its owner. The magistrate accordingly sent a
message ordering my father to appear before him. When my father received
the summons, he sent back the following reply: "Andizi, ndisaqula" (I
will not come, I am still girding for battle). One did not defy magistrates
in those days. Such behavior would be regarded as the height of insolence
-- and in this case it was.
My father's response bespoke his belief that the magistrate had no
legitimate power over him. When it came to tribal matters, he was guided
not by the laws of the king of England, but by Thembu custom. This
defiance was not a fit of pique, but a matter of principle. He was asserting
his traditional prerogative as a chief and was challenging the authority of
the magistrate.
When the magistrate received my father's response, he promptly
charged him with insubordination. There was no inquiry or investigation;
that was reserved for white civil servants. The magistrate simply deposed
my father, thus ending the Mandela family chieftainship.
I was unaware of these events at the time, but I was not unaffected.
My father, who was a wealthy nobleman by the standards of his time, lost
both his fortune and his title. He was deprived of most of his herd and
land, and the revenue that came with them. Because of our straitened
circumstances, my mother moved to Qunu, a slightly larger village north
of Mvezo, where she would have the support of friends and relations. We
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 7
lived in a less grand style in Qunu, but it was in that village near Umtata
that I spent the happiest years of my boyhood and whence I trace my
earliest memories.
XI >
Ž- z,
THE VILLAGE OF QUNU was situated in a narrow, grassy valley
crisscrossed by clear streams, and overlooked by green hills. It consisted
of no more than a few hundred people who lived in huts, which were
beehive-shaped structures of mud walls, with a wooden pole in the center
holding up a peaked, grass roof. The floor was made of crushed ant-heap,
the hard dome of excavated earth above an ant colony, and was kept smooth
by smearing it regularly with fresh cow dung. The smoke from the hearth
escaped through the roof, and the only opening was a low doorway one
had to stoop to walk through. The huts were generally grouped together
in a residential area that was some distance away from the maize fields.
There were no roads, only paths through the grass worn away by barefooted
boys and women. The women and children of the village wore
blankets dyed in ocher; only the few Christians in the village wore Westernstyle
clothing. Cattle, sheep, goats, and horses grazed together in common
pastures. The land around Qunu was mostly treeless except for a cluster
of poplars on a hill overlooking the village. The land itself was owned by
the state. With very few exceptions, Africans at the time did not enjoy
private title to land in South Africa but were tenants paying rent annually
to the government. In the area, there were two small primary schools, a
general store, and a dipping tank to rid the cattle of ticks and diseases.
Maize (what we called mealies and people in the West call corn),
sorghum, beans, and pumpkins formed the largest portion of our diet,
not because of any inherent preference for these foods, but because the
people could not afford anything richer. The wealthier families in our
village supplemented their diets with tea, coffee, and sugar, but for most
people in Qunu these were exotic luxuries far beyond their means. The
water used for farming, cooking, and washing had to be fetched in buckets from streams and springs. This was women's work, and indeed, Qunu w^ a village of women and children: most of the men spent the greater
part of the year working on remote farms or in the mines along the Reef, ^e great ridge of gold-bearing rock and shale that forms the southern
boundary of Johannesburg. They returned perhaps twice a year, mainly
to plow their fields. The hoeing, weeding, and harvesting were left to the women and children. Few if any of the people in the village knew how
8 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
to read or write, and the concept of education was still a foreign one to
many.
My mother presided over three huts at Qunu which, as I remember,
were always filled with the babies and children of my relations. In fact, I
hardly recall any occasion as a child when I was alone. In African culture,
the sons and daughters of one's aunts or uncles are considered brothers
and sisters, not cousins. We do not make the same distinctions among
relations practiced by whites. We have no half brothers or half sisters. My
mother's sister is my mother; my uncle's son is my brother; my brother's
child is my son, my daughter.
Of my mother's three huts, one was used for cooking, one for sleeping,
and one for storage. In the hut in which we slept, there was no furniture
in the Western sense. We slept on mats and sat on the ground. I did not
discover pillows until I went to Mqhekezweni. My mother cooked food
in a three-legged iron pot over an open fire in the center of the hut or
outside. Everything we ate we grew and made ourselves. My mother
planted and harvested her own mealies. Mealies were harvested from the
field when they were hard and dry. They were stored in sacks or pits dug
in the ground. When preparing the mealies, the women used different
methods. They could ground the kernels between two stones to make
bread, or boil the mealies first, producing umphathulo (mealie flour eaten
with sour milk) or umngqusho (samp, sometimes plain or mixed with
beans). Unlike mealies, which were sometimes in short supply, milk from
our cows and goats was always plentiful.
From an early age, I spent most of my free time in the veld playing
and fighting with the other boys of the village. A boy who remained at
home tied to his mother's apron strings was regarded as a sissy. At night,
I shared my food and blanket with these same boys. I was no more than
five when I became a herd-boy, looking after sheep and calves in the fields.
I discovered the almost mystical attachment that the Xhosa have for cattle,
not only as a source of food and wealth, but as a blessing from God and
a source of happiness. It was in the fields that I learned how to knock
birds out of the sky with a slingshot, to gather wild honey and fruits and
edible roots, to drink warm, sweet milk straight from the udder of a cowto
swim in the clear, cold streams, and to catch fish with twine and
sharpened bits of wire. I learned to stick-fight-- essential knowledge to
any rural African boy -- and became adept at its various techniques, parrying
blows, feinting in one direction and striking in another, breaking
away from an opponent with quick footwork. From these days I date my
love of the veld, of open spaces, the simple beauties of nature, the clean
line of the horizon.
As boys, we were mostly left to our own devices. We played with toys
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 9
we made ourselves. We molded animals and birds out of clay. We made
ox-drawn sleighs out of tree branches. Nature was our playground. The
hills above Qunu were dotted with large smooth rocks which we transformed
into our own roller coaster. We sat on flat stones and slid down
the face of the large rocks. We did this until our backsides were so sore
we could hardly sit down. I learned to ride by sitting atop weaned calves --
after being thrown to the ground several times, one got the hang of it.
I learned my lesson one day from an unruly donkey. We had been
taking turns climbing up and down its back and when my chance came
I jumped on and the donkey bolted into a nearby thornbush. It bent its
head, trying to unseat me, which it did, but not before the thorns had
pricked and scratched my face, embarrassing me in front of my friends.
Like the people of the East, Africans have a highly developed sense of dignity, or what the Chinese call "face." I had lost face among my friends.
Even though it was a donkey that unseated me, I learned that to humiliate
another person is to make him suffer an unnecessarily cruel fate. Even as
a boy, I defeated my opponents without dishonoring them.
Usually the boys played among themselves, but we sometimes allowed
our sisters to join us. Boys and girls would play games like ndize (hideand-seek)
and icekwa (touch-and-run). But the game I most enjoyed playing
with the girls was what we called khetha, or choose-theoneyou-like.
This was not so much an organized game, but a spur-ofthe-moment
sport that took place when we accosted a group of girls our own age and
demanded that each select the boy she loved. Our rules dictated that the
girl's choice be respected and once she had chosen her favorite, she was
free to continue on her journey escorted by the lucky boy she loved. But
the girls were nimble-witted -- far cleverer than we doltish lads -- and would often confer among themselves and choose one boy, usually the
plainest fellow, and then tease him all the way home.
The most popular game for boys was thinti, and like most boys' games
it was a youthful approximation of war. Two sticks, used as targets, would
be driven firmly into the ground in an upright position about one hundred
feet apart. The goal of the game was for each team to hurl sticks at the
opposing target and knock it down. We each defended our own target ^d attempted to prevent the other side from retrieving the sticks that
had been thrown over. As we grew older, we organized matches against
boys from neighboring villages, and those who distinguished themselves m ^cse fraternal battles were greatly admired, as generals who achieve
great victories in war are justly celebrated.
After games such as these, I would return to my mother's kraal where s e was preparing supper. Whereas my father once told stories of historic
attics and heroic Xhosa warriors, my mother would enchant us with
10 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Xhosa legends and fables that had come down from numberless generations.
These tales stimulated my childish imagination, and usually contained
some moral lesson. I recall one story my mother told us about a
traveler who was approached by an old woman with terrible cataracts on
her eyes. The woman asked the traveler for help, and the man averted his
eyes. Then another man came along and was approached by the old
woman. She asked him to clean her eyes, and even though he found the
task unpleasant, he did as she asked. Then, miraculously, the scales fell
from the old woman's eyes and she became young and beautiful. The
man married her and became wealthy and prosperous. It is a simple tale,
but its message is an enduring one: virtue and generosity will be rewarded
in ways that one cannot know.
Like all Xhosa children, I acquired knowledge mainly through observation.
We were meant to learn through imitation and emulation, not
through questions. When I first visited the homes of whites, I was often
dumbfounded by the number and nature of questions that children asked
of their parents -- and their parents' unfailing willingness to answer them.
In my household, questions were considered a nuisance; adults imparted
information as they considered necessary.
My life, and that of most Xhosas at the time, was shaped by custom,
ritual, and taboo. This was the alpha and omega of our existence, and
went unquestioned. Men followed the path laid out for them by their
fathers; women led the same lives as their mothers had before them.
Without being told, I soon assimilated the elaborate rules that governed
the relations between men and women. I discovered that a man may not
enter a house where a woman has recently given birth, and that a newly
married woman would not enter the kraal of her new home without
elaborate ceremony. I also learned that to neglect one's ancestors would
bring ill-fortune and failure in life. If you dishonored your ancestors in
some fashion, the only way to atone for that lapse was to consult with a
traditional healer or tribal elder, who communicated with the ancestors
and conveyed profound apologies. All of these beliefs seemed perfectly
natural to me.
I came across few whites as a boy at Qunu. The local magistrate, of
course, was white, as was the nearest shopkeeper. Occasionally white
travelers or policemen .passed through our area. These whites appeared
as grand as gods to me, and I was aware that they were to be treated with
a mixture of fear and respect. But their role in my life was a distant one,
and I thought little if at all about the white man in general or relations
between my own people and these curious and remote figures.
The only rivalry between different clans or tribes in our small world
at Qunu was that between the Xhosas and the amaMfengu, a small number
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 11
of whom lived in our village. AmaMfengu arrived on the eastern Cape
after fleeing from Shaka Zulu's armies in a period known as the iMfecane,
the great wave of battles and migrations between 1820 and 1840 set in morion
by the rise of Shaka and the Zulu state, during which the Zulu warrior
sought to conquer and then unite all the tribes under military rule.
AmaMfengu, who were not originally Xhosa-speakers, were refugees from
the iMfecane and were forced to do jobs that no other African would do.
They worked on white farms and in white businesses, something that was
looked down upon by the more established Xhosa tribes. But amaMfengu
were an industrious people, and because of their contact with Europeans,
they were often more educated and "Western" than other Africans.
When I was a boy, amaMfengu were the most advanced section of the
community and furnished our clergymen, policemen, teachers, clerks, and
interpreters. They were also amongst the first to become Christians, to
build better houses, and to use scientific methods of agriculture, and they
were wealthier than their Xhosa compatriots. They confirmed the missionaries'
axiom, that to be Christian was to be civilized, and to be civilized
was to be Christian. There still existed some hostility toward amaMfengu,
but in retrospect, I would attribute this more to jealousy than tribal
animosity. This local form of tribalism that I observed as a boy was
relatively harmless. At that stage, I did not witness nor even suspect the
violent tribal rivalries that would subsequently be promoted by the white
rulers of South Africa.
My father did not subscribe to local prejudice toward amaMfengu
and befriended two amaMfengu brothers, George and Ben Mbekela. The
brothers were an exception in Qunu: they were educated and Christian.
George, the older of the two, was a retired teacher and Ben was a police
sergeant. Despite the proselytizing of the Mbekela brothers, my father
remained aloof from Christianity and instead reserved his own faith for
the great spirit of the Xhosas, Qamata, the God of his fathers. My father
was an unofficial priest and presided over ritual slaughtering of goats and
calves and officiated at local traditional rites concerning planting, harvest,
birth, marriage, initiation ceremonies, and funerals. He did not need to
be ordained, for the traditional religion of the Xhosas is characterized by
a cosmic wholeness, so that there is little distinction between the sacred ^d the secular, between the natural and the supernatural.
While the faith of the Mbekela brothers did not rub off on my father,
it did inspire my mother, who became a Christian. In fact. Fanny was
"terally her Christian name, for she had been given it in church. It was oue to the influence of the Mbekela brothers that I myself was baptized
into the Methodist, or Wesleyan Church as it was then known, and sent 0 ^hool. The brothers would often see me playing or minding sheep
12 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and come over to talk to me. One day, George Mbekela paid a visit to
my mother. "Your son is a clever young fellow," he said. "He should go
to school." My mother remained silent. No one in my family had ever
attended school and my mother was unprepared'for Mbekela's suggestion.
But she did relay it to my father, who despite -- or perhaps because of--
his own lack of education immediately decided that his youngest son
should go to school.
The schoolhouse consisted of a single room, with a Western-style roof,
on the other side of the hill from Qunu. I was seven years old, and on
the day before I was to begin, my father took me aside and told me that
I must be dressed properly for school. Until that time, I, like all the other
boys in Qunu, had worn only a blanket, which was wrapped around one
shoulder and pinned at the waist. My father took a pair of his trousers
and cut them at the knee. He told me to put them on, which I did, and
they were roughly the correct length, although the waist was far too large.
My father then took a piece of string and cinched the trousers at the waist. I must have been a comical sight, but I have never owned a suit I
was prouder to wear than my father's cut-off pants.
On the first day of school, my teacher. Miss Mdingane, gave each of
us an English name and said that from thenceforth that was the name we
would answer to in school. This was the custom among Africans in those
days and was undoubtedly due to the British bias of our education. The
education I received was a British education, in which British ideas, British
culture, British institutions, were automatically assumed to be superior.
There was no such thing as African culture.
Africans of my generation -- and even today -- generally have both
an English and an African name. Whites were either unable or unwilling
to pronounce an African name, and considered it uncivilized to have one.
That day. Miss Mdingane told me that my new name was Nelson. Why
she bestowed this particular name upon me I have no idea. Perhaps it had
something to do with the great British sea captain Lord Nelson, but that would be only a guess.
3
ONE NIGHT, when I was nine years old, I was aware of a commotion in the household. My father, who took turnis visiting his wives and usual! \
came to us for perhaps one week a month, had arrived. But it was not at
his accustomed time, for he was not scheduled to be with us for another
few days. I found him in my mother's hut, lying on his back on the floor.
in the midst of what seemed like an endless fit of coughing. Even to my
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 13
young eyes, it was clear that my father was not long for this world. He
was ill with some type of lung disease, but it was not diagnosed, as my
father had never visited a doctor. He remained in the hut for several days
without moving or speaking, and then one night he took a turn for the
worse. My mother and my father's youngest wife, Nodayimani, who had
come to stay with us, were looking after him, and late that night he called
for Nodayimani. "Bring me my tobacco," he told her. My mother and
Nodayimani conferred, and decided that it was unwise that he have tobacco
in his current state. But he persisted in calling for it, and eventually
Nodayimani filled his pipe, lit it, and then handed it to him. My father
smoked and became calm. He continued smoking for perhaps an hour,
and then, his pipe still lit, he died.
I do not remember experiencing great grief so much as feeling cut
adrift. Although my mother was the center of my existence, I denned
myself through my father. My father's passing changed my whole life in
a way that I did not suspect at the time. After a brief period of mourning,
my mother informed me that I would be leaving Qunu. I did not ask her
why, or where I was going.
I packed the few things that I possessed, and early one morning we
set out on a journey westward to my new residence. I mourned less for
my father than for the world I was leaving behind. Qunu was all that I
knew, and I loved it in the unconditional way that a child loves his first
home. Before we disappeared behind the hills, I turned and looked for
what I imagined was the last time at my village. I could see the simple
huts and the people going about their chores; the stream where I had
splashed and played with the other boys; the maize fields and green
pastures where the herds and flocks were lazily grazing. I imagined my
friends out hunting for small birds, drinking the sweet milk from the
cow's udder, cavorting in the pond at the end of the stream. Above all
else, my eyes rested on the three simple huts where I had enjoyed my
mother's love and protection. It was these three huts that I associated
with all my happiness, with life itself, and I rued the fact that I had not
kissed each of them before I left. I could not imagine that the future I
was walking toward could compare in any way to the past that I was
leaving behind.
We traveled by foot and in silence until the sun was sinking slowly
toward the horizon. But the silence of the heart between mother and wild is not a lonely one. My mother and I never talked very much, but ^ did not need to. I never doubted her love or questioned her support. lt was an exhausting journey, along rocky dirt roads, up and down hills,
Psst numerous villages, but we did not pause. Late in the afternoon, at
e bottom of a shallow valley surrounded by trees, we came upon a vil-
14 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
lage at the center of which was a large and gracious home that so far exceeded
anything that I had ever seen that all I could do was marvel at it.
The buildings consisted of two iingxande (rectangular houses) and seven
stately rondavels (superior huts), all washed in white lime, dazzling even
in the light of the setting sun. There was a large front garden and a maize
field bordered by rounded peach trees. An even more spacious garden
spread out in back, which boasted apple trees, a vegetable garden, a strip
of flowers, and a patch of wattles. Nearby was a white stucco church.
In the shade of two gum trees that graced the doorway of the front
of the main house sat a group of about twenty tribal elders. Encircling
the property, contentedly grazing on the rich land, was a herd of at least
fifty cattle and perhaps five hundred sheep. Everything was beautifully
tended, and it was a vision of wealth and order beyond my imagination.
This was the Great Place, Mqhekezweni, the provisional capital ofThembuland,
the royal residence of Chief Jongintaba Dalindyebo, acting regent
of the Thembu people.
As I contemplated all this grandeur, an enormous motorcar rumbled
through the western gate and the men sitting in the shade immediately
arose. They doffed their hats and then jumped to their feet shouting, "Bayete a-a-a, Jongintaba!" (Hail, Jongintaba!), the traditional salute of
the Xhosas for their chief. Out of the motorcar (I learned later that this
majestic vehicle was a Ford V8) stepped a short, thickset man wearing a
smart suit. I could see that he had the confidence and bearing of a man
who was used to the exercise of authority. His name suited him, for
Jongintaba literally means "One who looks at the mountain," and he was
a man with a sturdy presence toward whom all eyes gazed. He had a dark
complexion and an intelligent face, and he casually shook hands with each
of the men beneath the tree, men who as I later discovered comprised
the highest Thembu court of justice. This was the regent who was to
become my guardian and benefactor for the next decade.
In that moment of beholding Jongintaba and his court I felt like a
sapling pulled root and branch from the earth and flung into the center
of a stream whose strong current I could not resist. I felt a sense of awe
mixed with bewilderment. Until then I had had no thoughts of anything
but my own pleasures, no higher ambition than to eat well and become
a champion stick-fighter. I had no thought of money, or class, or fame,
or power. Suddenly a new world opened before me. Children from poor
homes often find themselves beguiled by a host of new temptations when
suddenly confronted by great wealth. I was no exception. I felt many of
my established beliefs and loyalties begin to ebb away. The slender foundation
built by my parents began to shake. In that instant, I saw that life
might hold more for me than being a champion stick-fighter.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 15
* * *
I learned later that, in the wake of my father's death, Jongintaba had
offered to become my guardian. He would treat me as he treated his other
children, and I would have the same advantages as they. My mother had
no choice; one did not turn down such an overture from the regent. She
was satisfied that although she would miss me, I would have a more
advantageous upbringing in the regent's care than in her own. The regent
had not forgotten that it was due to my father's intervention that he had
become acting paramount chief.
My mother remained in Mqhekezweni for a day or two before returning
to Qunu. Our parting was without fuss. She offered no sermons, no
words of wisdom, no kisses. I suspect she did not want me to feel bereft
at her departure and so was matter-of-fact. I knew that my father had
wanted me to be educated and prepared for a wide world, and I could
not do that in Qunu. Her tender look was all the affection and support
I needed, and as she departed she turned to me and said, "Uqinisufokotho,
Kwedini!" (Brace yourself, my boy!) Children are often the least sentimental
of creatures, especially if they are absorbed in some new pleasure.
Even as my dear mother and first friend was leaving, my head was swimming
with the delights of my new home. How could I not be braced up?
I was already wearing the handsome new outfit purchased for me by my
guardian.
I was quickly caught up in the daily life of Mqhekezweni. A child
adapts rapidly, or not at all -- and I had taken to the Great Place as though
I had been raised there. To me, it was a magical kingdom; everything was
delightful; the chores that were tedious in Qunu became an adventure in
Mqhekezweni. When I was not in school, I was a plowboy, a wagon guide,
a shepherd. I rode horses and shot birds with slingshots and found boys
to joust with, and some nights I danced the evening away to the beautiful
singing and clapping ofThembu maidens. Although I missed Qunu and
my mother, I was completely absorbed in my new world.
I attended a one-room school next door to the palace and studied
English, Xhosa, history, and geography. We read Chambers English Reader and did our lessons on black slates. Our teachers, Mr. Fadana, and later,
Mr. Giqwa, took a special interest in me. I did well in school not so much
through cleverness as through doggedness. My own self-discipline was
reinforced by my aunt Phathiwe, who lived in the Great Place and scru^ized
my homework every night.
Mqhekezweni was a mission station of the Methodist Church and far "^re up-to-date and Westernized than Qunu. People dressed in modem c otnes- The men wore suits and the women affected the severe Protestant ^yie of the missionaries: thick long skirts and high-necked blouses, with
16 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
a blanket draped over the shoulder and a scarf wound elegantly around
the head.
If the world of Mqhekezweni revolved around the regent, my smaller
world revolved around his two children. Justice, the elder, was his only
son and heir to the Great Place, and Nomafu was the regent's daughter.
I lived with them and was treated exactly as they were. We ate the same
food, wore the same clothes, performed the same chores. We were later
joined by Nxeko, the older brother to Sabata, the heir to the throne. The
four of us formed a royal quartet. The regent and his wife No-England
brought me up as if I were their own child. They worried about me,
guided me, and punished me, all in a spirit of loving fairness. Jongintaba
was stern, but I never doubted his love. They called me by the pet name
of Tatomkhulu, which means "Grandpa," because they said when I was
very serious, I looked like an old man.
Justice was four years older than I and became my first hero after my
father. I looked up to him in every way. He was already at Clarkebury, a
boarding school about sixty miles distant. Tall, handsome, and muscular,
he was a fine sportsman, excelling in track and field, cricket, rugby, and
soccer. Cheerful and outgoing, he was a natural performer who enchanted
audiences with his singing and transfixed them with his ballroom dancing. He had a bevy of female admirers -- but also a coterie of critics, who
considered him a dandy and a playboy. Justice and I became the best of
friends, though we were opposites in many ways: he was extroverted, I
was introverted; he was lighthearted, I was serious. Things came easily
to him; I had to drill myself. To me, he was everything a young man
should be and everything I longed to be. Though treated alike, our destinies
were different: Justice would inherit one of the most powerful
chieftainships of the Thembu tribe, while I would inherit whatever the
regent, in his generosity, decided to give me.
Every day I was in and out of the regent's house doing errands. Of
the chores I did for the regent, the one I enjoyed most was pressing his
suits, a job in which I took great pride. He owned half-a-dozen Western
suits, and I spent many an hour carefully making the crease in his trousers.
His palace, as it were, consisted of two large Western-style houses with
tin roofs. In those days, very few Africans had Western houses a-id they
were considered a mark of great wealth. Six rondavels stood in a semicircle
around the main house. They had wooden floorboards, something I had
never seen before. The regent and the queen slept in the right-hand
rondavel, the queen's sister in the center one, and the left-hand hut served
as a pantry. Under the floor of the queen's sister's hut was a beehive, and
we would sometimes take up a floorboard or two and feast on its honey.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 17
Shortly after I moved to Mqhekezweni, the regent and his wife moved to
the uxande (middle house), which automatically became the Great House.
There were three small rondavels near it: one for the regent's mother, one
for visitors, and one shared by Justice and myself.
The two principles that governed my life at Mqhekezweni were chieftaincy
and the Church. These two doctrines existed in uneasy harmony, although
I did not then see them as antagonistic. For me, Christianity was not so
much a system of beliefs as it was the powerful creed of a single man:
Reverend Matyolo. For me, his powerful presence embodied all that was
alluring in Christianity. He was as popular and beloved as the regent, and
the fact that he was the regent's superior in spiritual matters made a
strong impression on me. But the Church was as concerned with this
world as the next: I saw that virtually all of the achievements of Africans
seemed to have come about through the missionary work of the Church.
The mission schools trained the clerks, the interpreters, and the policemen,
who at the time represented the height of African aspirations.
Reverend Matyolo was a stout man in his mid-fifties, with a deep and
potent voice that lent itself to both preaching and singing. When he
preached at the simple church at the western end of Mqhekezweni, the
hall was always brimming with people. The hall rang with the hosannas
of the faithful, while the women knelt at his feet to beg for salvation. The
first tale I heard about him when I arrived at the Great Place was that
the reverend had chased away a dangerous ghost with only a Bible and
a lantern as weapons. I saw neither implausibility nor contradiction in
this story. The Methodism preached by Reverend Matyolo was of the fireand-brimstone
variety, seasoned with a bit of African animism. The Lord
was wise and omnipotent, but He was also a vengeful God who let no
bad deed go unpunished.
At Qunu, the only time I had ever attended church was on the day
that I was baptized. Religion was a ritual that I indulged in for my mother's
sake and to which I attached no meaning. But at Mqhekezweni, religion
was a part of the fabric of life and I attended church each Sunday along
with the regent and his wife. The regent took his religion very seriously.
w fact the only time that I was ever given a hiding by him was when I
dodged a Sunday service to take part in a fight against boys from another
village, a transgression I never committed again.
That was not the only rebuke I received on account of my trespasses
sgainst the reverend. One afternoon, I crept into Reverend Matyolo's
garden and stole some maize, which I roasted and ate right there. A young
girl saw me eating the corn in the garden and immediately reported my
Presence to the priest. The news quickly made the rounds and reached
18 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the regent's wife. That evening, she waited until prayer time -- which was
a daily ritual in the house -- and confronted me with my misdeed, reproaching
me for taking the bread from a poor servant of God and
disgracing the family. She said the devil would certainly take me to task
for my sin. I felt an unpleasant mixture of fear and shame -- fear that I
would get some cosmic comeuppance and shame that I had abused the
trust of my adopted family.
Because of the universal respect the regent enjoyed -- from both black
and white -- and the seemingly untempered power that he wielded, I saw
chieftaincy as being the very center around which life revolved. The power
and influence of chieftaincy pervaded every aspect of our lives in Mqhekezweni
and was the preeminent means through which one could achieve
influence and status.
My later notions of leadership were profoundly influenced by observing
the regent and his court. I watched and learned from the tribal meetings
that were regularly held at the Great Place. These were not scheduled, but were called as needed, and were held to discuss national matters such
as a drought, the culling of cattle, policies ordered by the magistrate, or
new laws decreed by the government. All Thembus were free to come --
and a great many did, on horseback or by foot.
On these occasions, the regent was surrounded by his amaphakathi, a
group of councilors of high rank who functioned as the regent's parliament
and judiciary. They were wise men who retained the knowledge of
tribal history and custom in their heads and whose opinions carried great
weight.
Letters advising these chiefs and headmen of a meeting were dispatched
from the regent, and soon the Great Place became alive with important
visitors and travelers from all over Thembuland. The guests would gather
in the courtyard in front of the regent's house and he would open the
meeting by thanking everyone for coming and explaining why he had
summoned them. From that point on, he would not utter another word
until the meeting was nearing its end.
Everyone who wanted to speak did so. It was democracy in its purest
form. There may have been a hierarchy of importance among the speakers but everyone was heard, chief and subject, warrior and medicine man,
shopkeeper and farmer, landowner and laborer. People spoke without
interruption and the meetings lasted for many hours. The foundation of
self-government was that all men were free to voice their opinions and equal in their value as citizens. (Women, I am afraid, were deemed secondclass
citizens.)
A great banquet was served during the day, and I often gave myself a
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 19
bellvache by eating too much while listening to speaker after speaker. I
noticed how some speakers rambled and never seemed to get to the point.
I grasped how others came to the matter at hand directly, and who made
a set of arguments succinctly and cogently. I observed how some speakers
used emotion and dramatic language, and tried to move the audience
with such techniques, while other speakers were sober and even, and
shunned emotion.
At first, I was astonished by the vehemence -- and candor -- with
which people criticized the regent. He was not above criticism -- in fact,
he was often the principal target of it. But no matter how flagrant the
charge, the regent simply listened, not defending himself, showing no
emotion at all.
The meetings would continue until some kind of consensus was
reached. They ended in unanimity or not at all. Unanimity, however,
might be an agreement to disagree, to wait for a more propitious time
to propose a solution. Democracy meant all men were to be heard, and
a decision was taken together as a people. Majority rule was a foreign
notion. A minority was not to be crushed by a majority.
Only at the end of the meeting, as the sun was setting, would the
regent speak. His purpose was to sum up what had been said and form
some consensus among the diverse opinions. But no conclusion was forced
on people who disagreed. If no agreement could be reached, another
meeting would be held. At the very end of the council, a praise-singer or
poet would deliver a panegyric to the ancient kings, and a mixture of
compliments to and satire on the present chiefs, and the audience, led by
the regent, would roar with laughter.
As a leader, I have always followed the principles I first saw demonstrated
by the regent at the Great Place. I have always endeavored to listen
to what each and every person in a discussion had to say before venturing
my own opinion. Oftentimes, my own opinion will simply represent a
consensus of what I heard in the discussion. I always remember the
regent's axiom: a leader, he said, is like a shepherd. He stays behind the
nock, letting the most nimble go out ahead, whereupon the others follow,
not realizing that all along they are being directed from behind.
It was at Mqhekezweni that I developed my interest in African history. ^ntil men I had heard only of Xhosa heroes, but at the Great Place I warned of other African heroes like Sekhukhune, king of the Bapedi, and "^ Basotho king, Moshoeshoe, and Dingane, king of the Zulus, and
others such as Bambatha, Hintsa and Makana, Montshiwa and Kgama.
earned of these men from the chiefs and headmen who came to the reat Place to settle disputes and try cases. Though not lawyers, these
20 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
men presented cases and then adjudicated them. Some days, they would
finish early and sit around telling stories. I hovered silently and listened.
They spoke in an idiom that I'd never heard before. Their speech was
formal and lofty, their manner slow and unhurried, and the traditional
clicks of our language were long and dramatic.
At first, they shooed me away and told me I was too young to listen.
Later they would beckon me to fetch fire or water for them, or to tell the
women they wanted tea, and in those early months I was too busy running
errands to follow their conversation. But, eventually, they permitted me
to stay, and I discovered the great African patriots who fought against
Western domination. My imagination was fired by the glory of these African warriors.
The most ancient of the chiefs who regaled the gathered elders with
ancient tales was Zwelibhangile Joyi, a son from the Great House of King
Ngubengcuka. Chief Joyi was so old that his wrinkled skin hung on him
like a loose-fitting coat. His stories unfolded slowly and were often pui ictuated
by a great wheezing cough, which would force him to stop tor
minutes at a time. Chief Joyi was the great authority on the history of
the Thembus in large part because he had lived through so much ofir.
But as grizzled as Chief Joyi often seemed, the decades fell off him
when he spoke of the young impis, or warriors, in the army of King
Ngangelizwe fighting the British. In pantomime. Chief Joyi would fling
his spear and creep along the veld as he narrated the victories and defeats.
He spoke of Ngangelizwe's heroism, generosity, and humility.
Not all of Chief Joyi's stories revolved around the Thembus. When i.e
first spoke ofnon-Xhosa warriors, I wondered why. I was like a boy who
worships a local soccer hero and is not interested in a national soccer s; 'r
with whom he has no connection. Only later was I moved by the bro ...I sweep of African history, and the deeds of all African heroes regardless
of tribe.
Chief Joyi railed against the white man, who he believed had deliberately
sundered the Xhosa tribe, dividing brother from brother. The
white man had told the Thembus that their true chief was the great white
queen across the ocean and that they were her subjects. But the white
queen brought nothing but misery and perfidy to the black people, a .1 if she was a chief she was an evil chief. Chief Joyi's war stories and Ins
indictment of the British made me feel angry and cheated, as thougt. 1
had already been robbed of my own birthright.
Chief Joyi said that the African people lived in relative peace until the
coming of the abdungu, the white people, who arrived from across the
sea with fire-breathing weapons. Once, he said, the Thembu, the Mpondo,
the Xhosa, and the Zulu were all children of one father, and lived as
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 21
brothers. The white man shattered the abcmtu, the fellowship, of the
various tribes. The white man was hungry and greedy for land, and the
black man shared the land with him as they shared the air and water;
land was not for man to possess. But the white man took the land as you
might seize another man's horse.
I did not yet know that the real history of our country was not to be
found in standard British textbooks, which claimed South Africa began
with the landing of Jan Van Riebeeck at the Cape of Good Hope in 1652.
It was from Chief Joyi that I began to discover that the history of the
Bantu-speaking peoples began far to the north, in a country of lakes and
green plains and valleys, and that slowly over the millennia we made our
way down to the very tip of this great continent. However, I later discovered
that Chief Joyi's account of African history, particularly after 1652,
was not always so accurate.
In Mqhekezweni, I felt not unlike the proverbial country boy who comes
to the big city. Mqhekezweni was far more sophisticated than Qunu,
whose residents were regarded as backward by the people of Mqhekezweni.
The regent was loath to have me visit Qunu, thinking I would
regress and fall into bad company back in my old village. When I did
visit, I sensed that my mother had been briefed by the regent, for she
would question me closely as to whom I was playing with. On many
occasions, however, the regent would arrange for my mother and sisters
to be brought to the Great Place.
When I first arrived in Mqhekezweni I was regarded by some of my
peers as a yokel who was hopelessly unequipped to exist in the rarefied
atmosphere of the Great Place. As young men will, I did my best to appear
suave and sophisticated. In church one day, I had noticed a lovely young
woman who was one of the daughters of the Reverend Matyolo. Her
name was Winnie, and I asked her out and she accepted. She was keen
on me, but her eldest sister, nomaMpondo, regarded me as hopelessly
backward. She told her sister that I was a barbarian who was not good
enough for the daughter of Reverend Matyolo. To prove to her younger "ster how uncivilized I was, she invited me to the rectory for lunch. I
was still used to eating at home, where we did not use knife and fork. At tte family table, this mischievous older sister handed me a plate that Gontained a single chicken wing. But the wing, instead of being soft and
tender, was a bit tough, so the meat did not fall easily off the bone.
I watched the others using their knives and forks with ease and slowly
Picked up mine. I observed the others for a few moments, and then attempted to carve my little wing. At first I just moved it around the plate,
"opmg that the flesh would fall from the bone. Then I tried in vain to
22 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
pin the thing down, and cut it, but it eluded me, and in my frustration
I was clanking my knife on the plate. I tried this repeatedly and then
noticed that the older sister was smiling at me and looking knowingly at
the younger sister as if to say, "I told you so." I struggled and struggled
and became wet with perspiration, but I did not want to admit defeat
and pick the infernal thing up with my hands. I did not eat much chicken
that day at luncheon.
Afterward the older sister told the younger, "You will waste your whole
life if you fall in love with such a backward boy," but I am happy to saw
the young lady did not listen -- she loved me, as backward as I was.
Eventually, of course, we went different ways and drifted apart. She attended
a different school, and qualified as a teacher. We corresponded for
a few years and then I lost track other, but by that time I had considerably improved my table etiquette.
4
WHEN I WAS SIXTEEN, the regent decided that it was time that I
became a man. In Xhosa tradition, this is achieved through one means
only: circumcision. In my tradition, an uncircumcised male cannot be
heir to his father's wealth, cannot marry or officiate in tribal rituals. An
uncircumcised Xhosa man is a contradiction in terms, for he is not considered
a man at all, but a boy. For the Xhosa people, circumcision represents
the formal incorporation of males into society. It is not just a
surgical procedure, but a lengthy and elaborate ritual in preparation for
manhood. As a Xhosa, I count my years as a man from the date of my
circumcision.
The traditional ceremony of the circumcision school was arranged
principally for Justice -- the rest of us, twenty-six in all -- were there
mainly to keep him company. Early in the new year, we journeyed to two
grass huts in a secluded valley on the banks of the Mbashe River, known
as Tyhalarha, the traditional place of circumcision for Thembu kings. The
huts were seclusion lodges, where we were to live isolated from society.
It was a sacred time; I felt happy and fulfilled taking part in my people's
customs and ready to make the transition from boyhood to manhood.
We had moved to Tyhalarha by the river a few days before the actual
circumcision ceremony. These last few days of boyhood were spent with
the other initiates, and I found the camaraderie enjoyable. The lodge was
near the home of Banabakhe Blayi, the wealthiest and most popular boy
at the circumcision school. He was an engaging fellow, a champion stickfighter
and a glamour boy, whose many girlfriends kept us all supplied
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 23
with delicacies. Although he could neither read nor write, he was one of
the most intelligent among us. He regaled us with stories of his trips to
fohannesburg, a place none of us had ever been before. He so thrilled us
with tales of the mines that he almost persuaded me that to be a miner
was more alluring than to be a monarch. Miners had a mystique; to be
a miner meant to be strong and daring, the ideal of manhood. Much
later I realized that it was the exaggerated tales of boys like Banabakhe
that caused so many young men to run away to work in the mines of
Johannesburg, where they often lost their health and their lives. In those
days, working in the mines was almost as much of a rite of passage as
circumcision school, a myth that helped the mine-owners more than it
helped my people.
A custom of circumcision school is that one must perform a daring
exploit before the ceremony. In days of old, this might have involved a
cattle raid or even a battle, but in our time the deeds were more mischievous
than martial. Two nights before we moved to Tyhalarha, we
decided to steal a pig. In Mqhekezweni there was a tribesman with an
ornery old pig. To avoid making noise and alarming him, we arranged
for the pig to do our work for us. We took handfuls of sediment from
homemade African beer, which has a strong scent much favored by pigs,
and placed it upwind of the pig. The pig was so aroused by the scent
that he came out of the kraal, following a trail we had laid, gradually
made his way to us, wheezing and snorting and eating the sediment.
When he got near us, we captured the poor pig, slaughtered it, and then
built a fire and ate roast pork underneath the stars. No piece of pork has
ever tasted as good before or since.
The night before the circumcision, there was a ceremony near our huts
with singing and dancing. Women came from the nearby villages, and
we danced to their singing and clapping. As the music became faster and
louder, our dance turned more frenzied and we forgot for a moment what
lay ahead.
At dawn, when the stars were still in the sky, we began our preparations.
We were escorted to the river to bathe in its cold waters, a ritual that
signified our purification before the ceremony. The ceremony was at midday,
and we were commanded to stand in a row in a clearing some distance from the river where a crowd of parents and relatives, including the regent, 2s well as a handful of chiefs and counselors, had gathered. We were clad ^ly in our blankets, and as the ceremony began, with drums pounding,
we were ordered to sit on a blanket on the ground with our legs spread
°Ut in front of us. I was tense and anxious, uncertain of how I would react when the critical moment came. Flinching or crying out was a sign 01 weakness and stigmatized one's manhood. I was determined not to
24 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
disgrace myself, the group, or my guardian. Circumcision is a trial of
bravery and stoicism; no anesthetic is used; a man must suffer in silence.
To the right, out of the corner of my eye, I could see a thin, elderly
man emerge from a tent and kneel in front of the first boy. There was
excitement in the crowd, and I shuddered slightly knowing that the ritual
was about to begin. The old man was a famous ingcibi, a circumcision
expert, from Gcalekaland, who would use his assegai to change us from
boys to men with a single blow.
Suddenly, I heard the first boy cry out, "Ndiyindoda!" (I am a man!),
which we were trained to say in the moment of circumcision. Seconds
later, I heard Justice's strangled voice pronounce the same phrase. There
were now two boys before the ingcibi reached me, and my mind must
have gone blank because before I knew it, the old man was kneeling in
front of me. I looked directly into his eyes. He was pale, and though the
day was cold, his face was shining with perspiration. His hands moved
so fast they seemed to be controlled by an otherworldly force. Without
a word, he took my foreskin, pulled it forward, and then, in a single
motion, brought down his assegai. I felt as if fire was shooting through
my veins; the pain was so intense that I buried my chin into my chest.
Many seconds seemed to pass before I remembered the cry, and then I
recovered and called out, "Ndiyinchda!"
I looked down and saw a perfect cut, clean and round like a ring. But
I felt ashamed because the other boys seemed much stronger and braver
than I had been; they had called out more promptly than I had. I was
distressed that I had been disabled, however briefly, by the pain, and I
did my best to hide my agony. A boy may cry; a man conceals his pain.
I had now taken the essential step in the life of every Xhosa man. Now,
I might marry, set up my own home, and plow my own field. I could
now be admitted to the councils of the community; my words would be
taken seriously. At the ceremony, I was given my circumcision name,
Dalibunga, meaning "Founder of the Bungha," the traditional ruling body
of the Transkei. To Xhosa traditionalists, this name is more acceptable
than either of my two previous given names, Rolihiahia or Nelson, and
I was proud to hear my new name pronounced: Dalibunga.
Immediately after the blow had been delivered, an assistant who follows
the circumcision master takes the foreskin that is on the ground and ties
it to a corner of your blanket. Our wounds were then dressed with a
healing plant, the leaves of which were thorny on the outside but smooth
on the inside, which absorbed the blood and other secretions.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, we returned to our huts, where a
fire was burning with wet wood that cast off clouds of smoke, which wa.s
thought to promote healing. We were ordered to lie on our backs in the
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 25
smoky huts, with one leg flat, and one leg bent. We were now abakhwetha, initiates into the world of manhood. We were looked after by an amakhankatha,
or guardian, who explained the rules we must follow if we
were to enter manhood properly. The first chore of the amakhankatha was to paint our naked and shaved bodies from head to foot in white
ocher, turning us into ghosts. The white chalk symbolized our purity,
and I still recall how stiff the dried clay felt on my body.
That first night, at midnight, an attendant, or ikhankatha, crept around
the hut, gently waking each of us. We were then instructed to leave the
hut and go tramping through the night to bury our foreskins. The traditional
reason for this practice was so that our foreskins would be hidden
before wizards could use them for evil purposes, but, symbolically, we
were also burying our youth. I did not want to leave the warm hut and
wander through the bush in the darkness, but I walked into the trees and,
after a few minutes, untied my foreskin and buried it in the earth. I felt
as though I had now discarded the last remnant of my childhood.
We lived in our two huts -- thirteen in each -- while our wounds
healed. When outside the huts, we were covered in blankets, for we were
not allowed to be seen by women. It was a period of quietude, a kind of
spiritual preparation for the trials of manhood that lay ahead. On the day
of our reemergence, we went down to the river early in the morning to
wash away the white ocher in the waters of the Mbashe. Once we were
clean and dry, we were coated in red ocher. The tradition was that one
should sleep with a woman, who later may become one's wife, and she
rubs off the pigment with her body. In my case, however, the ocher was
removed with a mixture of fat and lard.
At the end of our seclusion, the lodges and all their contents were burned,
destroying our last links to childhood, and a great ceremony was held to
welcome us as men to society. Our families, friends, and local chiefs
gathered for speeches, songs, and gift-giving. I was given two heifers and
four sheep, and felt far richer than I ever had before. I who had never
owned anything suddenly possessed property. It was a heady feeling, even "lough my gifts were paltry next to those of Justice, who inherited an
entire herd. I was not jealous of Justice's gifts. He was the son of a king;
I was merely destined to be a counselor to a king. I felt strong and proud "tat day. I remember walking differently on that day, straighter, taller,
nrmer. I was hopeful, and thinking that I might someday have wealth,
Property, and status.
The main speaker of the day was Chief Meligqili, the son ofDalindyebo, ^d after listening to him, my gaily colored dreams suddenly darkened.
e began conventionally, remarking on how fine it was that we were
26 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
continuing a tradition that had been going on for as long as anyone couki,
remember. Then he turned to us and his tone suddenly changed. "Theresit our sons," he said, "young, healthy, and handsome, the flower of the
Xhosa tribe, the pride of our nation. We have just circumcised them in
a ritual that promises them manhood, but I am here to tell you that it is
an empty, illusory promise, a promise than can never be fulfilled. For we
Xhosas, and all black South Africans, are a conquered people. We are
slaves in our own country. We are tenants on our own soil. We have no
strength, no power, no control over our own destiny in the land of our
birth. They will go to cities where they will live in shacks and drink cheap
alcohol all because we have no land to give them where they could prospcr
and multiply. They will cough their lungs out deep in the bowels of thewhite man's mines, destroying their health, never seeing the sun, so that
the white man can live a life ofunequaled prosperity. Among these young
men are chiefs who will never rule because we have no power to govern
ourselves; soldiers who will never fight for we have no weapons to fight
with; scholars who will never teach because we have no place for them
to study. The abilities, the intelligence, the promise of these young men
will be squandered in their attempt to eke out a living doing the simplest,
most mindless chores for the white man. These gifts today are naught,
for we cannot give them the greatest gift of all, which is freedom and
independence. I well know that Qamata is all-seeing and never sleeps, but
I have a suspicion that Qamata may in fact be dozing. If this is the case,
the sooner I die the better because then I can meet him and shake him
awake and tell him that the children of Ngubengcuka, the flower of the
Xhosa nation, are dying."
The audience had become more and more quiet as Chief Meligqili
spoke and, I think, more and more angry. No one wanted to hear the
words that he spoke that day. I know that I myself did not want to hear
them. I was cross rather than aroused by the chiefs remarks, dismissing
his words as the abusive comments of an ignorant man who was unable
to appreciate the value of the education and benefits that the white man
had brought to our country. At the time, I looked on the white man not
as an oppressor but as a benefactor, and I thought the chief was enoi mously ungrateful. This upstart chief was ruining my day, spoiling the
proud feeling with wrongheaded remarks.
But without exactly understanding why, his words soon began to work
in me. He had planted a seed, and though I let that seed lie dormant for
a long season, it eventually began to grow. Later, I realized that the
ignorant man that day was not the chief but myself.
After the ceremony, I walked back to the river and watched it meander
on its way to where, many miles distant, it emptied into the Indian Ocean
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 27
T had never crossed that river, and I knew little or nothing of the world
hevond it, a world that beckoned me that day. It was almost sunset and
T hurried on to where our seclusion lodges had been. Though it was
forbidden to look back while the lodges were burning, I could not resist.
When I reached the area, all that remained were two pyramids of ashes
by a large mimosa tree. In these ash heaps lay a lost and delightful world,
the world of my childhood, the world of sweet and irresponsible days at
Ounu and Mqhekezweni. Now I was a man, and I would never again play thinti, or steal maize, or drink milk from a cow's udder. I was already in
mourning for my own youth. Looking back, I know that I was not a man
that day and would not truly become one for many years.
5
UNLIKE MOST OF THE OTHERS with whom I had been at circumcision
school, I was not destined to work in the gold mines on the
Reef. The regent had often told me, "It is not for you to spend your life
mining the white man's gold, never knowing how to write your name."
My destiny was to become a counselor to Sabata, and for that I had to
be educated. I returned to Mqhekezweni after the ceremony, but not for
very long, for I was about to cross the Mbashe River for the first time
on my way to Clarkebury Boarding Institute in the district ofEngcobo.
I was again leaving home, but I was eager to see how I would fare in
the wider world. The regent himself drove me to Engcobo in his majestic
Ford V8. Before leaving, he had organized a celebration for my having
passed Standard V and been admitted to Clarkebury. A sheep was slaughtered
and there was dancing and singing -- it was the first celebration that I had ever had in my own honor, and I greatly enjoyed it. The regent
gave me my first pair of boots, a sign of manhood, and that night I
polished them anew, even though they were already shiny.
Founded in 1825, Clarkebury Institute was located on the site of one of
the oldest Wesleyan missions in the Transkei. At the time, Clarkebury was Ae highest institution of learning for Africans in Thembuland. The regent
himself had attended Clarkebury, and Justice had followed him there. It ^s both a secondary school and a teacher training college, but it also
offered courses in more practical disciplines, such as carpentry, tailoring, ^d tinsmithing.
During the trip, the regent advised me on my behavior and my future.
wged me to behave in a way that brought only respect to Sabata and to himself, and I assured him that I would. He then briefed me on the
28 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Reverend C. Harris, the governor of the school. Reverend Harris, t;,' explained, was unique: he was a white Thembu, a white man who in his
heart loved and understood the Thembu people. The regent said when
Sabata was older, he would entrust the future king to Reverend Harris, who would train him as both a Christian and a traditional ruler. He said
that I must learn from Reverend Harris because I was destined to guide
the leader that Reverend Harris was to mold.
At Mqhekezweni I had met many white traders and government officials,
including magistrates and police officers. These were men of high
standing and the regent received them courteously, but not obsequioush;
he treated them on equal terms, as they did him. At times, I even saw
him upbraid them, though this was extremely rare. I had very little experience
in dealing directly with whites. The regent never told me how
to behave, and I observed him and followed his example. In talking about
Reverend Harris, however, the regent, for the first time, gave me a lecture
on how I was to conduct myself. He said I must afford the reverend the
same respect and obedience that I gave to him.
Clarkebury was far grander even than Mqhekezweni. The school itself
consisted of a cluster of two dozen or so graceful, colonial-style buildings,
which included individual homes as well as dormitories, the library, and
various instructional halls. It was the first place I'd lived that was Western,
not African, and I felt I was entering a new world whose rules were not
yet clear to me.
We were taken in to Reverend Harris's study, where the regent introduced
me and I stood to shake his hand, the first time I had ever shaken
hands with a white man. Reverend Harris was warm and friendly, and
treated the regent with great deference. The regent explained that I was
being groomed to be a counselor to the king and that he hoped the
reverend would take a special interest in me. The reverend nodded, adding
that Clarkebury students were required to do manual labor after school
hours, and he would arrange for me to work in his garden.
At the end of the interview, the regent bade me good-bye and handed
me a pound note for pocket money, the largest amount of money I had
ever possessed. I bade him farewell and promised that I would not dis
appoint him.
Clarkebury was a Thembu college, founded on land given by the great
Thembu king Ngubengcuka; as a descendant of Ngubengcuka, I presumed
that I would be accorded the same deference at Clarkebury that I
had come to expect in Mqhekezweni. But I was painfully mistaken, for 1
was treated no differently than everyone else. No one knew or even cared
that I was a descendant of the illustrious Ngubengcuka. The boarding
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 29
master received me without a blowing of trumpets and my fellow students
did not bow and scrape before me. At Clarkebury, plenty of the
boys had distinguished lineages, and I was no longer unique. This was
an important lesson, for I suspect I was a bit stuck up in those days. I
quicklv realized that I had to make my way on the basis of my ability, not
my heritage. Most of my classmates could outrun me on the playing field
and outthink me in the classroom, and I had a good deal of catching up
to do.
Classes commenced the following morning, and along with my fellow
students I climbed the steps to the first floor where the classrooms were
located. The room itself had a beautifully polished wooden floor. On this
first day of classes I was clad in my new boots. I had never worn boots
before of any kind, and that first day, I walked like a newly shod horse.
I made a terrible racket walking up the steps and almost slipped several
times. As I clomped into the classroom, my boots crashing on that shiny
wooden floor, I noticed two female students in the first row were watching
my lame performance with great amusement. The prettier of the two
leaned over to her friend and said loud enough for all to hear: "The
country boy is not used to wearing shoes," at which her friend laughed.
I was blind with fury and embarrassment.
Her name was Mathona and she was a bit of a smart aleck. That day
I vowed never to talk to her. But as my mortification wore off (and I
became more adept at walking with boots) I also got to know her, and
she was to become my greatest friend at Clarkebury. She was my first true
female friend, a woman I met on equal terms with whom I could confide
and share secrets. In many ways, she was the model for all my subsequent
friendships with women, for with women I found I could let my hair
down and confess to weaknesses and fears I would never reveal to another
man.
I soon adapted myself to the life at Clarkebury. I participated in sports
and games as often as I could, but my performances were no more than
mediocre. I played for the love of sport, not the glory, for I received none.
We played lawn tennis with homemade wooden rackets and soccer with kare feet on a field of dust.
For the first time, I was taught by teachers who had themselves been
properly educated. Several of them held university degrees, which was octremely rare. One day, I was studying with Mathona, and I confided 0 'ier my fear that I might not pass my exams in English and history at
e end of the year. She told me not to worry because our teacher, Gertrude uabathi, was the first African woman to obtain a B.A. "She is too clever et us fail," Mathona said. I had not yet learned to feign knowledge
30 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
that I did not possess, and as I had only a vague idea what a B.A. was
I questioned Mathona. "Oh, yes, of course," she answered. "A B.A. is a
very long and difficult book." I did not doubt her.
Another African teacher with a bachelor of arts degree was Ben Mahlasela.
We admired him not only because of his academic achievement,
but because he was not intimidated by Reverend Harris. Even the white
faculty behaved in a servile manner to Reverend Harris, but Mr. Mahlasela
would walk into the reverend's office without fear, and sometimes would
even fail to remove his hat! He met the reverend on equal terms, disagreeing
with him where others simply assented. Though I respected
Reverend Harris, I admired the fact that Mr. Mahlasela would not be
cowed by him. In those days, a black man with a B.A. was expected to
scrape before a white man with a grade-school education. No matter ho\v
high a black man advanced, he was still considered inferior to the lowest
white man.
Reverend Harris ran Clarkebury with an iron hand and an abiding sense
of fairness. Clarkebury functioned more like a military school than a
teacher training college. The slightest infractions were swiftly punished.
In assemblies. Reverend Harris always wore a forbidding expression and
was not given to levity of any kind. When he walked into a room, members
of the staff, including white principals of the training and secondary
schools, together with the black principal of the industrial school, rose
to their feet.
Among students, he was feared more than loved. But in the garden,
I saw a different Reverend Harris. Working in Reverend Harris's garden
had a double benefit: it planted in me a lifelong love of gardening and
growing vegetables, and it helped me get to know the reverend and his
family -- the first white family with whom I had ever been on intimate
terms. In that way, I saw that Reverend Harris had a public face and a
private manner that were quite different from one another.
Behind the reverend's mask of severity was a gentle, broadminded
individual who believed fervently in the importance of educating young
African men. Often, I found him lost in thought in his garden. I did not
disturb him and rarely talked to him, but as an example of a man unselfishly
devoted to a good cause. Reverend Harris was an important model for
me.
His wife was as talkative as he was taciturn. She was a lovely woman
and she would often come into the garden to chat with me. I cannot tor
the life of me remember what we talked about, but I can still taste the
delicious warm scones that she brought out to me in the afternoons.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 31
After my slow and undistinguished start, I managed to get the hang of
things and accelerated my program, completing the junior certificate in
two years instead of the usual three. I developed the reputation of having
a fine memory, but in fact, I was simply a diligent worker. When I left
Clarkebury, I lost track ofMathona. She was a day scholar, and her parents
did not have the means to send her for further education. She was an
extraordinarily clever and gifted person, whose potential was limited because
of her family's meager resources. This was an all too typical South
African story. It was not lack of ability that limited my people, but lack
of opportunity.
My time at Clarkebury broadened my horizons, yet I would not say
that I was an entirely open-minded, unprejudiced young man when I left.
I had met students from all over the Transkei, as well as a few from
Johannesburg and Basutoland, as Lesotho was then known, some of
whom were sophisticated and cosmopolitan in ways that made me feel
provincial. Though I emulated them, I never thought it possible for a
boy from the countryside to rival them in their worldliness. Yet I did
not envy them. Even as I left Clarkebury, I was still, at heart, a Thembu,
and I was proud to think and act like one. My roots were my destiny, and
I believed that I would become a counselor to the Thembu king, as
my guardian wanted. My horizons did not extend beyond Thembuland
and I believed that to be a Thembu was the most enviable thing in the
world.
6
IN 1937, when I was nineteen, I joined Justice at Healdtown, the Wesleyan
College in Fort Beaufort, about one hundred seventy-five miles
southwest of Umtata. In the nineteenth century. Fort Beaufort was one
of a number of British outposts during the so-called Frontier Wars, in
which a steady encroachment of white settlers systematically dispossessed
the various Xhosa tribes of their land. Over a century of conflict, many
Xhosa warriors achieved fame for their bravery, men like Makhanda, Sandile,
and Maqoma, the last two of whom were imprisoned on Robben "land by the British authorities, where they died. By the time of my srnval at Healdtown, there were few signs of the battles of the previous tcntury, except the main one: Fort Beaufort was a white town where once
°"1} the Xhosa lived and farmed.
Located at the end of a winding road overlooking a verdant valley, ^ealdtown was far more beautiful and impressive than Clarkebury. It ^ at the time, the largest African school below the equator, with
32 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
more than a thousand students, both male and female. Its graceful ivvcovered
colonial buildings and tree-shaded courtyards gave it the feeline
of a privileged academic oasis, which is precisely what it was. Like Clarkebury,
Healdtown was a mission school of the Methodist Church, and
provided a Christian and liberal arts education based on an English model.
The principal of Healdtown was Dr. Arthur Wellington, a stout and
stuffy Englishman who boasted of his connection to the Duke of Wellington.
At the outset of assemblies, Dr. Wellington would walk onstage and say, in his deep bass voice, "I am the descendant of the great Duke
of Wellington, aristocrat, statesman, and general, who crushed the Frenchman
Napoleon at Waterloo and thereby saved civilization for Europe --
and for you, the natives." At this, we would all enthusiastically applaud,
each of us profoundly grateful that a descendant of the great Duke of
Wellington would take the trouble to educate natives such as ourselves.
The educated Englishman was our model; what we aspired to be were
"black Englishmen," as we were sometimes derisively called. We were
taught -- and believed -- that the best ideas were English ideas, the
best government was English government, and the best men were Englishmen.
Healdtown
life was rigorous. First bell was at 6 a.m. We were in the
dining hall by 6:40 for a breakfast of dry bread and hot sugar water,
watched over by a somber portrait of George VI, the king of England.
Those who could afford butter on their bread bought it and stored it in
the kitchen. I ate dry toast. At 8 we assembled in the courtyard outside
of our dormitory for "observation," standing at attention as the girls
arrived from separate dormitories. We remained in class until 12:45, and
then had a lunch of samp, sour milk and beans, seldom meat. We then
studied until 5 p.m., followed by an hour's break for exercise and dinner,
and then study hall from 7 until 9. Lights were out at 9:30.
Healdtown attracted students from all over the country, as well as from
the protectorates of Basutoland, Swaziland, and Bechuanaland. Though
it was a mostly Xhosa institution, there were also students from different
tribes. After school and on weekends, students from the same tribe kept
together. Even the members of various Xhosa tribes would gravitate together,
such as amaMpondo with amaMpondo, and so on. I adhered to
this same pattern, but it was at Healdtown that I made my first Sothospeaking
friend, Zachariah Molete. I remember feeling quite bold at
having a friend who was not a Xhosa.
Our zoology teacher, Frank Lebentlele, was also Sotho-speaking and
was very popular among the students. Personable and approachable, Frank
was not much older than we and mixed freely with students. He even
played on the college's first soccer team, where he was a star performer.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 33
But what most amazed us about him was his marriage to a Xhosa girl
from Umtata. Marriages between tribes were then extremely unusual.
Until then, I had never known of anyone who married outside his tribe.
We had been taught that such unions were taboo. But seeing Frank and
his wife began to undermine my parochialism and loosen the hold of the
tribalism that still imprisoned me. I began to sense my identity as an
African, not just a Thembu or even a Xhosa.
Our dormitory had forty beds in it, twenty on either side of a central
passageway. The housemaster was the delightful Reverend S. S. Mokitimi,
who later became the first African president of the Methodist Church of
South Africa. Reverend Mokitimi, who was also Sotho-speaking, was
much admired among students as a modern and enlightened fellow who
understood our complaints.
Reverend Mokitimi impressed us for another reason: he stood up to
Dr. Wellington. One evening, a quarrel broke out between two prefects
on the main thoroughfare of the college. Prefects were responsible for
preventing disputes, not provoking them. Reverend Mokitimi was called
in to make peace. Dr. Wellington, returning from town, suddenly appeared
in the midst of this commotion, and his arrival shook us considerably. It
was as if a god had descended to solve some humble problem.
Dr. Wellington pulled himself to a great height and demanded to know
what was going on. Reverend Mokitimi, the top of whose head did not
even reach Dr. Wellington's shoulders, said very respectfully, "Dr. Wellington, everything is under control and I will report to you tomorrow."
Undeterred, Dr. Wellington said with some irritation, "No, I want to
know what is the matter right now." Reverend Mokitimi stood his ground:
"Dr. Wellington, I am the housemaster and I have told you that I will
report to you tomorrow, and that is what I will do." We were stunned.
We had never seen anyone, much less a black man, stand up to Dr.
Wellington, and we waited for an explosion. But Dr. Wellington simply
said, "Very well," and left. I realized then that Dr. Wellington was
less than a god and Reverend Mokitimi more than a lackey, and that a
black man did not have to defer automatically to a white, however senior
he was.
Reverend Mokitimi sought to introduce reforms to the college. We all
supported his efforts to improve the diet and the treatment of students, deluding his suggestion that students be responsible for disciplining
ernselves. But one change worried us, especially students from the counyside.
This was Reverend Mokitimi's innovation of having male and srnale students dine together in hall at Sunday lunch. I was very much
gainst this for the simple reason that I was still inept with knife and
i and I did not want to embarrass myself in front of these sharp-eyed
34 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
girls. But Reverend Mokitimi went ahead and organized the meals ami every Sunday, I left the hall hungry and depressed.
I did, however, enjoy myself on the playing fields. The quality of sports
at Hcaldtown was far superior to Clarkebury. In my first year, I was not
skilled enough to make any of the teams. But during my second year, m\
friend Locke Ndzamela, Healdtown's champion hurdler, encouraged me
to take up a new sport: long-distance running. I was tall and lanky, which
Locke said was the ideal build for a long-distance runner. With a few
hints from him, I began training. I enjoyed the discipline and solitariness
of long-distance running, which allowed me to escape from the hurlvburly
of school life. At the same time, I also took up a sport that I seemed
less suited for, and that was boxing. I trained in a desultory way, and only years later, when I had put on a few more pounds, did I begin to box in
earnest.
During my second year at Healdtown, I was appointed a prefect by Reverend
Mokitimi and Dr. Wellington. Prefects have different responsibilities,
and the newest prefects have the least desirable chores. In the
beginning, I supervised a group of students who worked as window
cleaners during our manual work time in the afternoon, and led them to
different buildings each day.
I soon graduated to the next level of responsibility, which was night
duty. I have never had a problem in staying up through the night, but
during one such night I was put in a moral quandary that has remained
in my memory. We did not have toilets in the dormitory, but there was
an outhouse about one hundred feet behind the residence. On rainy
evenings, when a student woke up in the middle of the night, no one
wanted to trudge through the grass and mud to the outhouse. Instead,
students would stand on the veranda and urinate into the bushes. This
practice, however, was strictly against regulations and one job of the
prefect was to take down the names of students who indulged in it.
One night, I was on duty when it was pouring rain, and I caught
quite a few students -- perhaps fifteen or so -- relieving themselves from
the veranda. Toward dawn, I saw a chap come out, look both ways, and
stand at one end of the veranda to urinate. I made my way over to him
and announced that he had been caught, whereupon he turned around
and I realized that he was a prefect. I was in a predicament. In law and philosophy, one asks, "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" (Who will guard the guardians themselves?) If the prefect does not obey the rules, how can
the students be expected to obey? In effect, the prefect was above the law
because he was the law, and one prefect was not supposed to report
another. But I did not think it fair to avoid reporting the prefect and
36 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
"What I am talking about," he continued, "is not a piece of bone
touching a piece of metal, or even the overlapping of one culture and another; what I am talking to you about is the brutal clash between what
is indigenous and good, and what is foreign and bad. We cannot allo\v
these foreigners who do not care for our culture to take over our nation.
I predict that one day, the forces of African society will achieve a momentous
victory over the interloper. For too long, we have succumbed to
the false gods of the white man. But we will emerge and cast off these
foreign notions."
I could hardly believe my ears. His boldness in speaking of such delicate
matters in the presence of Dr. Wellington and other whites seemed utterly astonishing to us. Yet at the same time, it aroused and motivated us, and
began to alter my perception of men like Dr. Wellington, whom I had
automatically considered my benefactor.
Mqhayi then began to recite his well-known poem in which he apportions
the stars in the heavens to the various nations of the world. I
had never before heard it. Roving the stage and gesturing with his assegai
toward the sky, he said that to the people of Europe -- the French, the
Germans, the English -- "I give you the Milky Way, the largest constellation,
for you are a strange people, full of greed and envy, who quarrel
over plenty." He allocated certain stars to the Asian nations, and to North
and South America. He then discussed Africa and separated the continent
into different nations, giving specific constellations to different tribes. He
had been dancing about the stage, waving his spear, modulating his voice,
and now suddenly he became still, and lowered his voice.
"Now, come you, 0 House of Xhosa," he said, and slowly began to
lower himself so that he was on one knee. "I give unto you the most
important and transcendent star, the Morning Star, for you are a proud
and powerful people. It is the star for counting the years -- the years of
manhood." When he spoke this last word, he dropped his head to his
chest. We rose to our feet, clapping and cheering. I did not want ever to
stop applauding. I felt such intense pride at that point, not as an African,
but as a Xhosa; I felt like one of the chosen people.
I was galvanized, but also confused by Mqhayi's performance. He had
moved from a more nationalistic, all-encompassing theme of African unity
to a more parochial one addressed to the Xhosa people, of whom he was
one. As my time at Healdtown was coming to an end, I had many new
and sometimes conflicting ideas floating in my head. I was beginning to
see that Africans of all tribes had much in common, yet here was the
great Mqhayi praising the Xhosa above all; I saw that an African might
stand his ground with a white man, yet I was still eagerly seeking benefits
from whites, which often required subservience. In a sense, MqhayFs shift
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 37
in focus was a mirror of my own mind because I went back and forth
between pride in myself as a Xhosa and a feeling of kinship with other
Africans. But as I left Healdtown at the end of the year, I saw myself as
a Xhosa first and an African second.
7
UNTIL 1960, the University College of Fort Hare, in the municipality of
Alice, about twenty miles due east from Healdtown, was the only residential
center of higher education for blacks in South Africa. Fort Hare was
more than that: it was a beacon for African scholars from all over Southern
Central and Eastern Africa. For young black South Africans like myself,
it was Oxford and Cambridge, Harvard and Yale, all rolled into one.
The regent was anxious for me to attend Fort Hare and I was gratified
to be accepted there. Before I went up to the university, the regent bought
me my first suit. Double-breasted and gray, the suit made me feel grownup
and sophisticated; I was twenty-one years old and could not imagine
anyone at Fort Hare smarter than I.
I felt that I was being groomed for success in the world. I was pleased
that the regent would now have a member of his clan with a university
degree. Justice had remained at Healdtown to pursue his junior certificate.
He enjoyed playing more than studying, and was an indifferent scholar.
Fort Hare had been founded in 1916 by Scottish missionaries on the
site of what was the largest nineteenth-century frontier fort in the eastern
Cape. Built on a rocky platform and moated by the winding arc of the
Tyume River, Fort Hare was perfectly situated to enable the British to
fight the gallant Xhosa warrior Sandile, the last Rharhabe king, who was
defeated by the British in one of the final frontier battles in the i8oos.
Fort Hare had only one hundred fifty students, and I already knew a
dozen or so of them from Clarkebury and Healdtown. One of them,
whom I was meeting for the first time, was K. D. Matanzima. Though
K.D. was my nephew according to tribal hierarchy, I was younger and
rar less senior to him. Tall and slender and extremely confident, K.D. was a ""fd-year student and he took me under his wing. I looked up to him as I had to Justice.
We were both Methodists, and I was assigned to his hostel, known as
esley House, a pleasant two-story building on the edge of the campus. "der his tutelage, I attended church services with him at nearby Loveday,
°°k up soccer (in which he excelled), and generally followed his advice. e ^ent did not believe in sending money to his children at school
38 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and I would have had empty pockets had not K.D. shared his allowance
with me. Like the regent, he saw my future role as counselor to Sabata
and he encouraged me to study law.
Fort Hare, like Clarkebury and Healdtown, was a missionary college. We
were exhorted to obey God, respect the political authorities, and be grateful
for the educational opportunities afforded to us by the church and
the government. These schools have often been criticized for being colonialist
in their attitudes and practices. Yet, even with such attitudes, I
believe their benefits outweighed their disadvantages. The missionaries
built and ran schools when the government was unwilling or unable to
do so. The learning environment of the missionary schools, while often
morally rigid, was far more open than the racist principles underlying
government schools.
Fort Hare was both home and incubator of some of the greatest African
scholars the continent has ever known. Professor Z. K. Matthews was the
very model of the African intellectual. A child of a miner, Z.K. had been
influenced by Booker Washington's autobiography. Up from Slavery, which
preached success through hard work and moderation. He taught social
anthropology and law and bluntly spoke out against the government's
social policies.
Fort Hare and Professor D. D. T. Jabavu are virtually synonymous.
He was the first member of the staff when the university opened in 1916.
Professor Jabavu had been awarded a baccalaureate in English at the
University of London, which seemed an impossibly rare feat. Professor
Jabavu taught Xhosa, as well as Latin, history, and anthropology. He was
an encyclopedia when it came to Xhosa genealogy and told me facts about
my father that I had never known. He was also a persuasive spokesman
for African rights, becoming the founding president of the All-African
Convention in 1936, which opposed legislation in Parliament designed to
end the common voters' roll in the Cape.
I recall once traveling from Fort Hare to Umtata by train, riding in
the African compartment, which were the only seats open to blacks. The
white train conductor came to check our tickets. WTien he saw that I had
gotten on at Alice, he said, "Are you from Jabavu's school?" I nodded
yes, whereupon the conductor cheerfully punched my ticket and mumbled
something about Jabavu being a fine man.
In my first year, I studied English, anthropology, politics, native administration,
and Roman Dutch law. Native administration dealt with the
laws relating to Africans and was advisable for anyone who wanted to
work in the Native Affairs Department. Although K.D. was counseling
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 39
e to study law, I had my heart set on being an interpreter or a clerk in the Native Affairs Department. At that time, a career as a civil servant
g glittering prize for an African, the highest that a black man could
asoire to. In the rural areas, an interpreter in the magistrate's office was
considered second only in importance to the magistrate himself. When,
in my second year. Fort Hare introduced an interpreting course taught by a distinguished retired court interpreter, Tyamzashe, I was one of the
first students to sign up.
Fort Hare could be a rather elitist place and was not without the hazing
common to many institutions of higher learning. Upperclassmen treated
their juniors with haughtiness and disdain. When I first arrived on campus,
I spotted Gamaliel Vabaza across the central courtyard. He was several
years older and I had been with him at Clarkebury. I greeted him warmly,
but his response was exceedingly cool and superior, and he made a disparaging
remark about the fact that I would be staying in the freshman
dormitory. Vabaza then informed me that he was on the House Committee
of my dormitory even though, as a senior, he no longer shared the
dormitory. I found this odd and undemocratic, but it was the accepted
practice.
One night, not long after that, a group of us discussed the fact that
no residents or freshmen were represented on the House Committee. We
decided that we should depart from tradition and elect a House Committee
made up of these two groups. We caucused among ourselves and
lobbied all the residents of the house, and within weeks elected our own
House Committee, defeating the Upperclassmen. I myself was one of the
organizers and was elected to this newly constituted committee.
But the Upperclassmen were not so easily subdued. They held a meeting
at which one of them, Rex Tatane, an eloquent English-speaker, said,
"This behavior on the part of freshers is unacceptable. How can we seniors
be overthrown by a backward fellow from the countryside like Mandela,
a fellow who cannot even speak English properly!" Then he proceeded
to mimic the way I spoke, giving me what he perceived to be a Gcaleka
accent, at which his own claque laughed heartily. Tatane's sneering speech made us all more resolute. We freshers now constituted the official House Committee and we assigned the seniors the most unpleasant chores, which
was a humiliation for them.
The warden of the college. Reverend A. J. Cook, learned of this dispute and called us into his office. We felt we had right on our side and were "of prepared to yield. Tatane appealed to the warden to overrule us, and in the midst of his speech, broke down and wept. The warden asked us
to modify our stand, but we would not bend. Like most bullies, Tatane aa a brittle but fragile exterior. We informed the warden that if he
40 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
overruled us we would all resign from the House Committee, depriving the committee itself of any integrity or authority. In the end, the warden
decided not to intervene. We had remained firm, and we had won. This
was one of my first battles with authority, and I felt the sense of power
that comes from having right and justice on one's side. I would not be- so lucky in the future in my fight against the authorities at the college.
My education at Fort Hare was as much outside as inside the classroom.
I was a more active sportsman than I had been at Healdtown. This was
due to two factors: I had grown taller and stronger, but more important,
Fort Hare was so much smaller than Healdtown, I had less competition.
I was able to compete in both soccer and cross-country running. Running
taught me valuable lessons. In cross-country competition, training
counted more than intrinsic ability, and I could compensate for a lack of
natural aptitude with diligence and discipline. I applied this in everything
I did. Even as a student, I saw many young men who had great natural
ability, but who did not have the self-discipline and patience to build on
their endowment.
I also joined the drama society and acted in a play about Abraham
Lincoln that was adapted by my classmate Lincoln Mkentane. Mkentane
came from a distinguished Transkeian family, and was another fellow
whom I looked up to. This was literally true, as he was the only student
at Fort Hare taller than I was. Mkentane portrayed his namesake, while
I played John Wilkes Booth, Lincoln's assassin. Mkentane's depiction of
Lincoln was stately and formal, and his recitation of one of the greatest
of all speeches, the Gettysburg Address, won a standing ovation. My part
was the smaller one, though I was the engine of the play's moral, which
was that men who take great risks often suffer great consequences.
I became a member of the Students Christian Association and taught
Bible classes on Sundays in neighboring villages. One of my comrades
on these expeditions was a serious young science scholar whom I had
met on the soccer field. He came from Pondoland, in the Transkei, and
his name was Oliver Tambo. From the start, I saw that Oliver's intelligence
was diamond-edged; he was a keen debater and did not accept the
platitudes that so many of us automatically subscribed to. Oliver lived in
Beda Hall, the Anglican hostel, and though I did not have much contact
with him at Fort Hare, it was easy to see that he was destined for great
things.
On Sundays, a group of us would sometimes walk into Alice, to
have a meal at one of the restaurants in town. The restaurant was run
by whites, and in those days it was inconceivable for a black man to walk
in the front door, much less take a meal in the dining hall. Instead, was
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 41
would pool our resources, go round to the kitchen, and order what we
wanted.
I not only learned about physics at Fort Hare, but another precise physical science: ballroom dancing. To a crackly old phonograph in the
dinine hall, we spent hours practicing fox-trots and waltzes, each of us
taking turns leading and following. Our idol was Victor Sylvester, the
world champion of ballroom dancing, and our tutor was a fellow student,
Smallie Siwundia, who seemed a younger version of the master.
In a neighboring village, there was an African dance-hall known as
Ntselamanzi, which catered to the cream of local black society and was
off-limits to undergraduates. But one night, desperate to practice our
steps with the gentler sex, we put on our suits, stole out of our dormitory,
and made it to the dance-hall. It was a sumptuous place, and we felt very
daring. I noticed a lovely young woman across the floor and politely asked
her to dance. A moment later, she was in my arms. We moved well together
and I imagined what a striking figure I was cutting on the floor. After a
few minutes, I asked her her name. "Mrs. Bokwe," she said softly. I almost
dropped her right there and scampered off the floor. I glanced across the
floor and saw Dr. Roseberry Bokwe, one of the most respected African
leaders and scholars of the time, chatting with his brother-in-law and my
professor, Z. K. Matthews. I apologized to Mrs. Bokwe and then sheepishly
escorted her to the side under the curious eyes of Dr. Bokwe and
Professor Matthews. I wanted to sink beneath the floorboards. I had
violated any number of university regulations. But Professor Matthews,
who was in charge of discipline at Fort Hare, never said a word to me.
He was willing to tolerate what he considered high spirits as long as it
was balanced by hard work. I don't think I ever studied more diligently
than in the weeks after our evening at Ntselamanzi.
Fort Hare was characterized by a level of sophistication, both intellectual
and social, that was new and strange to me. By Western standards,
Fort Hare's worldliness may not seem like much, but to a country boy
like myself, it was a revelation. I wore pajamas for the first time, finding
them uncomfortable in the beginning, but gradually growing used to Olern. I had never used a toothbrush and toothpaste before; at home, we
used ash to whiten our teeth and toothpicks to clean them. The waterush
toilets and hot-water showers were also a novelty to me. I used toilet ^ap for the first time, not the blue detergent that I had washed with for s0 "^-"ly years at home.
i crhaps as a result of all this unfamiliarity, I yearned for some of the "mple pleasures that I had known as a boy. I was not alone in this feeling
1 joined a group of young men who engaged in secret evening ex-- ^"s to the university's farmland, where we built a fire and roasted
42 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
mealies. We would then sit around, eating the ears of corn and tellir
tall tales. We did not do this because we were hungry, but out of a need to recapture what was most homelike to us. We boasted about our con
quests, our athletic prowess, and how much money we were going to
make once we had graduated. Although I felt myself to be a sophisticated
young fellow, I was still a country boy who missed country pleasures.
While Fort Hare was a sanctuary removed from the world, we were keenly interested in the progress of World War II. Like my classmates, I was an
ardent supporter of Great Britain, and I was enormously excited to learn
that the speaker at the university's graduation ceremony at the end of my
first year would be England's great advocate in South Africa, the former
prime minister Jan Smuts. It was a great honor for Fort Hare to play host
to a man acclaimed as a world statesman. Smuts, then deputy prime
minister, was campaigning around the country for South Africa to declare
war on Germany while the prime minister, J. B. Hertzog, advocated
neutrality. I was extremely curious to see a world leader like Smuts from
up close.
While Hertzog had, three years earlier, led the drive to remove the last
African voters from the common voters roll in the Cape, I found Smuts
a sympathetic figure. I cared more that he had helped found the League
of Nations, promoting freedom around the world, than the fact that he
had repressed freedom at home.
Smuts spoke about the importance of supporting Great Britain against
the Germans and the idea that England stood for the same Western values
that we, as South Africans, stood for. I remember thinking that his accent
in English was almost as poor as mine! Along with my fellow classmates,
I heartily applauded him, cheering Smuts's call to do battle for the freedom
of Europe, forgetting that we did not have that freedom here in our own
land.
Smuts was preaching to the converted at Fort Hare. Each evening, the
warden ofWesley House used to review the military situation in Europe,
and late at night, we would huddle around an old radio and listen to
BBC broadcasts ofWinston Churchill's stirring speeches. But even though
we supported Smuts's position, his visit provoked much discussion. During
one session, a contemporary of mine, Nyathi Khongisa, who was
considered an extremely clever fellow, condemned Smuts as a racist. He
said that we might consider ourselves "black Englishmen," but the English
had oppressed us at the same time they tried to "civilize" us. Whatever
the mutual antagonism between Boer and British, he said, the two white
groups would unite to confront the black threat. Khongisa's views stunned
us and seemed dangerously radical. A fellow student whispered to me
^ A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 43
that Nyathi was a member of the African National Congress, an organization
that I had vaguely heard of but knew very little about. Following
South Africa's declaration of war against Germany, Hertzog resigned and
Smuts became prime minister.
During my second year at Fort Hare, I invited my friend Paul Mahabane
to spend the winter holidays with me in the Transkei. Paul was from
Bloemfontein and was well known on campus because his father, the
Reverend Zaccheus Mahabane, had twice been president-general of the
African National Congress. His connection to this organization, about
which I still knew very little, gave him the reputation of a rebel.
One day, during the holiday, Paul and I went to Umtata, the capital
of the Transkei, which then consisted of a few paved streets and some
government buildings. We were standing outside the post office when
the local magistrate, a white man in his sixties, approached Paul and asked
him to go inside to buy him some postage stamps. It was quite common
for any white person to call on any black person to perform a chore. The
magistrate attempted to hand Paul some change, but Paul would not take
it. The magistrate was offended. "Do you know who I am?" he said, his
face turning red with irritation. "It is not necessary to know who you
are," Mahabane said. "I know what you are." The magistrate asked him
exactly what he meant by that. "I mean that you are a rogue!" Paul said
heatedly. The magistrate boiled over and exclaimed, "You'll pay dearly for
this!" and then walked away.
I was extremely uncomfortable with Paul's behavior. While I respected
his courage, I also found it disturbing. The magistrate knew precisely
who I was and I know that if he had asked me rather than Paul, I would
have simply performed the errand and forgotten about it. But I admired
Paul for what he had done, even though I was not yet ready to do the
same thing myself. I was beginning to realize that a black man did not
have to accept the dozens of petty indignities directed at him each day.
After my holiday, I returned to school early in the new year feeling
strong and renewed. I concentrated on my studies, pointing toward ex- Bnunations in October. In a year's time, I imagined that I would have a "A., just like clever Gertrude Ntlabathi. A university degree, I believed,
was a passport not only to community leadership but to financial success.
e had been told over and over again by the principal. Dr. Alexander ^rr, and Professors Jabavu and Matthews how, as graduates of Fort Hare, we ^^ the African elite. I believed that the world would be at my feet.
As a B.A., I would finally be able to restore to my mother the wealth and prestige that she had lost after my father's death. I would build her
Proper home in Qunu, with a garden and modem furniture and fittings.
44 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I would support her and my sisters so that they could afford the things
that they had so long been denied. This was my dream and it seemed
within reach.
During that year, I was nominated to stand for the Student Reprc
sentative Council, which was the highest student organization at Fort
Hare. I did not know at the time that the events surrounding a student
election would create difficulties that would change the course of my life.
The SRC elections were held in the final term of the year, while we were
in the midst of examination preparations. According to the Fort Hare
constitution, the entire student body elected the six members of the SRC.
Shortly before the election, a meeting of all students was held to discuss
problems and voice our grievances. The students unanimously felt that
the diet at Fort Hare was unsatisfactory and that the powers of the SRC
needed to be increased so that it would be more than a rubber stamp for
the administration. I agreed with both motions, and when a majority of
students voted to boycott the elections unless the authorities accepted our
demands, I voted with them.
Shortly after this meeting, the scheduled voting took place. The lion's
share of students boycotted the election, but twenty-five students, about
one-sixth of the student body, showed up and elected six representatives,
one of whom was myself. That same day, the six elected in absentia met
to discuss these events. We unanimously decided to tender our resignations
on the grounds that we supported the boycott and did not enjoy
the support of the majority of the students. We then drafted a letter,
which we handed to Dr. Kerr.
But Dr. Kerr was clever. He accepted our resignations and then announced
that new elections were to be held the next day in the dining
hall at suppertime. This would ensure that all the students would be
present and that there would be no excuse that the SRC did not have the
support of the entire student body. That evening the election was held,
as the principal ordered, but only the same twenty-five voted, returning
the same six SRC members. It would seem we were back where we started.
Only this time when the six of us met to consider our position, the
voting was very different. My five colleagues held to the technical view
that we had been elected at a meeting in which all students were present and therefore we could no longer argue that we did not represent the
student body. The five believed we should now accept office. I countered
that nothing in fact had changed; while all the students had been there,
a majority of them had not voted, and it would be morally incorrect to
say that we enjoyed their confidence. Since our initial goal was to boycott
the election, an action that had the confidence of the student bodv, our
duty was still to abide by that resolution, and not be deterred by some
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 45
trickery on the part of the principal. Unable to persuade my colleagues,
I resigned for the second time, the only one of the six to do so.
The following day I was called in to see the principal. Dr. Kerr, a
graduate of Edinburgh University, was virtually the founder of Fort Hare
and was a greatly respected man. He calmly reviewed the events of the
past few days and then asked me to reconsider my decision to resign. I
told him I could not. He told me to sleep on it and give him my final
decision the following day. He did warn me, however, that he could not
allow his students to act irresponsibly, and he said that if I insisted on
resigning, he would be compelled to expel me from Fort Hare.
I was shaken by what he had said and I spent a restless night. I had
never had to make such a consequential decision before. That evening, I
consulted with my friend and mentor, K.D., who felt that as a matter
of principle I was correct to resign, and should not capitulate. I think at
the time I feared K.D. even more than I did Dr. Kerr. I thanked K.D.
and returned to my room.
Even though I thought what I was doing was morally right, I was still
uncertain as to whether it was the correct course. Was I sabotaging my
academic career over an abstract moral principle that mattered very little?
I found it difficult to swallow the idea that I would sacrifice what I
regarded as my obligation to the students for my own selfish interests. I
had taken a stand, and I did not want to appear to be a fraud in the eyes
of my fellow students. At the same time, I did not want to throw away
my career at Fort Hare.
I was in a state of indecision when I reached Dr. Kerr's office the next
morning. It was only when he asked me if I had reached a decision, that
I actually made up my mind. I told him that I had and that I could not
in good conscience serve on the SRC. Dr. Kerr seemed a bit taken aback
by my response. He thought for a moment or two before speaking. "Very
well," he said. "It is your decision, of course. But I have also given the
matter some thought, and I propose to you the following: you may return
to Fort Hare next year provided you join the SRC. You have all summer
to consider it, Mr. Mandela."
I was, in a way, as surprised by my response as Dr. Kerr. I knew it was
foolhardy for me to leave Fort Hare, but at the moment I needed to
compromise, I simply could not do so. Something inside me would not
et me. While I appreciated Dr. Kerr's position and his willingness to give
e another chance, I resented his absolute power over my fate. I should
*ve had every right to resign from the SRC if I wished. This injustice
"^led, and at that moment I saw Dr. Kerr less as a benefactor than as
a "Qt-altogether-benign dictator. When I left Fort Hare at the end of the
ycar' \ \v&s in an unpleasant state of limbo.
46	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
8
USUALLY, when I returned to Mqhekezweni I did so with a sense of
ease and completion. But not so this time. After passing my exams and
returning home, I told the regent what had transpired. He was furious,
and could not comprehend the reasons for my actions. He thought it
utterly senseless. Without even hearing my full explanation, he bluntly informed me that I would obey the principal's instructions and return to
Fort Hare in the fall. His tone invited no discussion. It would have been
pointless as well as disrespectful for me to debate my benefactor. I resolved
to let the matter rest for a while.
Justice had also returned to Mqhekezweni and we were mightily glad
to see one another. No matter how long Justice and I were apart, the
brotherly bonds that united us were instantly renewed. Justice had left
school the year before and was living in Cape Town.
Within a few days, I resumed my old life at home. I looked after matters
for the regent, including his herd and his relations with other chiefs. I
did not dwell on the situation at Fort Hare, but life has a way of forcing
decisions on those who vacillate. It was an entirely different matter unrelated
to my studies that forced my hand.
A few weeks after my homecoming, the regent summoned Justice and
me to a meeting. "My children," he said in a very somber tone, "I fear
that I am not much longer for this world, and before I journey to the
land of the ancestors, it is my duty to see my two sons properly married.
I have, accordingly, arranged unions for both of you."
This announcement took us both by surprise, and Justice and I looked
at each other with a mixture of shock and helplessness. The two girls
came from very good families, the regent said. Justice was to marry the
daughter of Khalipa, a prominent Thembu nobleman, and Rolihiahia, as
the regent always called me, was to marry the daughter of the local
Thembu priest. The marriages, he said, were to take place immediately. Lobola, the brideprice or dowry, is normally paid in the form of cattle by
the groom's father, and would be paid by the community in Justice's case
and in my own by the regent himself.
Justice and I said little. It was not our place to question the regent,
and as far as he was concerned, the matter was settled. The regent brooked
no discussion: the bride had already been selected and lobola paid. It was
final.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 47
Tustice and I walked out of our interview with our heads down, dazed
nd dejected. The regent was acting in accordance with Thembu law and
custom and his own motives could not be maligned: he wanted us to be
settled during his lifetime. We had always known that the regent had the
rieht to arrange marriages for us, but now it was no longer an abstract oossibility. The brides were not fantasies, but flesh-and-blood women
whom we actually knew.
With all due respect to the young woman's family, I would be dishonest
if I said that the girl the regent had selected for me was my dream bride.
Her family was prominent and respected and she was attractive in a rather
dignified way, but this young lady, I am afraid, had long been in love with
Justice. The regent would not have known this, as parents rarely know
the romantic side of their children's lives. My intended partner was undoubtedly
no more eager to be burdened with me than I was with her.
At that time, I was more advanced socially than politically. While I
would not have considered fighting the political system of the white man,
I was quite prepared to rebel against the social system of my own people.
Ironically, it was the regent himself who was indirectly to blame for this,
for it was the education he had afforded me that had caused me to reject
such traditional customs. I had attended college and university with
women for years, and had had a small handful of love affairs. I was a
romantic, and I was not prepared to have anyone, even the regent, select
a bride for me.
I made an appointment with the queen, the regent's wife, and put my
case to her. I could not tell her that I did not want the regent to arrange
a bride for me under any circumstances, as she would naturally have been
unsympathetic. Instead, I devised an alternative plan, and told her that I
preferred to marry a girl who was a relative of the queen's, whom I found
desirable as a prospective partner. This young lady was in fact very attractive,
but I had no idea as to what she thought of me. I said I would marry her as soon as I completed my studies. This was half a ruse, but
it was a better alternative than the regent's plan. The queen took my side m the matter, but the regent could not be dissuaded. He had made his
decision and he was not going to alter it.
I felt as though he had left me no choice. I could not go through with Oils marriage, which I considered unfair and ill-advised. At Ac same time,
believed that I could no longer remain under the regent's guidance if I "qected his plan for me. Justice agreed, and the two of us decided that e "^y option remaining was to run away, and the only place to run to ^Johannesburg.
h retrospect, I realize that we did not exhaust all the options available
48 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
to us. I could have attempted to discuss the matter with the regent through
intermediaries and perhaps come to some settlement within the framework
of our tribe and family. I could have appealed to the regent's cousin,
Chief Zilindlovu, one of the most enlightened and influential chiefs at
the court of Mqhekezweni. But I was young and impatient, and did not
see any virtue in waiting. Escape seemed the only course.
We kept our plot secret while we worked out its details. First, we
needed an opportunity. The regent believed Justice and I brought out
the worst in each other, or at least Justice's penchant for adventures and
high-jinks influenced my more conservative disposition. As a result, he
took pains to keep us separate as much as possible. When the regent was
traveling, he generally asked one of us to accompany him so that we would
not be alone together in his absence. More often than not, he took Justice
with him, as he liked me to remain in Mqhekezweni to look after his
affairs. But we learned that the regent was preparing to leave for a full
week to attend a session of the Bungha, the Transkeian legislative assembly,
without either of us, and we decided this was the ideal time to steal away.
We resolved that we would depart for Johannesburg shortly after the
regent left for the Bungha.
I had few clothes and we managed to get whatever we had in a single
suitcase. The regent left early on Monday, and by late morning we were
ready to go. But just as we were preparing to leave, the regent unexpectedly
returned. We saw his car drive in and we ran into the garden and hid
among the mealie stalks. The regent came into the house and his first
question was "Where are those boys?" Someone replied, "Oh, they are around." But the regent was suspicious, and was not content with that
explanation. He had returned, he said, because he had forgotten to take
his Epsom salts. He looked around a bit, and then seemed satisfied. I
realized that he must have had some kind of premonition because he could
easily buy Epsom salts in town. When his car disappeared behind the
hills, we were on our way.
We had almost no money between us, but that morning, we went to
see a local trader and made a deal to sell him two of the regent's prize
oxen. The trader assumed that we were selling the animals at the regent's
behest, and we did not correct him. He paid us a very good price, and
with that money we hired a car to take us to the local train station where
we would catch a train to Johannesburg.
All seemed to be going smoothly, but unbeknown to us, the regent
had driven to the local train station and instructed the manager that if
two boys fitting our description came to buy tickets for Johannesburg,
the manager must turn them away because we were not to leave the
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 49
T anskei. We arrived at the station only to find that the manager would
nt sell us tickets. We asked him why and he said, "Your father has been
here and says you are trying to run away." We were stunned by this, and
dashed back to our hired car and told him to drive to the next station. It was nearly fifty miles away, and it took us more than an hour to get
there.
We managed to get on a train there but it only went as far as Queenstown.
In the 1940S, traveling for an African was a complicated process.
All Africans over the age of sixteen were compelled to carry "Native passes"
issued by the Native Affairs Department and were required to show that
pass to any white policeman, civil servant, or employer. Failure to do so
could mean arrest, trial, a jail sentence or fine. The pass stated where the
bearer lived, who his chief was, and whether he had paid the annual poll
tax which was a tax levied only on Africans. Later, the pass took the
form of a booklet or "reference book," as it was known, containing detailed
information that had to be signed by one's employer every month.
Justice and I had our passes in order, but for an African to leave his
magisterial district and enter that of another for the purpose of working
or living, he needed traveling documents, a permit, and a letter from his
employer or, as in our case, his guardian -- none of which we had. Even
at the best of times, when one had all these documents, a police officer
might harass you because one was missing a signature or had an incorrect
date. Not having any of them was extremely risky. Our plan was to
disembark in Queenstown, make our way to the house of a relative, and
then make arrangements for the necessary documents. This was also an
ill-considered plan, but we came in for a bit of luck because at the house
in Queenstown we accidentally met Chief Mpondombini, a brother of
the regent's, who was fond of Justice and myself.
Chief Mpondombini greeted us warmly and we explained that we
needed the requisite travel documents from the local magistrate. We lied
about why we required them, claiming that we were on an errand for the
regent. Chief Mpondombini was a retired interpreter from the Native
Affairs Department and knew the chief magistrate well. He had no reason
to doubt our story and not only escorted us to the magistrate, but vouched tor us and explained our predicament. After listening to the chief, the
"magistrate rapidly made out the necessary traveling documents and affixed ^e official stamp. Justice and I looked at each other and smiled in comP
^ity. But just as the magistrate was handing over the documents to us, e recalled something and said that, as a matter of courtesy, he ought to m orm the chief magistrate ofUmtata, in whose jurisdiction we fell. This
ade us uneasy, but we stayed seated in his office. The magistrate cranked
50 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the telephone and reached his colleague in Umtata. As luck would have
it, the regent was just then paying a call on the chief magistrate of Umtata
and was in his very office.
As our magistrate was explaining our situation to the chief magistrate
of Umtata, the latter gentleman said something like, "Oh, their father just
happens to be right here," and then put the regent on the telephone.
When the magistrate informed the regent what we were requesting, the
regent exploded. "Arrest those boys!" he shouted, loud enough that we
could hear his voice through the receiver. "Arrest them and bring them
back here immediately!" The chief magistrate put down the phone. He
regarded us angrily. "You boys are thieves and liars," he told us. "You
have presumed upon my good offices and then deceived me. Now, I am
going to have you arrested."
I immediately rose to our defense. From my studies at Fort Hare, I
had a little knowledge of law and I put it to use. I said that we had told
him lies, that was true. But we had committed no offense and violated
no laws, and we could not be arrested simply on the recommendation of
a chief, even if he happened to be our father. The magistrate backed off
and did not arrest us, but told us to leave his office and never to darken
his door again.
Chief Mpondombini was also annoyed, and left us to our own devices.
Justice remembered that he had a friend in Queenstown named Sidney
Nxu who was working in the office of a white attorney. We went to see
this fellow, explained our situation, and he told us that the mother of the
attorney he worked for was driving into Johannesburg and he would see
if she would offer us a lift. He told us that his mother would give us a
ride if we paid a fee of fifteen pounds sterling. This was a vast sum, far
more than the cost of a train ticket. The fee virtually depleted our savings,
but we had no choice. We decided to risk getting our passes stamped and
the correct travel documents once we were in Johannesburg.
We left early the following morning. In those days, it was customary
for blacks to ride in the back seat of the car if a white was driving. The
two of us sat in that fashion, with Justice directly behind the woman.
Justice was a friendly, exuberant person and immediately began chatting
to me. This made the old woman extremely uncomfortable. She had
obviously never been in the company of a black who had no inhibitions
around whites. After only a few miles, she told Justice that she wanted
him to switch seats with me, so that she could keep an eye on him, and
for the rest of the journey she watched him like a hawk. But after a while,
Justice's charm worked on her and she would occasionally laugh at something
he said.
A COUNTRY CHILDHOOD 51
* * *
At about ten o'clock that evening, we saw before us, glinting in the
distance, a maze of lights that seemed to stretch in all directions. Electricity to me, had always been a novelty and a luxury, and here was a vast
landscape of electricity, a city of light. I was terribly excited to see the
city I had been hearing about since I was a child. Johannesburg had always
been depicted as a city of dreams, a place where one could transform
oneself from a poor peasant to a wealthy sophisticate, a city of danger
and of opportunity. I remembered the stories that Banabakhe had told
us at circumcision school, of buildings so tall you could not see the tops,
of crowds of people speaking languages you had never heard of, of sleek
motorcars and beautiful women and dashing gangsters. It was eGoli, the
city of gold, where I would soon be making my home.
On the outskirts of the city the traffic became denser. I had never seen
so many cars on the road at one time -- even in Umtata, there were never
more than a handful of cars and here there were thousands. We drove
around the city, rather than through it, but I could see the silhouette of
the tall, blocky buildings, even darker against the dark night sky. I looked
at great billboards by the side of the road, advertising cigarettes and candy
and beer. It all seemed tremendously glamorous.
Soon we were in an area of stately mansions, even the smallest of which
was bigger than the regent's palace, with grand front lawns and tall iron
gates. This was the suburb where the old lady's daughter lived, and we
pulled into the long driveway of one of these beautiful homes. Justice
and I were dispatched to the servants' wing, where we were to spend the
night. We thanked the old lady, and then crawled off to sleep on the floor.
But the prospect of Johannesburg was so exciting to me that I felt like I
slept on a beautiful feather bed that night. The possibilities seemed infinite.
I had reached the end of what seemed like a long journey, but was
actually the very beginning of a much longer and more trying journey
that would test me in ways that I could not then have imagined.
Part Two
JOHANNESBURG
9
TT WAS DAWN when we reached the offices of Crown Mines, which
were located on the plateau of a great hill overlooking the still dark
metropolis. Johannesburg was a city built up around the discovery of gold on the Witwatersrand in 1886, and Crown Mines was the largest gold mine in the city of gold. I expected to see a grand building like the government offices in Umtata, but the Crown Mine offices were rusted
tin shanties on the face of the mine.
There is nothing magical about a gold mine. Barren and pockmarked,
all dirt and no trees, fenced in all sides, a gold mine resembles a war-torn
battlefield. The noise was harsh and ubiquitous: the rasp of shaft-lifts,
the jangling power drills, the distant rumble of dynamite, the barked
orders. Everywhere I looked I saw black men in dusty overalls looking
tired and bent. They lived on the grounds in bleak, single-sex barracks
that contained hundreds of concrete bunks separated from each other by
only a few inches.
Gold-mining on the Witwatersrand was costly because the ore was low
grade and deep under the earth. Only the presence of cheap labor in the
form of thousands of Africans working long hours for little pay with no
rights made gold-mining profitable for the mining houses -- white-owned
companies that became wealthy beyond the dreams of Croesus on the
backs of the African people. I had never seen such enterprise before, such
great machines, such methodical organization, and such backbreaking
work. It was my first sight of South African capitalism at work, and I
knew I was in for a new kind of education.
We went straight to the chief induna, or headman. His name was
Piliso, a tough old fellow who had seen life at its most pitiless. Piliso
knew about Justice, as the regent had sent a letter months before making
arrangements for him to receive a clerical job, the most coveted and
respected job in the mine compound. I, however, was unknown to him.
Justice explained that I was his brother.
"T i was expecting only Justice," Piliso responded. "Your father's letter
Mentions nothing about a brother." He looked me over rather skeptically. ut ^^ce pleaded with him, saying it had simply been an oversight, and
a. the regent had already posted a letter about me. Piliso's crusty exterior
, a ^"^pathetic side, and he took me on as a mine policeman, saying it I worked out, he would give me a clerical post in three months'
56 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
The regent's word carried weight at Crown Mines. This was true of
all chiefs in South Africa. Mining officials were eager to recruit labor in
the countryside, and the chiefs had authority over the men they needed
They wanted the chiefs to encourage their subjects to come to the Reef
The chiefs were treated with great deference; the mining houses provided
special lodgings for them whenever they came to visit. One letter from
the regent was enough to secure a man a good job, and Justice and I
were treated with extra care because of our connection. We were to be
given free rations, sleeping quarters, and a small salary. We did not stay
in the barracks that first night. For our first few days, Piliso, out of courtesy
to the regent, invited Justice and me to stay with him.
Many of the miners, especially those from Thembuland, treated Justice
as a chief and greeted him with gifts of cash, the custom when a chief
visited a mine. Most of these men were in the same hostel; miners were
normally housed according to tribe. The mining companies preferred
such segregation because it prevented different ethnic groups from uniting
around a common grievance and reinforced the power of the chiefs. The
separation often resulted in factional fights between different ethnic
groups and clans, which the companies did not effectively discourage.
Justice shared some of his booty with me and gave me a few extra
pounds as a bonus. For those first few days, my pockets jingling with
newfound riches, I felt like a millionaire. I was beginning to think I was
a child of fortune, that luck was shining on me, and that if I had not
wasted precious time studying at college I could have been a wealthy man
by then. Once again, I did not see that fate was busy setting snares around
me.
I started work immediately as a night watchman. I was given a uniform,
a new pair of boots, a helmet, a flashlight, a whistle, and a knobkernc,
which is a long wooden stick with a heavy ball of wood at one end. The
job was a simple one: I waited at the compound's entrance next to the
sign that read, "BEWARE: NATIVES CROSSING HERE," and checked
the credentials of all those entering and leaving. For the first few nights,
I patrolled the grounds of the compound without incident. I did challenge
a rather drunken miner late one evening, but he meekly showed his pass
and retired to his hostel.
Flushed with our success. Justice and I boasted of our cleverness to a
friend of ours whom we knew from home, who was also working at the
mines. We explained how we had run away and tricked the regent in the
bargain. Although we swore this fellow to secrecy, he went straighta\va\
to the induna and revealed-our secret. A day later, Piliso called us in and
the first question he asked Justice was: Where is the permission from ths
regent for your brother? Justice said that he had already explained that
JOHANNESBURG 57
, ..ecrent had posted it. Piliso was not mollified by this, and we sensed
, something was wrong. He then reached inside his desk and produced
relesrarn. "I have had a communication from the regent," he said in a
erious tone of voice, and handed it to us. It contained a single sentence:
"SEND BOYS HOME AT ONCE."
Piliso then vented his anger on us, accusing us of lying to him. He
said we had presumed on his hospitality and the good name of the regent.
He told us that he was taking up a collection among the miners to put
us on a train back to the Transkei. Justice protested against going home,
saving that we simply wanted to work at the mine, and that we could
make decisions for ourselves. But Piliso turned a deaf ear. We felt ashamed
and humiliated, but we left his office determined not to return to the
Transkei.
We rapidly hatched another plan. We went to see Dr. A. B. Xuma, an
old friend of the regent's who was the president-general of the African
National Congress. Dr. Xuma was from the Transkei, and was an extremely
well-respected physician.
Dr. Xuma was pleased to see us, and politely questioned us about family
matters in Mqhekezweni. We told him a series of half-truths about why
we were in Johannesburg, and that we greatly desired jobs in the mines.
Dr. Xuma said he would be glad to assist us, and immediately telephoned
a Mr. Wellbeloved at the Chamber of Mines, a powerful organization
representing the mining houses and exerting monopoly control over the
hiring of mine labor. Dr. Xuma told Mr. Wellbeloved what splendid fellows
we were and how he should find places for us. We thanked Dr. Xuma
and went off to see Mr. Wellbeloved.
Mr. Wellbeloved was a white man whose office was grander than any
I had ever seen; his desk seemed as wide as a football field. We met him
in the company of a mine boss named Festile, and we told him the same
fabrications that we had told Dr. Xuma. Mr. Wellbeloved was impressed
with my not-entirely-truthful explanation that I had come to Johannesburg
to continue my studies at the University of the Witwatersrand. "Well,
"oys," he said, "I will put you in touch with the manager of Crown Mines,
a Mr. Piliso, and I will tell him to give you jobs as clerks." He said he
"ad worked with Mr. Piliso for thirty years and in all that time, Piliso
ad never lied to him. Justice and I squirmed at this but said nothing.
^spite some misgivings, we naively felt we had the upper hand with Mr.
_° now that we had his boss, Mr. Wellbeloved, on our side.
e returned to the Crown Mine offices, where the white compound
"ager was considerate to us because of the letter we presented from
r- Wellbeloved. Just then, Mr. Piliso passed by the office, saw us, and
58 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
then stormed in. "You boys! You've come back!" he said with irritation
"What are you doing here?"
Justice was calm. "We've been sent by Mr. Wellbeloved," he replied,
his tone bordering on defiance. Mr. Piliso considered this for a moment.
"Did you tell him that you ran away from your father?" Piliso then countered.
Justice was silent.
"You'll never be employed in any mine that I run!" he yelled. "Now,
get out of my sight!" Justice waved Wellbeloved's letter. "I don't give a
damn about a letter!" Piliso said. I looked to the white manager, hoping, that he might overrule Piliso, but he was as still as a statue and seemed
as intimidated as we were. We had no rejoinder for Piliso, and we sheepishly walked out of the office, feeling even more humbled than we had
on the first occasion.
Our fortunes were now reversed. We were without jobs, without prospects,
and without a place to stay. Justice knew various people in Johannesburg,
and he went into town to investigate a place for us to stay. In
the meantime, I was to fetch our suitcase, which was still at Piliso's, and
then meet Justice at George Goch, a small township in southern Johannesburg,
later that day.
I prevailed upon a fellow named Bikitsha, whom I knew from home,
to help me carry the suitcase to the front gate. A watchman at the gate
stopped us both and said he needed to search the bag. Bikitsha protested,
asserting there was no contraband in the suitcase. The watchman replied
that a search was routine, and he looked through the bag in a cursory
way, not even disturbing the clothing. As the watchman was closing it,
Bikitsha, who was a cocky fellow, said, "Why do you make trouble? I told
you there was nothing there." These words irked the watchman, who then
decided to search the case with a fine-toothed comb. I became increasingly
nervous as he opened every compartment and probed every pocket. He
then reached all the way to the bottom of the case and found the very
thing I prayed he would not: a loaded revolver wrapped inside some of
my clothing.
He turned to my friend and said, "You are under arrest." He then blew
his whistle, which brought a team of guards over to us. My friend looked
at me with a mixture of consternation and confusion as they led him away
to the local police station. I followed them at a distance, considering my
options. The gun, an old revolver, had been my father's and he had left
it to me when he died. I had never used it, but as a precaution, I had
brought it with me to the city.
I could not let my friend take the blame in my stead. Not long after
he had entered the police station, I went inside and asked to see the offic^ in charge. I was taken to him and spoke as directly and forthrightly as
JOHANNESBURG 59
Id- "Sir, that is my gun that was found in my friend's suitcase. I
herited it from my father in the Transkei and I brought it here because
t was afraid of gangsters." I explained that I was a student from Fort
Hare and that I was only in Johannesburg temporarily. The officer in
haree softened a bit as I spoke, and said that he would release my friend
straightaway. He said he would have to charge me for possession of the own though he would not arrest me, and that I should appear in court
first'thine on Monday morning to answer the charge. I was grateful, and
told him that I would certainly appear in court on Monday. I did go to
court that Monday and received only a nominal fine.
In the meantime, I had arranged to stay with one of my cousins, Garlick
Mbekeni, in George Goch Township. Garlick was a hawker who sold
clothing, and had a small boxlike house. He was a friendly, solicitous
man, and after I had been there a short while, I told him that my real
aspiration was to be a lawyer. He commended me for my ambition and
said he would think about what I had said.
A few days later, Garlick told me that he was taking me to see "one
of our best people in Johannesburg." We rode the train to the office of
an estate agent on Market Street, a dense and rollicking thoroughfare
with trams groaning with passengers, sidewalk vendors on every street,
and a sense that wealth and riches were just around the next corner.
Johannesburg in those days was a combination frontier town and modem
city. Butchers cut meat on the street next to office buildings. Tents
were pitched beside bustling shops and women hung out their washing
next door to high-rise buildings. Industry was energized due to the war
effort. In 1939, South Africa, a member of the British Commonwealth,
had declared war on Nazi Germany. The country was supplying men and
goods to the war effort. Demand for labor was high, and Johannesburg
became a magnet for Africans from the countryside seeking work. Between
1941, when I arrived, and 1946, the number of Africans in the city
would double. Every morning, the township felt larger than it had the
day before. Men found jobs in factories and housing in the "non-European
townships" of Newclare, Martindale, George Goch, Alexandra, Sophiatown,
and the Western Native Township, a prisonlike compound of a few
thousand matchbox houses on treeless ground.
Garlick and I sat in the estate agent's waiting room while a pretty
"can receptionist announced our presence to her boss in the inner
, c' ^ttsr she relayed the message, her nimble fingers danced across e keyboard as she typed a letter. I had never in my life seen an African
ypist before, much less a female one. In the few public and business
^s that I had visited in Umtata and Fort Hare, the typists had always lte an(^ male. I was particularly impressed with this young woman
60 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
because those white male typists had only used two slow-moving tinkers
to peck out their letters.
She soon ushered us into the inner office, where I was introduced to
a man who looked to be in his late twenties, with an intelligent and kini4^ face, light in complexion, and dressed in a double-breasted suit. Dcsr .;c his youth, he seemed to me an experienced man of the world. He \\ as
from the Transkei, but spoke English with a rapid urban fluency. To jud^e
from his well-populated waiting room and his desk piled high with papci -s, he was a busy and successful man. But he did not rush us and seemed
genuinely interested in our errand. His name was Walter Sisulu.
Sisulu ran a real estate office that specialized in properties for Africans.
In the 1940S, there were still quite a few areas where freehold properties
could be purchased by Africans, small holdings located in such places as
Alexandra and Sophiatown. In some of these areas, Africans had owned
their own homes for several generations. The rest of the African areas
were municipal townships containing matchbox houses for which the
residents paid rent to the Johannesburg City Council.
Sisulu's name was becoming prominent as both a businessman and a
local leader. He was already a force in the community. He paid close
attention as I explained about my difficulties at Fort Hare, my ambition
to be a lawyer, and how I intended to register at the University of South
Africa to finish my degree by correspondence course. I neglected to tell
him the circumstances of my arrival in Johannesburg. When I had finished,
he leaned back in his chair and pondered what I had said. Then,
he looked me over one more time, and said that there was a white lawyer
with whom he worked named Lazar Sidelsky, who he believed to be a
decent and progressive fellow. Sidelsky, he said, was interested in African
education. He would talk to Sidelsky about taking me on as an articled
clerk.
In those days, I believed that proficiency in English and success in
business were the direct result of high academic achievements and I assumed
as a matter of course that Sisulu was a university graduate. I was
greatly surprised to learn from my cousin after I left the office that Walter
Sisulu had never gone past Standard VI. It was another lesson from Fort
Hare that I had to unlearn in Johannesburg. I had been taught that to
have a B.A. meant to be a leader, and to be a leader one needed a B.A.
But in Johannesburg I found that many of the most outstanding leaders
had never been to university at all. Even though I had done all the courses
in English that were required for a B.A., my English was neither as fluent
nor as eloquent as many of the men I met in Johannesburg who had not even received a school degree.
JOHANNESBURG 61
After a brief time staying with my cousin, I arranged to move in with
Reverend J. Mabutho of the Anglican Church at his home on Eighth
Avenue in Alexandra Township. Reverend Mabutho was a fellow Thembu,
friend of my family's, and a generous. God-fearing man. His wife, whom
we called Gogo, was warm, affectionate, and a splendid cook who was
liberal with her helpings. As a Thembu who knew my family. Reverend
Mabutho felt responsible for me. "Our ancestors have taught us to share,"
he once told me.
But I had not learned from my experience at Crown Mines, for I did
not tell Reverend Mabutho about the circumstances of my leaving the
Transkei. My omission had unhappy consequences. A few days after I had
moved in with the Mabuthos, I was having tea with them when a visitor
arrived. Unfortunately, their friend was Mr. Festile, the induna at the
Chamber of Mines who had been present when Justice and I met with
Mr. Wellbeloved. Mr. Festile and I greeted each other in a way that suggested
we knew one another, and though nothing was said of our previous
meeting, the next day Reverend Mabutho took me aside and made it clear
that I could no longer remain under their roof.
I cursed myself for not having told the whole truth. I had become so
used to my deceptions that I lied even when I did not have to. I am sure
that Reverend Mabutho would not have minded, but when he learned of
my circumstances from Festile, he felt deceived. In my brief stay in Johannesburg,
I had left a trail ofmistruths, and in each case, the falsehood
had come back to haunt me. At the time, I felt that I had no alternative.
I was frightened and inexperienced, and I knew that I had not gotten off on the right foot in my new life. In this instance. Reverend Mabutho
took pity on me and found me accommodation with his next-door neighbors,
the Xhoma family.
Mr. Xhoma was one of an elite handful of African landowners in
Alexandra. His house -- 46, Seventh Avenue -- was small, particularly as
he had six children, but it was pleasant, with a veranda and a tiny garden. " order to make ends meet, Mr. Xhoma, like so many other residents of
Alexandra, rented rooms to boarders. He had built a tin-roofed room at
e back of his property, no more than a shack, with a dirt floor, no heat,
no electricity, no running water. But it was a place of my own and I was ^PPY to have it.
n the meantime, on Walter's recommendation, Lazar Sidelsky had agreed to ^ke me on as a clerk while I completed my B.A. degree. The
in , . "^"^ Sidelsky and Eidelman was one of the largest law firms c city and handled business from blacks as well as whites. In addition
atr u ^ln^ ^aw an(^ P^^g certain exams, in order to qualify as an e^ in South Africa one had to undergo several years of apprentice-
gtŁ
62 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ship to a practicing lawyer, which is known as serving articles. But in
order for me to become articled, I first had to complete my B.A. degree.
To that end, I was studying at night with UNISA, short for the University of South Africa, a respected educational institution that offered credits
and degrees by correspondence.
In addition to trying conventional law cases, Witkin, Sidelsky and
Eidelman oversaw real estate transactions for African customers. Walter
brought the firm clients who needed a mortgage. The firm would handle
their loan applications, and then take a commission, which it would split
with the real estate agent. In fact, the law firm would take the lion's share
of the money, leaving only a pittance for the African real estate agent.
Blacks were given the crumbs from the table, and had no option but to
accept them.
Even so, the law firm was far more liberal than most. It was a Jewish
firm, and in my experience, I have found Jews to be more broadminded
than most whites on issues of race and politics, perhaps because they
themselves have historically been victims of prejudice. The fact that Lazar
Sidelsky, one of the firm's partners, would take on a young African as an
articled clerk -- something almost unheard of in those days -- was evidence
of that liberalism.
Mr. Sidelsky, whom I came to respect greatly and who treated me with
enormous kindness, was a graduate of the University of the Witwatersrand
and was in his mid-thirties when I joined the firm. He was involved in
African education, donating money and time to African schools. A slender,
courtly man, with a pencil mustache, he took a genuine interest in my
welfare and future, preaching the value and importance of education --
for me individually and for Africans in general. Only mass education, he
used to say, would free my people, arguing that an educated man could
not be oppressed because he could think for himself. He told me over
and over again that becoming a successful attorney and thereby a model
of achievement for my people was the most worthwhile path I could
follow.
I met most of the firm's staff on my first day in the office, including
the one other African employee, Gaur Radebe, with whom I shared an
office. Ten years my senior, Gaur was a clerk, interpreter, and messenger- He was a short, stocky, muscular man, fluent in English, Sotha, and ZulUi expressing himself in all of them with precision, humor, and confidence.
He had strong opinions and even stronger arguments to back them up
and was a well-known figure in black Johannesburg.
That first morning at the firm, a pleasant young white secretary, Miss
Lieberman, took me aside and said, "Nelson, we have no color bar here
at the law firm." She explained that at midmorning, the tea-man arrived
JOHANNESBURG 63
rhe front parlor with tea on a tray and a number of cups. "In honor
fvour arrival, we have purchased two new cups for you and Gaur," she
id "The secretaries take cups of tea to the principals, but you and Gaur
will take your own tea, just as we do. I will call you when the tea comes,
and then you can take your tea in the new cups." She added that I should
convey this message to Gaur. I was grateful for her ministrations, but I
knew that the "two new cups" she was so careful to mention were evidence
of the color bar that she said did not exist. The secretaries might share
tea with two Africans, but not the cups with which to drink it.
When I told Gaur what Miss Lieberman had said, I noticed his expression
change as he listened, just as you can see a mischievous idea enter
the head of a child. "Nelson," he said, "at teatime, don't worry about
anything. Just do as I do." At eleven o'clock. Miss Lieberman informed
us that tea had arrived. In front of the secretaries and some of the other
members of the firm, Gaur went over to the tea tray and ostentatiously
ignored the two new cups, selecting instead one of the old ones, and
proceeded to put in generous portions of sugar, milk, and then tea. He
stirred his cup slowly, and then stood there drinking it in a very selfsatisfied
way. The secretaries stared at Gaur and then Gaur nodded to me,
as if to say, "It is your turn. Nelson."
For a moment, I was in a quandary. I neither wanted to offend the
secretaries nor alienate my new colleague, so I settled on what seemed to
me the most prudent course of action: I declined to have any tea at all.
I said I was not thirsty. I was then just twenty-three years old and just
finding my feet as a man, as a resident of Johannesburg, and as an employee
of a white firm, and I saw the middle path as the best and most reasonable
one. Thereafter, at teatime, I would go to the small kitchen in the office
and take my tea there in solitude.
The secretaries were not always so thoughtful. Some time later, when
I was more experienced at the firm, I was dictating some information to
a white secretary when a white client whom she knew came into the
office. She was embarrassed, and to demonstrate that she was not taking
dictation from an African, she took a sixpence from her purse and said
stiffly, "Nelson, please go out and get me some hair shampoo from the
chemist." I left me room and got her shampoo.
nthe beginning, my work at the firm was quite rudimentary. I was a combination of a clerk and messenger. I would find, arrange, and file
ocuments and serve or deliver papers around Johannesburg. Later, I
-'d draw up contracts for some of the firm's African clients. Yet, ^ matter how small the chore, Mr. Sidelsky would explain to me what
tea h8 an<^ wn^ ^ was ^^S lt- He was a patient and generous er' an<^ sought to impart not only the details of the law but the
64 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
philosophy behind it. His view of the law was broad rather than narrow,
for he believed that it was a tool that could be used to change
society.
While Mr. Sidelsky imparted his views of the law, he warned me a^aiiist
politics. Politics, he said, brings out the worst in men. It was the souicc
of trouble and corruption, and should be avoided at all costs. He painted
a frightening picture of what would happen to me if I drifted into politics,
and counseled me to avoid the company of men he regarded as
troublemakers and rabble-rousers, specifically, Gaur Radebe and Walter
Sisulu. While Mr. Sidelsky respected their abilities, he abhorred their
politics.
Gaur was indeed a "troublemaker," in the best sense of that term, and
was an influential man in the African community in ways that Mr. Sidelsky
did not know or suspect. He was a member of the Advisory Board in
the Western Native Township, an elected body of four local people who
dealt with the authorities on matters relating to the townships. While it
had little power, the board had great prestige among the people. Gaur
was also, as I soon discovered, a prominent member of both the ANC
and the Communist Party.
Gaur was his own man. He did not treat our employers with exaggerated
courtesy, and often chided them for their treatment of Africans.
"You people stole our land from us," he would say, "and enslaved us. Now
you are making us pay through the nose to get the worst pieces of it
back." One day, after I returned from doing an errand and entered Mr.
Sidelsk/s office, Gaur turned to him and said, "Look, you sit there like
a lord whilst my chief runs around doing errands for you. The situation
should be reversed, and one day it will, and we will dump all of you into
the sea." Gaur then left the room, and Mr. Sidelsky just shook his head
ruefully.
Gaur was an example of a man without a B.A. who seemed infinitely
better educated than the fellows who left Fort Hare with glittering degrees.
Not only was he more knowledgeable, he was bolder and more
confident. Although I intended to finish my degree and enter law school,
I learned from Gaur that a degree was not in itself a guarantee of leadership
and that it meant nothing unless one went out into the community to
prove oneself.
I was not the only articled clerk at Witkin, Sidelsky and Eidelman. A
fellow about my age named Nat Bregman started work shortly before
I had. Nat was bright, pleasant, and thoughtful. He seemed entirely
color-blind and became my first white friend. He was a deft mimic and
could do fine imitations of the voices of Jan Smuts, Franklin Roosevelt.
JOHANNESBURG 65
A Winston Churchill. I often sought his counsel on matters of law and
ffice procedure, and he was unfailingly helpful.
One dav at lunchtime, we were sitting in the office and Nat took out
nacket of sandwiches. He removed one sandwich and said, "Nelson,
fake hold of the other side of the sandwich." I was not sure why he asked
me to do this, but as I was hungry, I decided to oblige. "Now, pull," he
said I did so, and the sandwich split roughly in two. "Now, eat," he said.
As I was chewing, Nat said, "Nelson, what we have just done symbolizes
the philosophy of the Communist Party: to share everything we have."
He told me he was a member of the party and explained the rudiments
of what the party stood for. I knew that Gaur was a member of the party,
but he had never proselytized for it. I listened to Nat that day, and on
many subsequent occasions when he preached the virtues of communism
and tried to persuade me to join the party. I heard him out, asked questions,
but did not join. I was not inclined to join any political organization,
and the advice of Mr. Sidelsky was still ringing in my ears. I was also
quite religious, and the party's antipathy to religion put me off. But I
appreciated half that sandwich.
I enjoyed Nat's company and we often went places together, including
a number of lectures and CP meetings. I went primarily out of intellectual
curiosity. I was just becoming aware of the history of racial oppression
in my own country, and saw the struggle in South Africa as purely racial.
But the party saw South Africa's problems through the lens of the class
struggle. To them, it was a matter of the Haves oppressing the Have-nots.
This was intriguing to me, but did not seem particularly relevant to
present-day South Africa. It may have been applicable to Germany or
England or Russia, but it did not seem appropriate for the country that
I knew. Even so, I listened and learned.
Nat invited me to a number of parties where there was a mixture of
whites, Africans, Indians, and Coloureds. The get-togethers were arranged
by me party, and most of the guests were party members. I
remember being anxious the first time I went, mainly because I did not ""nk I had the proper attire. At Fort Hare, we were taught to wear a tie
)aclffit to a social function of any kind. Though my wardrobe was merely limited, I managed to find a tie to wear to the party.
discovered a lively and gregarious group of people who did not
ern to P^ attention to color at all. It was one of the first mixed gather5s had ever attended, and I was far more of an observer than a
un "^F^111' ^ re^ GXtremely shy, wary of committing a faux pas, and
MvH1^ to P31"1101?^ in me high-flown and rapid-fire conversations.
di-,1 "Shis seemed undeveloped by comparison to the sophisticated ^'"gue around me.
66 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
At one point in the evening, I was introduced to Michael Harmcl, \ ^,
I was told had a master's degree in English from Rhodes University, i
was impressed with his degree, but when I met him, I thought to m\ self
"This chap has an M.A. and he is not even wearing a tie!" I just cc.uld
not reconcile this discrepancy. Later, Michael and I became friends, and
I came to admire him greatly, in no small measure because he rejected so
many of the rather foolish conventions I once embraced. He was not only a brilliant writer, but was so committed to communism that he lived in
a manner no different from an African.
10
LIFE IN ALEXANDRA was exhilarating and precarious. Its atmosphere
was alive, its spirit adventurous, its people resourceful. Although
the township did boast some handsome buildings, it could fairly be described
as a slum, living testimony to the neglect of the authorities. The
roads were unpaved and dirty, and filled with hungry, undernourished
children scampering around half-naked. The air was thick with the smoke
from coal fires in tin braziers and stoves. A single water tap served several
houses. Pools of stinking, stagnant water full of maggots collected by the
side of the road. Alexandra was known as "Dark City" for its complete
absence of electricity. Walking home at night was perilous, for there were
no lights, the silence pierced by yells, laughter, and occasional gunfire.
So different from the darkness of the Transkei, which seemed to envelop
one in a welcome embrace.
The township was desperately overcrowded; every square foot was
occupied either by a ramshackle house or a tin-roofed shack. As so often
happens in desperately poor places, the worst elements came to the fore.
Life was cheap; the gun and the knife ruled at night. Gangsters -- known
as tsotsis -- carrying flick-knives or switchblades were plentiful and prominent;
in those days they emulated American movie stars and wore fedoras
and double-breasted suits and wide, colorful ties. Police raids were a
regular feature of life. The police routinely arrested masses of people for
pass violations, possession of liquor, and failure to pay the poll tax. On
almost every corner there were shebeens, illegal saloons that were shacks
where home-brewed beer was served.
In spite of the hellish aspects of life in Alexandra, the township was
also a kind of heaven. As one of the few areas of the country where
Africans could acquire freehold property and run their own affairs, wher
people did not have to kowtow to the tyranny of white municipal au thorities, Alexandra was an urban Promised Land, evidence that a sectio
JOHANNESBURG 67
if nur people had broken their ties with the rural areas and become
nnanent city dwellers. The government, in order to keep Africans in
h countryside or working in the mines, maintained that Africans were
hv nature a rural people, ill suited for city life. Alexandra, despite its
nroblems and flaws, gave the lie to that argument. Its population, drawn
from all African language groups, was well adapted to city life and politically conscious. Urban life tended to abrade tribal and ethnic distinctions
and instead of being Xhosas, or Sothos, or Zulus, or Shangaans,
we were Alexandrians. This created a sense of solidarity, which caused
great concern among the white authorities. The government had always
utilized divide-and-rule tactics when dealing with Africans and depended
on the strength of ethnic divisions among the people. But in places like
Alexandra, these differences were being erased.
Alexandra occupies a treasured place in my heart. It was the first place
I ever lived away from home. Even though I was later to live in Orlando,
a small section ofSoweto, for a far longer period than I did in Alexandra,
I always regarded Alexandra Township as a home where I had no specific
house, and Orlando as a place where I had a house but no home.
In that first year, I learned more about poverty than I did in all my
childhood days in Qunu. I never seemed to have money and I managed
to survive on the meagerest of resources. The law firm paid me a salary
of two pounds per week, having generously waived the premium the
articled clerks normally paid the firm. Out of that two pounds, I paid
thirteen shillings and fourpence a month for my room at the Xhomas'.
The cheapest means of transport to and from Alexandra was the "Native"
bus -- for Africans only -- which at one pound tenpence a month made
a considerable dent in my income. I was also paying fees to the University
of South Africa in order to complete my degree by correspondence. I ^ent another pound or so on food. Part of my salary was spent on an wen more vital item -- candles -- for without them I could not study. I
rould not afford a kerosene lamp; candles allowed me to read late into
the night.
1 was inevitably short more than a few pence each month. Many days
walked the six miles to town in the morning and the six back in the
ening m order to save bus fare. I often went days without more than a mouthful of food, and without a change of clothing. Mr. Sidelsky, who
, s "V h^ght, once gave me an old suit of his and, assisted by considerable c "ig and patching, I wore that suit every day for almost five years. Lw end, there were more patches than suit.
nexr nc afternoon' I was returning to Alexandra by bus and took a seat who toanother fellow about my age. He was one of those young men oeted a style of dress that mimicked the well-tailored gangsters in
68 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
American movies. I realized that my suit was just touching the he ,. < his jacket. He noticed it also and very carefully moved away so that m\
jacket would not sully his. It was a tiny gesture, comical in retrospect
but painful at the time.
There is little favorable to be said about poverty, but it was often an
incubator of true friendship. Many people will appear to befriend you
when you are wealthy, but precious few will do the same when you are
poor. If wealth is a magnet, poverty is a kind of repellent. Yet, povci tv
often brings out the true generosity in others. One morning, I decided
to walk to town to save money and spotted a young lady who had been
with me at Fort Hare. Her name was Phyllis Maseko and she was walking
toward me on the same side of the street. I was embarrassed by my
threadbare clothing and crossed to the other side hoping she would not
recognize me. But I heard her call out, "Nelson . . . Nelson!" I stopped
and crossed over, pretending that I had not noticed her until that moment.
She was pleased to see me, but I could tell that she observed how shabby
I looked. "Nelson," she said, "here is my address, 234 Orlando East. Come
and visit me." I resolved not to humiliate myself again, but one day I was
in need of a proper meal and dropped by. She fed me without alluding
to my poverty, and from then on I continued to visit her.
My landlord, Mr. Xhoma, was not wealthy, but he was a kind of
philanthropist. Every Sunday, for all of the time I lived on his property,
he and his wife gave me lunch, and those steaming plates of pork and
vegetables were often my only hot meal of the week. No matter where I
was or what I was doing, I would never fail to be at the Xhomas' on
Sunday. For the rest of the week, I would sustain myself on bread, and
sometimes the secretaries at the firm would bring me some food.
I was very backward in those days and the combination of poverty and
provincialism made for some amusing incidents. One day, not long after
I had moved in with the Xhomas, I was on my way home from Johannesburg
and very hungry. I had a bit of money that I had saved and
decided to splurge on some fresh meat, something I had not had in a
long time. I did not see a proper butcher around, so I went into a
delicatessen, a type of shop I had never encountered until I went to
Johannesburg. Through the glass, I saw a large and appetizing piece or
meat and asked the man behind the counter to carve off a piece. He
wrapped it up, and I put it under my arm and headed home, dreaming of the dinner that awaited me.
When I returned to my room in Alexandra, I called to one of the young
daughters in the main house. She was only seven, but a clever girl. I sa1 to her, "Would you take this piece of meat to one of your older asters
and ask her to cook it for me?" I could see her trying to suppress a snW-'
JOHANNESBURG 69
Lg ^yas too respectful of her elders to laugh. With some irritation,
t sked her whether something was wrong. Very softly, she said, "This
af is cooked." I asked her what she was talking about. She explained
, t n^d bought a piece of smoked ham, and that it was meant to be
.yst as it was. This was entirely new to me, and rather than confess
-nmolete ignorance, I told her that I knew it was smoked ham but that
I wanted it warmed up. She knew I was bluffing, but ran off anyway. The
meat was very tasty.
In Alexandra I rekindled a friendship with the lively, ever-cheerful Ellen
Nkabinde, whom I had known from Healdtown, and who was then
teaching at one of the township schools. In fact, Ellen and I fell in love.
I had known her only slightly at Healdtown, and it was not until I saw
her again in Alexandra that our relationship blossomed. What little spare
time I had in those months I spent with Ellen. Courtship was difficult;
we were always surrounded by people, and there were few places to go.
The only place we could be alone was outside under the sun or the stars.
So, Ellen and I wandered together in the veld and hills surrounding the
township. Mostly, we would just walk, and when we both had the time,
we might have a picnic.
Ellen was a Swazi, and though tribalism was fading in the township,
a close friend of mine condemned our relationship on purely tribal
grounds. I categorically rejected this. But our different backgrounds posed
certain problems. Mrs. Mabutho, the reverend's wife, did not care for
Ellen, largely because she was a Swazi. One day, while I was at the Mabuthos',
Mrs. Mabutho answered a knock at the door. It was Ellen, who
was looking for me, and Mrs. Mabutho told her I was not inside. Only
later did Mrs. Mabutho say to me, "Oh, Nelson, some girl was here
looking for you." Mrs. Mabutho then said to me, "Is that girl a Shangaan?"
Although the Shangaans are a proud and noble tribe, at the time, Shangaan
was considered a derogatory term. I took offense at this and I said,
No, she is not a Shangaan, she is a Swazi." Mrs. Mabutho felt strongly
that I should take out only Xhosa girls.
Such advice did not deter me. I loved and respected Ellen, and felt not a little blt noble in discarding the counsel of those who disapproved. The re ahonship was to me a novelty, and I felt daring in having a friendship
a woman who was not a Xhosa. I was young and a bit lost in the
\, and Ellen played the role not only of romantic partner, but of a u, supporting me, giving me confidence, and endowing me with
-"gth and hope. But within a few months Ellen moved away, and sadly,
K)st tou^ with one another.
lovel' e a f^ilv had five daughters, each of them lovely, but the est of a^ was named Didi. Didi was about my age and spent most
70 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
of the week working as a domestic worker in a white suburb of Johannesburg.
Whem I first moved to the house, I saw her only seldom and
fleetingly. But later, when I made her acquaintance properly, I also fell in
love with her. But Didi barely took any notice of me, and what she did
notice was the" fact that I owned only one patched-up suit and a single
shirt, and that:: I did not present a figure much different from a tramp.
Every week-end Didi returned to Alexandra. She was brought home
by a young m-an who I assumed was her boyfriend, a flashy, well-to-do
fellow who ha-d a car, something that was most unusual. He wore expensive,
double-b'roasted American suits and wide-brimmed hats, and paid
a great deal of~ attention to his appearance. He must have been a gangster
of some sort, but I cannot be sure. He would stand outside in the yard
and put his haxids in his waistcoat and look altogether superior. He greeted
me politely, bmt I could see that he did not regard me as much competition.
I yearned Co tell Didi I loved her, but I was afraid that my advances
would be un^-vanted. I was hardly a Don Juan. Awkward and hesitant
around girls, I did not know or understand the romantic games that
others seemeci to play effortlessly. On weekends, Didi's mother would
sometimes ask her to bring out a plate of food to me. Didi would arrive
on my doorstŤep with the plate and I could tell that she simply wanted to
perform her Ťerrand as quickly as possible, but I would do my best to
delay her. I ''would query her opinion on things, ask her all sorts of
questions. "IS-Jow, what standard did you attain in school?" I would say.
Standard five-c she replied. "Why did you leave?" I asked. She was bored,
she replied. '""Ah, well, you must go back to school," I said. "You are
about the same age as I am," I continued, "and there is nothing wrong
with returning to school at this age. Otherwise you will regret it when
you are old. You must think seriously about your future. It is nice for
you now becsause you are young and beautiful and have many admirers,
but you needl to have an independent profession."
I realize tlhat these are not the most romantic words that have ever
been uttered by a young man to a young woman with whom he was in
love, but I did not know what else to talk to her about. She listened
seriously, but I could tell that she was not interested in me, that in fact
she felt a bit superior to me.
I wanted to propose to her but I was unwilling to do so unless I was
certain she -would say yes. Although I loved her, I did not want to gi^ her the satisfaction of rejecting me. I kept up my pursuit of her, but
was timid and hesitant. In love, unlike politics, caution is not usually
virtue. I was neither confident enough to think that I might succeed nor
secure enough to bear the sense of failure if I did not.
I stayed at: that house for about a year, and in the end, I uttered nothing
JOHANNESBURG 71
. . p^y feelings. Didi did not show any less interest in her boyfriend any more interest in me. I bade my good-bye with expressions of
ritiide for her friendliness and the hospitality of the family. I did not
Didi again for many years. One day, much later, when I was practicing
law in Johannesburg, a young woman and her mother walked into my office The woman had had a child, and her boyfriend did not want to
marry hsr; ^e was seeking to institute an action against him. That young
woman was Didi, only now she looked haggard and wore a faded dress.
I was distressed to see her, and thought how things might have turned
out differently. In the end, she did not bring a suit against her boyfriend,
and I never saw her again.
Despite my romantic deficiencies, I gradually adjusted to township life,
and began to develop a sense of inner strength, a belief that I could do
well outside the world in which I had grown up. I slowly discovered I
did not have to depend on my royal connections or the support of family
in order to advance, and I forged relationships with people who did not
know or care about my link to the Thembu royal house. I had my own
home, humble though it was, and I was developing the confidence and
self-reliance necessary to stand on my own two feet.
At the end of 1941, I received word that the regent was visiting Johannesburg
and wanted to see me. I was nervous, but knew that I was
obligated to see him, and indeed wanted to do so. He was staying at the
WNLA compound, the headquarters of the Witwatersrand Native Labor
Association, the recruiting agency for mineworkers along the Reef.
The regent seemed greatly changed, or perhaps it was I who had
changed. He never once mentioned the fact that I had run away. Fort
Hare, or the arranged marriage that was not to be. He was courteous and solicitous, questioning me in a fatherly way about my studies and
future plans. He recognized that my life was starting in earnest and would
take a different course from the one he had envisaged and planned for.
"e did not try to dissuade me from my course, and I was grateful for "us implicit acknowledgment that I was no longer his charge.
My meeting with the regent had a double effect. I had rehabilitated / r an(^ at the same time restored my own regard for him and the
embu royal house. I had become indifferent to my old connections,
attitude I had adopted in part to justify my flight and somehow alleviate
su'V13'11" ofmy '^P'^tion from a world I loved and valued. It was reas_g
to be back in the regent's warm embrace.
wh h ^ '^S0111 ^emed satisfied with me, he was vexed with Justice,
with c sald must rcturn to Mqhekezweni. Justice had formed a liaison
young woman, and I knew he had no intention of going home.
72 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
After the regent departed, Bangindawo, one of his headmen, instituted
proceedings against Justice, and I agreed to help Justice when he was
called before the native commissioner. At the hearing, I pointed out that
Justice was an adult, and was not obligated to return to Mqhekezweni
merely because his father ordered it. When Bangindawo spoke, he did
not reply to my argument but played on my own loyalties. He addressed
me as Madiba, my clan name, something that was well calculated to remind
me of my Thembu heritage. "Madiba," he said, "the regent has cared for
you, educated you, and treated you like his own son. Now you want to
keep his true son from him. This is contrary to the wishes of the man
who has been your faithful guardian, and contrary to the path that has
been laid out for Justice."
Bangindawo's speech hit me hard. Justice did have a different destiny
from that of myself. He was the son of a chief, and a future chief in his
own right. After the hearing, I told Justice that I had changed my mind,
and that I thought he should return. Justice was mystified by my reaction
and refused to listen to me. He resolved to stay and must have informed
his girlfriend of my advice, for she never thereafter spoke to me.
At the beginning of 1942, in order to save money and be closer to downtown
Johannesburg, I moved from the room at the back of the Xhomas'
to the WNLA compound. I was assisted by Mr. Festile, the induna at the
Chamber of Mines, who was once again playing a fateful role in my life. On his own initiative he had decided to offer me free accommodation in
the mining compound.
The WNLA compound was a multiethnic, polyglot community of
modern, urban South Africa. There were Sothos, Tswanas, Vendas, Zulus,
Pedis, Shangaans, Namibians, Mozambicans, Swazis, and Xhosas. Few
spoke English, and the lingua franca was an amalgam of many tongues
known as Fanagalo. There, I saw not only flare-ups of ethnic animosity,
but the comity that was also possible among men of different backgrounds.
Yet I was a fish out of water there. Instead of spending my days
underground, I was studying or working in a law office where the only
physical activity was running errands or putting files in a cabinet.
Because the WNLA was a way station for visiting chiefs, I had the
privilege of meeting tribal leaders from all over southern Africa. I recall
on one occasion meeting the queen regent of Basutoland, or what is now
Lesotho, Mantsebo Moshweshwe. She was accompanied by two chieis,
both of whom knew Sabata's father, Jongilizwe. I asked them about Jon^ gilizwe, and for an hour I seemed to be back in Thembuland as they tol
colorful tales about his early years.
The queen took special notice of me and at one point addressed tn
JOHANNESBURG 73
j > r|v but she spoke in Sesotho, a language in which I knew few words.
rho is the language of the Sotho people as well as the Tswana, a large iber of whom live in the Transvaal and the Orange Free State. She
i nked at me with incredulity, and then said in English, "What kind of
i -ver and leader will you be who cannot speak the language of your
\\'n people?" I had no response. The question embarrassed and sobered ^ made me realize my parochialism and just how unprepared I was
for the task of serving my people. I had unconsciously succumbed to the
ethnic divisions fostered by the white government and I did not know
how to speak to my own kith and kin. Without language, one cannot
talk to people and understand them; one cannot share their hopes and
aspirations, grasp their history, appreciate their poetry, or savor their
songs. I again realized that we were not different people with separate
languages; we were one people, with different tongues.
Less than six months after the regent's visit. Justice and I learned of his
father's death in the winter of 1942. He had seemed weary when last I
saw him, and his death did not come as a great surprise. We read of the
regent's death in the newspaper because the telegram that had been sent
to Justice had gone astray. We hastened down to the Transkei, arriving
the day after the regent's funeral.
Though I was disappointed to miss the regent's burial, I was inwardly
glad that I had reconciled with him before his death. But I was not without
stabs of guilt. I always knew, even when I was estranged from the regent,
that all my friends might desert me, all my plans might founder, all my
hopes be dashed, but the regent would never abandon me. Yet I had
spurned him, and I wondered whether my desertion might have hastened
his death.
The passing of the regent removed from the scene an enlightened and
tolerant man who achieved the goal that marks the reign of all great
eaders: he kept his people united. Liberals and conservatives, tradition- ^sts and reformers, white-collar officials and blue-collar miners, all regained
loyal to him, not because they always agreed with him, but because the regent listened to and respected all different opinions.
spent nearly a week in Mqhekezweni after the funeral and it was a
rGtrospection and rediscovery. There is nothing like returning to
ha ac^ r rerrlams unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself
I h e, ed- The Great Place went on as before, no different from when
had ^rown u? trlere. But I realized that my own outlook and worldviews
be;- ° ^ was rio longer attracted by a career in the civil service, or
& an interpreter in the Native Affairs Department. I no longer saw uture ^und up with Thembuland and the Transkei. I was even
74 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
informed that my Xhosa was no longer pure and was now influer ; ,^ Zulu, one of the dominant languages in the Reef. My life in Johanncshui -o my exposure to men like Gaur Radebe, my experiences at the la\\ firm
had radically altered my beliefs. I looked back on that young man who
had left Mqhekezweni as a naive and parochial fellow who had seen very little of the world. I now believed I was seeing things as they were. That
too, of course, was an illusion.
I still felt an inner conflict between my head and my heart. My heart
told me that I was a Thembu, that I had been raised and sent to school
so that I could play a special role in perpetuating the kingship. Had I no
obligations to the dead? To my father, who had put me in the care of the
regent? To the regent himself, who had cared for me like a father? But
my head told me that it was the right of every man to plan his own future
as he pleased and choose his role in life. Was I not permitted to make my
own choices?
Justice's circumstances were different from my own, and after the regent's
death he had important new responsibilities thrust upon him. He
was to succeed the regent as chief and had decided to remain in Mqhekezweni
and take up his birthright. I had to return to Johannesburg, and
I could not even stay to attend his installation. In my language there is a
saying: "Ndiwelimilambo enamagama" (I have crossed famous rivers). It
means that one has traveled a great distance, that one has had wide
experience and gained some wisdom from it. I thought of this as I returned
to Johannesburg alone. I had, since 1934, crossed many important rivers
in my own land: the Mbashe and the Great Kei, on my way to Healdtown;
and the Orange and the Vaal, on my way to Johannesburg. But I had
many rivers yet to cross.
At the end of 1942 I passed the final examination for my B.A. degree. I
had now achieved the rank I once considered so exalted. I was proud to
have achieved my B.A., but I also knew that the degree itself was neither
a talisman nor a passport to easy success.
At the firm, I had become closer to Gaur, much to Mr. Sidelsk/s
exasperation. Education, Gaur argued, was essential to our advancement,
but he pointed out that no people or nation had ever freed itself through
education alone. "Education is all well and good," Gaur said, "but ifws are to depend on education, we will wait a thousand years for our freedom- We are poor, we have few teachers and even fewer schools. We do no
even have the power to educate ourselves."
Gaur believed in finding solutions rather than in spouting theory r° Africans, he asserted, the engine of change was the African Nations Congress; its policies were the best way to pursue power in South Atr^
JOHANNESBURG 75
i-j stressed the ANC's long history of advocating change, noting that
ANC was the oldest national African organization in the country,
, -  been founded in 1912. Its constitution denounced racialism, its
csidents had been from different tribal groups, and it preached the goal
if Africans as full citizens of South Africa.
Despite Gaur's lack of formal education, he was my superior in virtually every sphere of knowledge. During lunch breaks he would often give
impromptu lectures; he loaned me books to read, recommended people
for me to talk to, meetings for me to attend. I had taken two courses in
modern history at Fort Hare, and while I knew many facts, Gaur was
able to explain the causes for particular actions, the reasons that men and
nations had acted as they did. I felt as though I was learning history
afresh.
What made the deepest impression on me was Gaur's total commitment
to the freedom struggle. He lived and breathed the quest for liberation.
Gaur sometimes attended several meetings a day where he featured prominently
as a speaker. He seemed to think of nothing but revolution.
I went along with Gaur to meetings of both the Township Advisory
Board and the ANC. I went as an observer, not a participant, for I do
not think I ever spoke. I wanted to understand the issues under discussion,
evaluate the arguments, see the caliber of the men involved. The Advisory
Board meetings were perfunctory and bureaucratic, but the ANC meetings
were lively with debate and discussion about Parliament, the pass
laws, rents, bus fares -- any subject under the sun that affected Africans.
In August 1943, I marched with Gaur, and ten thousand others, in
support of the Alexandra bus boycott, a protest against the raising of
fares from fourpence to five. Gaur was one of the leaders and I watched
him in action. This campaign had a great effect on me. In a small way, I
had departed from my role as an observer and become a participant. I
round mat to march with one's people was exhilarating and inspiring.
ut I was also impressed by the boycott's effectiveness: after nine days,
urmg which the buses ran empty, the company returned the fare to four-
aurs views were not the only ones I paid attention to at the firm. Hans ^ er was a white estate agent who did business with Mr. Sidelsky and
engage me in discussion. He was the prototypical businessman
Mr V"^ tlw wori^ Arough the prism of supply and demand. One day,
"Do Panted out the window. "Look out there. Nelson." he said. ^Vhar '-^ se men an^ women scurrying up and down the street?
^veri Is) lr r ^^ arc P""1111^ What is it they are working for so
- l u tell you: all of them, without exception, are after wealth
76 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and money. Because wealth and money equal happiness. That is what \ou
must struggle for: money, and nothing but money. Once you have enough
cash, there is nothing else you will want in life."
William Smith was a Coloured man involved in the African real estate
trade who was often around the office. Smith was a veteran of the ICU
(the Industrial and Commercial Workers Union), South Africa's first black
trade union, founded by Clements Kadalie, but his views had shifted
dramatically since those days. "Nelson," he said, "I have been involved in
politics for a long time, and I regret every minute of it. I wasted the best
years of my life in futile efforts serving vain and selfish men who placed
their interests above those of the people they pretended to serve. Politics
in my experience, is nothing but a racket to steal money from the poor."
Mr. Sidelsky did not join these discussions. He seemed to regard discussing
politics as almost as much of a waste of time as participating in
it. Again and again, he would counsel me to avoid politics. He warned
me about Gaur and Walter Sisulu. These men will poison your mind, he
said. "Nelson," he asked, "you want to be a lawyer, don't you?" I said
yes. "And if you are a lawyer, you want to be a successful lawyer, do you
not?" Again, I said yes. "Well, if you get into politics," he said, "your
practice will suffer. You will get into trouble with the authorities who
are often your allies in your work. You will lose all your clients, you will
go bankrupt, you will break up your family, and you will end up in jail.
That is what will happen if you go into politics."
I listened to these men and weighed their views carefully. All of the
arguments had some merit. I was already leaning toward some type of
political involvement, but I did not know what or how, and I lingered
on the sidelines, uncertain what to do.
As far as my profession was concerned, it was Gaur who did more
than just offer advice. One day in early 1943, when I had been at the firm
for less than two years, Gaur took me aside and said, "My boy, as long
as I am here at the firm, they will never article you, whether or not you
have a degree." I was startled, and told Gaur that it could not be true, as
he was not even in training to be a lawyer. "That does not make a difference,
Nelson," he continued. "They will say, 'We have Gaur, he can
speak law to our people, why do we need someone else? Gaur is already
bringing in clients to the firm.' But they will not tell you this to your
face; they will just postpone and delay. It is important to the future o
our struggle in this country for you to become a lawyer, and so I am going to leave the firm and start my own estate agency. When I am gof"- they will have no choice but to article you."
I pleaded with him not to resign, but he was immovable. Within a tfc^ days, he gave Mr. Sidelsky his resignation, and Mr. Sidelsky evcntua
JOHANNESBURG 77
-led me as promised. I cannot say whether Gaur's absence had anything
11 to do with it, but his resignation was another example of his
generosity.
v riv in i943, arter passing my examination through UNISA, I returned
rn Fort Hare for my graduation. Before leaving for the university, I decided rn outfit myself in a proper suit. In order to do so, I had to borrow the
monev from Walter Sisulu. I had had a new suit when I went up to Fort
Hare purchased for me by the regent, and now I would have a new suit
when I went down. I borrowed academic dress from Randall Peteni, a
friend and fellow alumnus.
My nephew, K. D. Matanzima, who had graduated several years before,
drove my mother and No-England, the regent's widow, to the ceremony.
I was gratified to have my mother there, but the fact that No-England
came made it seem as though the regent himself had blessed the event.
After the graduation, I spent a few days with Daliwonga (K.D.'s clan
name, which is what I called him), at his home in Qamata. Daliwonga
had already chosen the path of traditional leadership. He was in the line
of succession to become the head of Emigrant Thembuland, which lies
in the westernmost part of the Transkei, and while I was staying with
him he pressed me to return to Umtata after qualifying as an attorney. "Why do you stay in Johannesburg?" he said. "You are needed more here."
It was a fair point; there were certainly more professional Africans in
the Transvaal than in the Transkei. I told Daliwonga that his suggestions
were premature. But in my heart, I knew I was moving toward a different
commitment. Through my friendship with Gaur and Walter, I was beginning
to see that my duty was to my people as a whole, not just a
particular section or branch. I felt that all the currents in my life were
taking me away from the Transkei and toward what seemed like the center,
a place where regional and ethnic loyalties gave way before a common
purpose.
the graduation at Fort Hare offered a moment of introspection and "-flection. I was struck most forcefully by the discrepancy between my 0 assumptions and my actual experience. I had discarded my presumpons
that graduates automatically became leaders and that my connection e ^mbu royal house guaranteed me respect. Having a successful my TcT a ^"^""^ble salary were no longer my ultimate goals. I found
wiA eln^ ^rawn ^o the world of politics because I was not content wlrh my old beliefs.
exr,e ^"^burg, I moved in circles where common sense and practical
as i Kncc were more important than high academic qualifications. Even s receiving my degree, I realized that hardly anything I had learned
LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
r^^^rsity seemed relevant in my new environment. At the university I icr13'1^ had shied away from topics like racial oppression, lack of op^
111 ^-"Hties for Africans, and the nest of laws and regulations that sub- 'c r^^ \j^ black man. But in my life in Johannesburg, I confronted these ^ ^^s_ every day. No one had ever suggested to me how to go about
'ni;r/*ovi^g ^ ^y^ of racial prejudice, and I had to learn by trial and error
 _rn n ^ returned to Johannesburg at the beginning of 1943,1 enrolled at
-r1--diversity of the Witwatersrand for an LL.B., a bachelor of laws
:_i3ťce;^ ^ preparatory academic training for a lawyer. The University of ^^^twatersrand, known to all as "Wits," is located in Braamfontcin in owh' central Johannesburg, and is considered by many to be the premier .r-M^s h-speaking university in South Africa.
^-^ile working at the law firm brought me into regular contact with
; ť^e^ f^ t]-^ ^-gf time, the university introduced me to a group of whites TiK?v^ age ^ port Hare we had occasional contacts with white students w r"1 'Rhodes University in Grahamstown, but at Wits, I was attending
- ^''^ with white students. This was as new to them as it was to me, for
tj2lAS ule ""ly African student in the law faculty.
'le) ťe English-speaking universities of South Africa were great incubaofi°
^f liberal values. It was a tribute to these institutions that they ald
b^m^ black students. For the Afrikaans universities, such a thing was un- ^Bi^ble. lls "^^"spite the university's liberal values, I never felt entirely comfortable
-? '. Always to be the only African, except for menial workers, to be
ileW^ed at best as a curiosity and at worst as an interloper, is not a ^S^^nial experience. My manner was guarded, and I met both generosity ^ uiJ1 animosity. Although I was to discover a core of sympathetic whites
,( W^'(became friends and later colleagues, most of the whites at Wits were
L iM ^beral or color-blind. I recall getting to a lecture a few minutes late
Avit-? ^ay and taking a seat next to Sarel Tighy, a classmate who later became 'ruffle: :mber of Parliament for the United Party. Though the lecture had ^y'^^idy started and there were only a few empty seats, he ostentatiously ^'"^^octed his things and moved to a seat distant from me. This type of
\ itfM^-yior was the rule rather than the exception. No one uttered the word
; rw1^. ^eir hostility was more muted, but I felt it just the same.
jVictO0^!- law professor, Mr. Hahio, was a strict, cerebral sort, who did not t itotia^r;-,^ ^^ independence on the part of his students. He held a curious 1] ai7^^ of the law when it came to women and Africans: neither group, he ] w^itA ^ was meant to be lawyers. His view was that law was a social sciencs l1-^1-".1 that women and Africans were not disciplined enough to master 1 ^"'"'Ucacies. He once told me that I should not be at Wits but studying
FR1;JOHANNESBURG 79
, degree through UNISA. Although I disagreed with his views, I a-a irfle to disprove them. My performance as a law student was dismal.
Ar Wits I met many people who were to share with me the ups and yf (he liberation struggle, and without whom I would have acnlished
very little. Many white students went out of their way to make
feel welcome. During my first term at Wits I met Joe Slovo and his
,- ^ ^yife, Ruth First. Then as now, Joe had one of the sharpest, most
incisive minds I have ever encountered. He was an ardent Communist,
and was known for his high-spirited parties. Ruth had an outgoing personality and was a gifted writer. Both were the children of Jewish immigrants
to South Africa. I began lifelong friendships with George Bizos
and Bram Fischer. George, the child of Greek immigrants, was a man
who combined a sympathetic nature with an incisive mind. Bram Fischer,
a part-time lecturer, was the scion of a distinguished Afrikaner family:
his grandfather had been prime minister of the Orange River Colony and
his father was judge-president of the Orange Free State. Although he
could have been a prime minister of South Africa, he became one of the
bravest and staunchest friends of the freedom struggle that I have ever
known. I befriended Tony O'Dowd, Harold Wolpe, Jules Brawde and his
wife, Selma, all of whom were political radicals and members of the
Communist Party.
I also formed close friendships with a number of Indian students.
Although there had been a handful of Indian students at Fort Hare, they
stayed in a separate hostel and I seldom had contact with them. At Wits
I met and became friends with Ismail Meer, J. N. Singh, Ahmed Bhoola,
and Ramlal Bhoolia. The center of this tight-knit community was Ismail's
apartment, flat 13, Kholvad House, four rooms in a residential building "i the center of the city. There we studied, talked, and even danced until
the early hours in the morning, and it became a kind of headquarters for
young freedom fighters. I sometimes slept there when it was too late to atch the last train back to Orlando.
"right and serious, Ismail Meer was born in Natal, and while at law ^hool at Wits he became a key member of the Transvaal Indian Congress. ' N. Singh was a popular, handsome fellow, who was at ease with all
oors and also a member of the Communist Party. One day, Ismail, JN-, and myself were in a rush to get to Kholvad House, and we boarded
e tram despite the fact that while Indians were allowed, Africans were
I M ^a(^ not ^een on ^"S wrle" the conductor turned to Ismail and j' '*nd said in Afrikaans that their "kaffir friend" was not allowed on. a" and J.N. exploded at the conductor, telling him that he did not
nain ^^"^d the word kaffir and that it was offensive to call me that fc e I ^"^^Qr promptly stopped the tram and hailed a policeman,
&^L
80 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
who arrested us, took us down to the station, and charged us. We were
ordered to appear in court the following day. That night, Ismail and J.N
arranged for Bram Fischer to defend us. The next day, the magistrate
seemed in awe of Brain's family connections. We were promptly acquitted
and I saw firsthand that justice was not at all blind.
Wits opened a new world to me, a world of ideas and political beliefs
and debates, a world where people were passionate about politics. I
was among white and Indian intellectuals of my own generation, voune
men who would form the vanguard of the most important political movements
of the next few years. I discovered for the first time people of my
own age firmly aligned with the liberation struggle, who were prepared
despite their relative privilege, to sacrifice themselves for the cause of the
oppressed.
Part Three
RTH OF A FREEDOM
FIGHTER
86 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the presidency, the ANC had seventeen shillings and sixpence in its crea
sury, and he had boosted the amount to four thousand pounds. He \va
admired by traditional leaders, had relationships with cabinet ministers
and exuded a sense of security and confidence. But he also carried himself
with an air of superciliousness that did not befit the leader of a mass
organization. As devoted as he was to the ANC, his medical practice took
precedence. Xuma presided over the era of delegations, deputations, letters,
and telegrams. Everything was done in the English manner, the idea
being that despite our disagreements we were all gentlemen. He enjoyed
the relationships he had formed with the white establishment and did
not want to jeopardize them with political action.
At our meeting, we told him that we intended to organize a Youth
League and a campaign of action designed to mobilize mass support. We
had brought a copy of the draft constitution and manifesto with us. We
told Dr. Xuma that the ANC was in danger of becoming marginalized
unless it stirred itself and took up new methods. Dr. Xuma felt threatened
by our delegation and strongly objected to a Youth League constitution.
He thought the league should be a more loosely organized group and
act mainly as a recruiting committee for the ANC. In a paternalistic way,
Dr. Xuma went on to tell us that Africans as a group were too unorganized
and undisciplined to participate in a mass campaign and that such a
campaign would be rash and dangerous.
Shortly after the meeting with Dr. Xuma, a provisional committee of
the Youth League was formed, under the leadership of William Nkomo.
The members of the committee journeyed to the ANC annual conference
in Bloemfontein in December of 1943, where they proposed the formation
of a Youth League to help recruit new members to the organization. The
proposal was accepted.
The actual formation of the Youth League took place on Easter Sunday,
1944, at the Bantu Men's Social Center on Eloff Street. There were about
one hundred men there, some coming from as far away as Pretoria. It was
a select group, an elite group, a great number of us being Fort Hare graduates;
we were far from a mass movement. Lembede gave a lecture on the
history of nations, a tour of the horizon from ancient Greece to medieval
Europe to the age of colonization. He emphasized the historical achievements
of Africa and Africans, and noted how foolish it was for whites to
see themselves as a chosen people and an intrinsically superior race.
Jordan Ngubane, A. P. Mda, and William Nkomo all spoke, and efflphasized
the emerging spirit of African nationalism. Lembede was electc
the president, Oliver Tambo, the secretary, and Walter Sisulu became the
treasurer. A. P. Mda, Jordan Ngubane, Lionel Majombozi, Congrs Mbata, David Bopape, and I were elected to the executive committee.
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 87
later joined by such prominent young men as Godfrey Pitje, a student w teacher then lawyer); Arthur Letele, Wilson Conco, Diliza Mji, and
h rho Motlana, all medical doctors; Clan Tloome, a trade unionist;
j T^g Matthews, Duma Nokwe, and Robert Sobukwe, all students. Branches were soon established in all the provinces.
The basic policy of the league did not differ from the ANC's first
nnstitution in 1912. But we were reaffirming and underscoring those
original concerns, many of which had gone by the wayside. African nationalism
was our battle cry, and our creed was the creation of one nation
out of many tribes, the overthrow of white supremacy, and the establishment of a truly democratic form of government. Our manifesto stated:
"We believe that the national liberation of Africans will be achieved by
Africans themselves. . . . The Congress Youth League must be the brainstrust
and power-station of the spirit of African nationalism."
The manifesto utterly rejected the notion of trusteeship, the idea that
the white government somehow had African interests at heart. We cited
the crippling, anti-African legislation of the past forty years, beginning
with the 1913 Land Act, which ultimately deprived blacks of 87 percent
of the territory in the land of their birth; the Urban Areas Act of 1923,
which created teeming African slums, politely called "native locations,"
in order to supply cheap labor to white industry; the Color Bar Act of
1926, which banned Africans from practicing skilled trades; the Native
Administration Act of 1927, which made the British Crown, rather than
the paramount chiefs, the supreme chief over all African areas; and finally,
in 1936, the Representation of Natives Act, which removed Africans from
the Common Voters' Roll in the Cape, thereby shattering any illusion
that whites would allow Africans to have control over their own destiny.
We were extremely wary of communism. The document stated, "We may borrow . . . from foreign ideologies, but we reject the wholesale importation
of foreign ideologies into Africa." This was an implicit rebuke to the Communist Party, which Lembede and many others, including myself, considered a "foreign" ideology unsuited to the African situation.
mbede felt that the Communist Party was dominated by whites, which "ndermined African self-confidence and initiative.
number of committees were formed that day, but the primary pursc
ttle ^uth League was to give direction to the ANC in its quest
^political freedom. Although I agreed with this, I was nervous about
corn1"^ the ^^ and still had doubts about the extent of my political
had r11^"1"1 was t^en wor^dng full-time and studying part-time, and
inse e tlme outslde of those two activities. I also possessed a certain ^d M^' feell^8 Politically backward compared to Walter, Lembede, a- They were men who knew their minds, and I was, as yet,
88 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
unformed. I still lacked confidence as a speaker, and was intimidated by
the eloquence of so many of those in the league.
Lembede's Africanism was not universally supported because his ideas
were characterized by a racial exclusivity that disturbed some of the other
Youth Leaguers. Some of the Youth Leaguers felt that a nationalism that
would include sympathetic whites was a more desirable course. Others
including myself, countered that if blacks were offered a multiracial form
of struggle, they would remain enamored of white culture and prev to a
continuing sense of inferiority. At the time, I was firmly opposed to
allowing Communists or whites to join the league.
Walter's house was my home away from home. For several months in the
early 1940s, it actually was my home when I had no other place to stay.
The house was always full, and it seemed there was a perpetual discussion
going on about politics. Albertina, Walter's wife, was a wise and wonderful
presence, and a strong supporter of Walter's political work. (At
their wedding, Anton Lembede said: "Albertina, you have married a
married man: Walter married politics long before he met you.")
It was in the lounge of the Sisulus' home that I met Evelyn Mase, my
first wife. She was a quiet, pretty girl from the countryside who did not
seem overawed by the comings and goings at the Sisulus'. She was then
training as a nurse with Albertina and Peter Mda's wife. Rose, at the
Johannesburg non-European General Hospital.
Evelyn was from Engcobo, in the Transkei, some distance west of
Umtata. Her father, a mineworker, had died when she was an infant, and
her mother when she was twelve. After completing grade school, Evelyn
was sent to Johannesburg to attend high school. She stayed with her
brother, Sam Mase, who was then living at the Sisulus' house. MaSisulu,
Walter's mother, was the sister of Evelyn's father's mother. The Sisulus
treated Evelyn as if she was a favorite daughter, and she was much loved
by them.
I asked Evelyn out very soon after our first meeting. Almost as quickly, we fell in love. Within a few months I had asked her to marry me and
she accepted. We were married in a civil ceremony requiring only signatures
and a witness at the Native Commissioner's Court in Johannesburg,
for we could not afford a traditional wedding or feast. Our most
immediate problem was finding a place to live. We first went to stay with
her brother in Orlando East and then later with Evelyn's sister at Cit\
Deep Mines, where her sister's husband, Msunguli Mgudlwa, worked a
a clerk.
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 89
12
tn 1946 a number of critical events occurred that shaped my political
development and the direction of the struggle. The mine-workers' strike
if 104.6 in which 70,000 African miners along the Reef went on strike,
affected me greatly. At the initiative ofJ. B. Marks, Clan Tloome, Gaur
Radebe and a number ofANC labor activists, the African Mine Workers
Union (AMWU) had been created in the early 1940S. There were as many
as 400 ooo African miners working on the Reef, most of them making
no more than two shillings a day. The union leadership had repeatedly
pressed the Chamber of Mines for a minimum wage of ten shillings a
day, as well as family housing and two weeks' paid leave. The chamber
ignored the union's demands.
In one of the largest such actions in South African history, the miners
went on strike for a week and maintained their solidarity. The state's
retaliation was ruthless. The leaders were arrested, the compounds surrounded
by police, and the AMWU offices ransacked. A march was brutally
repulsed by police; twelve miners died. The Natives Representative
Council adjourned in protest. I had a number of relations who were
mineworkers, and during the week of the strike I visited them, discussed
the issues, and expressed my support.
J. B. Marks, a longtime member of the ANC and the Communist
Party, was then president of the African Mine Workers Union. Born in
the Transvaal, of mixed parentage. Marks was a charismatic figure with
a distinctive sense of humor. He was a tall man with a light complexion.
During the strike I sometimes went with him from mine to mine, talking
to workers and planning strategy. From morning to night, he displayed
cool and reasoned leadership, with his humor leavening even the most
irncult crisis. I was impressed by the organization of the union and its
' "y to control its membership, even in the face of such savage opposition.

n the end, the state prevailed: the strike was suppressed and the union
I , . -'h^tnke was the beginning of my close relationship with Marks.
con1 lm often at his house, and we discussed my opposition to
but h"11"18"1 at ^rcat ^"S1"- ^'"ks was a stalwart member of the party,
a vo " llcver P^01^12^ my objections, and felt that it was natural for
expť ^ rnan to ^"brace nationalism, but that as I grew older and more
^ose16^^' m^ views would broaden. I had these same discussions with s ^otane and YusufDadoo, both of whom believed, like Marks, that
90 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
communism had to be adapted to the African situation. Other Comniun
members of the ANC condemned me and the other Youth Leaguers bn r Marks, Kotane, and Dadoo never did.
After the strike, fifty-two men, including Kotane, Marks, and rnanv
other Communists, were arrested and prosecuted, first for incitement then
for sedition. It was a political trial, an effort by the state to show that it
was not soft on the Red Menace.
That same year, another event forced me to recast my whole approach
to political work. In 1946, the Smuts government passed the Asiatic Land
Tenure Act, which curtailed the free movement of Indians, circumscribed
the areas where Indians could reside and trade, and severely restricted
their right to buy property. In return, they were provided with representation
in Parliament by token white surrogates. Dr. Dadoo, president of
the Transvaal Indian Congress, castigated the restrictions and dismissed
the offer of parliamentary representation as "a spurious offer of a sham
franchise." This law -- known as the Ghetto Act -- was a grave insult to
the Indian community and anticipated the Group Areas Act, which would
eventually circumscribe the freedom of all South Africans of color.
The Indian community was outraged and launched a concerted, twoyear
campaign of passive resistance to oppose the measures. Led by Drs.
Dadoo and G. M. Naicker, president of the Natal Indian Congress, the
Indian community conducted a mass campaign that impressed us with
its organization and dedication. Housewives, priests, doctors, lawyers,
traders, students, and workers took their place in the front lines of the
protest. For two years, people suspended their lives to take up the battle.
Mass rallies were held; land reserved for whites was occupied and picketed.
No less than two thousand volunteers went to jail, and Drs. Dadoo and
Naicker were sentenced to six months' hard labor.
The campaign was confined to the Indian community and the participation
of other groups was not encouraged. Even so. Dr. Xuma and other
African leaders spoke at several meetings and along with the Youth League
gave full moral support to the struggle of the Indian people. The government
crippled the rebellion with harsh laws and intimidation, but we
in the Youth League and the ANC had witnessed the Indian people
register an extraordinary protest against color oppression in a way that
Africans and the ANC had not. Ismail Meer and J. N. Singh suspended
their studies, said good-bye to their families, and went to prison. Ahme
Kathrada, who was still a high-school student, did the same thing-1orten visited the home of Amina Pahad for lunch, and then suddenly, u" charming woman put aside her apron and went to jail for her beliefs.
I had once questioned the willingness of the Indian community to prote
against oppression, I no longer could.
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 91
The Indian campaign became a model for the type of protest that
n the Youth League were calling for. It instilled a spirit of defiance w A radicalism among the people, broke the fear of prison, and boosted popularity and influence of the NIC and TIC. They reminded us
, Lg freedom struggle was not merely a question of making speeches,
, u.pg meetings, passing resolutions, and sending deputations, but of
meticulous organization, militant mass action, and, above all, the will
(mess to suffer and sacrifice. The Indian campaign hearkened back to rhe 191^ passive resistance campaign in which Mahatma Gandhi led a
tumultuous procession of Indians crossing illegally from Natal to the
Transvaal. That was history; this campaign was taking place before my
own eyes.
Early in 1946, Evelyn and I moved to a two-room municipal house of our
own in Orlando East and thereafter to a slightly larger house at No. 8115
Orlando West. Orlando West was a dusty, spartan area of boxy municipal
houses that would later become part of Greater Soweto, Soweto being
an acronym for South-Western Townships. Our house was situated in an
area nicknamed WestclifF by its residents after the fancy white suburb to
the north.
The rent of our new home was seventeen shillings and sixpence per
month. The house itself was identical to hundreds of others built on
postage-stamp-size plots on dirt roads. It had the same standard tin roof,
the same cement floor, a narrow kitchen, and a bucket toilet in back.
Although there were streetiamps outside, we used kerosene lamps inside
as the homes were not yet electrified. The bedroom was so small that a
double bed took up almost the entire floor space. These houses were built
by the municipal authorities for workers who needed to be near town.
To relieve the monotony, some people planted small gardens or painted "leu- doors bright colors. It was the very opposite of grand, but it was m}' nrst true home of my own and I was mightily proud. A man is not
a man until he has a house of his own. I did not know then that it would me only residence that would be entirely mine for many, many years. ^he state had allocated the house to Evelyn and me because we were
^° k?" )ust tw0'but three-That y^'our first son'Madiba Thembekile.
as born. He was given my clan name of Madiba, but was known by the
res ^e :rtlemb1- He was a solid, happy little boy who most people said
thn- -i, ^ls motner more than his father. I had now produced an heir, ^ dg - na(! Uttle as yet to bequeath to him. But I had perpetuated the
sih.r e a name and the Madiba clan, which is one of the basic responds
of a Xhosa male.
y had a stable base, and I went from being a guest in other peo-
92 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
pie's homes to having guests in my own. My sister Leabie joined us and I
took her across the railroad line to enroll her at Orlando High School
In my culture, all the members of one's family have a claim to the hospitality
of any other member of the family; the combination of my large
extended family and my new house meant a great number of guests.
I enjoyed domesticity, even though I had little time for it. I delighted
in playing with Thembi, bathing him and feeding him, and putting him
to bed with a little story. In fact, I love playing with children and chattine
with them; it has always been one of the things that makes me feel most
at peace. I enjoyed relaxing at home, reading quietly, taking in the sweet
and savory smells emanating from pots boiling in the kitchen. But I was
rarely at home to enjoy these things.
During the latter part of that year, the Reverend Michael Scott came
to stay with us. Scott was an Anglican clergyman and a great fighter for
African rights. He had been approached by a man named Komo, who
was representing a squatter camp outside of Johannesburg that the government
was seeking to relocate. Komo wanted Scott to make a protest
against the removal. Scott said, "If I am going to help you I must be one
of you," and he proceeded to move to the squatter camp and start a
congregation there. Scott's shantytown for the homeless was built near
a rocky knoll and the residents christened it Tobruk, after the battle in
the North Africa campaign of the war. It was a place I sometimes took
Thembi on Sunday morning, as he liked to play hide-and-seek among the
rocks. After Scott had set up his congregation, he found that Komo was
embezzling money from people who were contributing to the fight against
the removal. When Scott confronted Komo, Komo drove Scott out of
camp and threatened his life.
Scott took refuge with us in Orlando and brought along an African
priest named Diamini, who also had a wife and children. Our house was
tiny, and Scott slept in the sitting room, Diamini and his wife slept in
another room, and we put all the children in the kitchen. Reverend Scott
was a modest, unassuming man, but Diamini was a bit hard to take. At
mealtimes, he would complain about the food. "Look, here," he would
say, "this meat of yours, it's very lean and hard, not properly cooked at
all. I'm not used to meals like this." Scott was appalled by this, and
admonished Diamini, but Diamini took no heed. The next night he rnigh1 say, "Well, this is a bit better than yesterday, but far from well prepared.
Mandela, you know your wife just cannot cook."
Diamini indirectly caused the situation to be resolved because I ^\3S so eager to have him out of the house that I went to the squatter camp
myself and explained that Scott was a true friend of theirs, unlike .i^orrio,
and that they had to choose between the two. They then organic1 an
^
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 93
l rtion in which Scott triumphed, and he moved back to the squatter
me taking Father Diamini with him.
IF r|v in (947i ^ completed the requisite period of three years for articles
j [-i-i^ t ime at Witkin, Sidelsky and Eidelman came to an end. I resolved
become a full-time student in order to earn my LL.B. so that I could put on my own and practice as an attorney. The loss of the eight
nounds, ten shillings, and one penny per month that I earned at Sidelsky
was devastating. I applied to the Bantu Welfare Trust at the South African
Institute of Race Relations in Johannesburg for a loan of 250 pounds sterling
to help finance my law studies, which included university fees, textbooks,
and a monthly allowance. I was given a loan of 150 pounds pence
Three months later, I wrote to them again, noting that my wife was
about to take maternity leave, and we would lose her salary of seventeen
pounds per month, which was absolutely necessary to our survival. I did
receive the additional money, for which I was grateful, but the circumstances
which warranted it were unfortunate. Our daughter Makaziwe's
birth was not difficult, yet she was frail and sickly. From the start, we
feared the worst. Many nights, Evelyn and I took turns looking after her.
We did not know the name of whatever was consuming this tiny girl and
the doctors could not explain the nature of the problem. Evelyn monitored
the baby with the combination of a mother's tirelessness and a nurse's
professional efficiency. When she was nine months old, Makaziwe passed
away. Evelyn was distraught, and the only thing that helped temper my
own grief was trying to alleviate hers.
In politics, no matter how much one plans, circumstances often dictate events. In July of 1947, during an informal discussion with Lembede about
loum League business, he complained to me of a sudden pain in his
stomach and an accompanying chill. When the pain worsened, we drove "un to Coronation Hospital, and that same night, he was dead at the age 01 ^ty-three. Many were deeply affected by his death. Walter Sisulu scelrled -^ost prostrate with grief. His passing was a setback to the
^t-rnent, for Lembede was a fount of ideas and attracted others to the "'"ganization.
ab I cmbede was succeeded ^ peter Md!i^ whose analytical approach,
h'm v to ^P^5 himself clearly and simply, and tactical experience made
Md anexceuent politician and an outstanding leader of the Youth League. ^"rd '^s a lean fc^ow' he had no excess weight, just as he used no excess ^as n n ^"ad-minded tolerance of different views, his own thinking
advin ore mature Aan that of Lembede. It took Mda's leadership to a\ant:e Lembede's cause.
94 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Mda believed the Youth League should function as an internal pressure
group, a militant nationalistic wing within the ANC as a whole that
would propel the organization into a new era. At the time, the ANC did
not have a single full-time employee, and was generally poorly organized
operating in a haphazard way. (Later, Walter became the first and only
full-time ANC staff member at an extremely meager salary.)
Mda quickly established a branch of the Youth League at Fort Hare
under the guidance of Z. K. Matthews and Godfrey Pitje, a lecturer in
anthropology. They recruited outstanding students, bringing in fresh
blood and new ideas. Among the most outstanding were Professor Matthews's
brilliant son Joe, and Robert Sobukwe, a dazzling orator and
incisive thinker.
Mda was more moderate in his nationalism than Lembede, and his
thinking was without the racial tinge that characterized Lembede's. He
hated white oppression and white domination, not white people themselves.
He was also less extreme in his opposition to the Communist Party
than Lembede -- or myself. I was among the Youth Leaguers who were
suspicious of the white left. Even though I had befriended many white
Communists, I was wary of white influence in the ANC, and I opposed
joint campaigns with the party. I was concerned that the Communists
were intent on taking over our movement in the guise of joint action. I
believed that it was an undiluted African nationalism, not Marxism or
multiracialism, that would liberate us. With a few of my colleagues in the
league, I even went so far as breaking up CP meetings by storming the
stage, tearing up signs, and capturing the microphone. At the national
conference of the ANC in December, the Youth League introduced a
motion demanding the expulsion of all members of the Communist Party, but we were soundly defeated. Despite the influence the Indian passive
resistance campaign of 1946 had on me, I felt about the Indians the same
way I did about the Communists: that they would tend to dominate
the ANC, in part because of their superior education, experience, and
training.
In 1947,1 was elected to the Executive Committee of the Transvaal ANC
and served under C. S. Ramohanoe, president of the Transvaal region.
This was my first position in the ANC proper, and represented a milestone
in my commitment to the organization. Until that time, the sacrifices
had made had not gone much further than being absent from my w1 e and family during weekends and returning home late in the evening- had not been directly involved in any major campaign, and I did not V
understand the hazards and unending difficulties of the life of a freedol
fighter. I had coasted along without having to pay a price for my Lon
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 95
cnt From the time I was elected to the Executive Committee of the 'I" nwaal region, I came to identify myself with the congress as a whole,
h its hopes and despairs, its successes and failures; I was now bound
heart and soul.
Ramohanoe was another one of those from whom I learned. He was
sraunch nationalist and a skillful organizer who was able to balance
rlivereent views and come forward with a suitable compromise. While
Ramohanoe was unsympathetic to the Communists, he worked well with
rhem. He believed that the ANC was a national organization that should
welcome all those who supported our cause.
In 1947 in the wake of the Indian passive resistance campaign, Drs. Xuma,
Dadoo, and Naicker, presidents, respectively, of the ANC, the Transvaal
Indian Congress, and the Natal Indian Congress, signed the Doctors'
Pact agreeing to join forces against a common enemy. This was a significant
step toward the unity of the African and Indian movements. Rather
than create a central political body to direct all the various movements,
they agreed to cooperate on matters of common interest. Later, they
were joined by the APO, the African People's Organization, a Coloured
organization.
But such an agreement was at best tentative, for each national group
faced problems peculiar to itself. The pass system, for example, barely
affected Indians or Coloureds. The Ghetto Act, which had prompted the
Indian protests, barely affected Africans. Coloured groups at the time
were more concerned about the race classification and job reservation,
issues that did not affect Africans and Indians to the same degree.
The Doctors' Pact laid a foundation for the future cooperation of
Africans, Indians, and Coloureds, since it respected the independence of each mdividual group, but acknowledged the achievements that could be
realized from acting in concert. The Doctors' Pact precipitated a series
nonracial, antigovernment campaigns around the country, which ''ought to bring together Africans and Indians in the freedom struggle.
e first of these campaigns was the First Transvaal and Orange Free tate ^"ples Assembly for Votes for All, a campaign for the extension
Uie franchise to all black South Africans. Dr. Xuma announced ANC ^ticipation at a press conference over which I presided. At the time, we
tha'th the '^P'11^11 would be run ky dle ANC, but when we learned
Cor e would not be leading the campaign, the Transvaal Executive
^as th""^ decided that the ANC should withdraw. My idea at the time "^elf 1a^ t ^Nc s^ould ^e "ivolved only in campaigns that the ANC
the ca was more concerned with who got the credit than whether ^Paign would be successful.
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 97
i re Africans had no loyalty to General Smuts, but we had even less ^the National Party.
Malan's platform was known as apartheid. Apartheid was a new term
old idea. It literally means "apartness" and it represented the
tification in one oppressive system of all the laws and regulations that
, j i^p^ Africans in an inferior position to whites for centuries. What
had been more or less de facto was to become relentlessly de jure. The often haphazard segregation of the past three hundred years was to be
consolidated into a monolithic system that was diabolical in its detail,
inescapable in its reach, and overwhelming in its power. The premise of
apartheid was that whites were superior to Africans, Coloureds, and Indians
and the function of it was to entrench white supremacy forever.
As the Nationalists put it, "Die wit man moet altyd baas wees" (The white
man must always remain boss). Their platform rested on the term baasskap, literally boss-ship, a freighted word that stood for white supremacy in all
its harshness. The policy was supported by the Dutch Reform Church,
which furnished apartheid with its religious underpinnings by suggesting
that Afrikaners were God's chosen people and that blacks were a subservient
species. In the Afrikaner's worldview, apartheid and the church went
hand in hand.
The Nationalists' victory was the beginning of the end of the domination
of the Afrikaner by the Englishman. English would now take second
place to Afrikaans as an official language. The Nationalist slogan encapsulated
their mission: "Eie volk, eie tool, eie land"-- Our own people, our
own language, our own land. In the distorted cosmology of the Afrikaner,
the Nationalist victory was like the Israelites' journey to the Promised
Land. This was the fulfillment of God's promise, and the justification for
their view that South Africa should be a white man's country forever.
The victory was a shock. The United Party and General Smuts had
beaten the Nazis, and surely they would defeat the National Party. On election day, I attended a meeting in Johannesburg with Oliver Tambo
^eral others. We barely discussed the question of a Nationalist
government because we did not expect one. The meeting went on all night
we emerged at dawn and found a newspaper vendor selling the Rand b MyMall: the Nationalists had triumphed. I was stunned and dismayed,
I co 1^" took a more considered line- tt\ like this'" he saicL "I uke this-"
uld not imagine why. He explained, "Now we will know exactly who
enemies are and where we stand."
^vin n cra^ Smuts realized the dangers of this harsh ideology, dethe
^ aPartheid as "a crazy concept, born of prejudice and fear." From "lent of the Nationalists' election, we knew that our land would
98 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
henceforth be a place of tension and strife. For the first time in South
African history, an exclusively Afrikaner party led the government. "South
Africa belongs to us once more," Malan proclaimed in his victory speech
That same year, the Youth League outlined its policy in a document
written by Mda and issued by the league's executive committee. It was a
rallying cry to all patriotic youth to overthrow white domination. We
rejected the Communist notion that Africans were oppressed primarily
as an economic class rather than as a race, adding that we needed to create
a powerful national liberation movement under the banner of Africar
nationalism and "led by Africans themselves."
We advocated the redivision of land on an equitable basis; the abolitior
of color bars prohibiting Africans from doing skilled work; and the neec
for free and compulsory education. The document also articulated thi
push-and-pull between two rival theories of African nationalism, betweci
the more extreme, Marcus Garveyinspired, "Africa for the Africans
nationalism and the Africanism of the Youth League, which recognizci
that South Africa was a multiracial country.
I was sympathetic to the ultra-revolutionary stream of African nation
alism. I was angry at the white man, not at racism. While I was nc
prepared to hurl the white man into the sea, I would have been perfecti
happy if he climbed aboard his steamships and left the continent of h:
own volition.
The Youth League was marginally more friendly to the Indians an
the Coloureds, stating that Indians, like Africans, were oppressed, bi
that Indians had India, a mother country that they could look to. Tl
Coloureds, too, were oppressed, but unlike the Indians had no moth'
country except Africa. I was prepared to accept Indians and Coloure(
provided they accepted our policies; but their interests were not identic
with ours, and I was skeptical of whether or not they could truly embra'
our cause.
In short order, Malan began to implement his pernicious program. With
weeks of coming to power, the Nationalist government pardoned Rob
Leibbrandt, the wartime traitor who had organized uprisings in suppc
of Nazi Germany. The government announced their intention to curb t
trade union movement and do away with the limited franchises 01 t
Indian, Coloured, and African peoples. The Separate Representation
Voters Act eventually robbed the Coloureds of their representation
Parliament. The Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act was introduced
1949 and was followed in rapid succession by the Immorality Act, rnaKi
sexual relations between white and nonwhite illegal. The Popul^
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 99
rration Act labeled all South Africans by race, making color the
l most important arbiter of individuals. Malan introduced the Group s - Art _ which he described as "the very essence of apartheid" --
rine separate urban areas for each racial group. In the past, whites
t^ok land by force; now they secured it by legislation.
t response to this new and much more powerful threat from the state,
, AisfC embarked on an unaccustomed and historic path. In 1949, the
ANC launched a landmark effort to turn itself into a truly mass organization.
The Youth League drafted a Program of Action, the cornerstone
of which was a campaign of mass mobilization.
At the ANC annual conference in Bloemfontein, the organization
adopted the league's Program of Action, which called for boycotts, strikes,
stay-at-homes, passive resistance, protest demonstrations, and other forms
of mass action. This was a radical change: the ANC's policy had always
been to keep its activities within the law. We in the Youth League had
seen the failure of legal and constitutional means to strike at racial oppression;
now the entire organization was set to enter a more activist stage.
These changes did not come without internal upheaval. A few weeks
before the conference, Walter Sisulu, Oliver Tambo, A. P. Mda, and I met
privately with Dr. Xuma at his home in Sophiatown. We explained that
we thought the time had come for mass action along the lines ofGandhi's
nonviolent protests in India and the 1946 passive resistance campaign,
asserting that the ANC had become too docile in the face of oppression.
The ANC's leaders, we said, had to be willing to violate the law and if
necessary go to prison for their beliefs as Gandhi had.
Dr. Xuma was adamantly opposed, claiming that such strategies were
premature and would merely give the government an excuse to crush the
ANC. Such forms of protest, he said, would eventually take place in South
Africa, but at the moment such a step would be fatal. He made it clear
that he was a doctor with a wide and prosperous practice that he would "of jeopardize by going to prison.
"e gave Dr. Xuma an ultimatum: we would support him for reelection
to the presidency of the ANC provided he supported our proposed Proof Action. If he would not support our program, we would not
\av' n ^)r' ^uma became heated, accusing us of blackmail and ^ing down conditions on which we would vote for him. He told us that ^ erc Y01111^ and arrogant, and treating him without respect. We reprp...
ra wlt11 hin^ but to no avail. He would not go along with our
the Rat"1!10^"10"10115^ showed us out ofhis house at n p.m., and closed a "looni nd nlm- There were no streetlights in Sophiatown and it was ess "^ht. All forms of public transport had long since ceased and
102 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the ground, and remained there as mounted police galloped into the
crowd, smashing people with batons. We took refuge in a nearby nurses'
dormitory, where we heard bullets smashing into the wall of the buildine
Eighteen Africans died and many others were wounded in this indiscriminate
and unprovoked attack.
Despite protest and criticism, the Nationalist response was to tighten
the screws of repression. A few weeks later, the government introduced
the notorious Suppression of Communism Act and the ANC called an
emergency conference in Johannesburg. The act outlawed the Communist
Party of South Africa and made it a crime, punishable by a maximum of
ten years' imprisonment, to be a member of the party or to further the
aims of communism. But the bill was drafted in such a broad way that
it outlawed all but the mildest protest against the state, deeming it a crime
to advocate any doctrine that promoted "political, industrial, social or
economic change within the Union by the promotion of disturbance or
disorder." Essentially, the bill permitted the government to outlaw any
organization and to restrict any individual opposed to its policies.
The ANC, the SAIC, and the APO again met to discuss these new
measures, and Dr. Dadoo, among others, said that it would be foolish to
allow past differences to thwart a united front against the government. I
spoke and echoed his sentiments: clearly, the repression of any one liberation
group was repression against all liberation groups. It was at that
meeting that Oliver uttered prophetic words: "Today it is the Communist
Party. Tomorrow it will be our trade unions, our Indian Congress, our
APO, our African National Congress."
Supported by the SAIC and the APO, the ANC resolved to stage a
National Day of Protest on June 26,1950, against the government's murder
of eighteen Africans on May i and the passage of the Suppression of
Communism Act. The proposal was ratified, and in preparation for the
Day of Protest, we closed ranks with the SAIC, the APO, and the Communist
Party. Here, I believed, was a sufficient threat that compelled us
to join hands with our Indian and Communist colleagues.
Earlier that year I had been coopted onto the National Executive Committee
of the ANC, taking the place of Dr. Xuma, who had resigned after
his failure to be reelected president-general. I was not unmindful of tnc
fact that it had been Dr. Xuma who had tried to help me get my first )0
when I came to Johannesburg ten years before, when I had no thoug
of entering politics. Now, as a member of the National Executive Corn
mittee, I was playing on the first team with the most senior people in ANC. I had moved from the role of a gadfly within the organization to
one of the powers that I had been rebelling against. It was a heady tLL ing, and not without mixed emotions. In some ways, it is easier to
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 103
.. .j^( for then one is without responsibility. As a member of the
rutive I had to weigh arguments and make decisions, and expect to ^ criticized by rebels like myself.
Miss action was perilous in South Africa, where it was a criminal ofFense
fir an African to strike, and where the rights of free speech and movement
were unmercifully curtailed. By striking, an African worker stood not
nnlv to lose his job but his entire livelihood and his right to stay in the
area in which he was living. In my experience, a political strike is always
riskier than an economic one. A strike based on a political grievance rather
than on clear-cut issues like higher wages or shorter hours is a more precarious
form of protest and demands particularly efficient organization.
The Day of Protest was a political rather than an economic strike.
In preparation for June 26, Walter traveled around the country consulting
local leaders. In his absence, I took charge of the bustling ANC
office, the hub of a complicated national action. Every day, various leaders
looked in to see that matters were going according to plan: Moses Kotane,
Dr. Dadoo, Diliza Mji, J. B. Marks, president of the Transvaal ANC,
Yusuf Cachalia and his brother Maulvi, Gaur Radebe, secretary of the
Council of Action, Michael Harmel, Peter Raboroko, Nthatho Motlana.
I was coordinating the actions in different parts of the country, and talking
by phone with regional leaders. We had left ourselves little time, and the
planning was hastily done.
The Day of Protest was the ANC's first attempt to hold a political
strike on a national scale and it was a moderate success. In the cities, the majority of workers stayed home and black businesses did not open. In
"emal, Gert Sibande, who later became president of the Transvaal ANC,
led a demonstration of five thousand people, which received headlines in major papers all across the country. The Day of Protest boosted our morale, made us realize our strength, and sent a warning to the Malan
government that we would not remain passive in the face of apartheid. June 26 has since become a landmark day in the freedom struggle and wluun the liberation movement it is observed as Freedom Day.
t was the first rime I had taken a significant part in a national campaign, ^ 'eit the exhilaration that springs from the success of a well-planned c , . a§alnst the enemy and the sense of comradeship that is born of
gnting against formidable odds.
druggie, I was learning, was all-consuming. A man involved in Day ^^ was a man without a home life. It was in the midst of the ^'ith P rotest tnat my second son, Makgatho Lewanika, was born. I was a brief e ^nat ^ "'^P11^ when he came into the world, but it was only
"""pite from my activities. He was named for Sefako Mapogo
104 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Makgatho, the second president of the ANC, from 1917 until 19^4 an,. Lewanika, a leading chief in Zambia. Makgatho, the son of a Pedi chief
had led volunteers to defy the color bar that did not permit Africans r'
walk on the sidewalks of Pretoria, and his name for me was an emblem
of indominability and courage.
One day, during this same time, my wife informed me that my elder
son, Thembi, then five, had asked her, "Where does Daddy live?" I had
been returning home late at night, long after he had gone to sleep and
departing early in the morning before he woke. I did not relish beine
deprived of the company of my children. I missed them a great deal during those days, long before I had any inkling that I would spend decades
apart from them.
I was far more certain in those days of what I was against than what I
was for. My long-standing opposition to communism was breaking down.
Moses Kotane, the general-secretary of the party and a member of the
executive of the ANC, often came to my house late at night and we would
debate until morning. Clear-thinking and self-taught, Kotane was the son
of peasant farmers in the Transvaal. "Nelson," he would say, "what do
you have against us? We are all fighting the same enemy. We do not seek
to dominate the ANC; we are working within the context of African
nationalism." In the end, I had no good response to his arguments.
Because of my friendships with Kotane, Ismail Meer, and Ruth First,
and my observation of their own sacrifices, I was finding it more and
more difficult to justify my prejudice against the party. Within the ANC,
party members J. B. Marks, Edwin Mofutsanyana, Clan Tloome, and
David Bopape, among others, were devoted and hardworking, and left
nothing to gainsay as freedom fighters. Dr. Dadoo, one of the leaders of
the 1946 resistance, was a well-known Marxist whose role as a fighter for
human rights had made him a hero to all groups. I could not, and no
longer did, question the bona fides of such men and women.
If I could not challenge their dedication, I could still question the
philosophical and practical underpinnings of Marxism. But I had liw knowledge of Marxism, and in political discussions with my Communist
friends I found myself handicapped by my ignorance of Marxist phil05 ophy. I decided to remedy this.
I acquired the complete works of Marx and Engels, Lenin, Stalin,' a Tse-tung, and others and probed into the philosophy of dialectical an1 historical materialism. I had little time to study these works P1"0?^,
While I was stimulated by the Communist Manifesto, I was exhausted ^ dos Kapital. But I found myself strongly drawn to the idea of a classe society, which, to my mind, was similar to traditional African c"
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 105
i.f^ ^yas shared and communal. I subscribed to Marx's basic dictum, \\ h -h has the simplicity and generosity of the Golden Rule: "From each \\ cording to his ability; to each according to his needs."
Dialectical materialism seemed to offer both a searchlight illuminating
. j ^ night of racial oppression and a tool that could be used to end
. t. yelped me to see the situation other than through the prism of black
i ^yhite relations, for if our struggle was to succeed, we had to transcend black and white. I was attracted to the scientific underpinnings of dialectical materialism, for I am always inclined to trust what I can verify.
Its materialistic analysis of economics rang true to me. The idea that the
value of goods was based on the amount of labor that went into them
seemed particularly appropriate for South Africa. The ruling class paid
African labor a subsistence wage and then added value to the cost of the goods, which they retained for themselves.
Marxism's call to revolutionary action was music to the ears of a freedom
fighter. The idea that history progresses through struggle and change
occurs in revolutionary jumps was similarly appealing. In my reading of
Marxist works, I found a great deal of information that bore on the type
of problems that face a practical politician. Marxists gave serious attention
to national liberation movements and the Soviet Union in particular supported
the national struggles of many colonial peoples. This was another
reason why I amended my view of Communists and accepted the ANC position of welcoming Marxists into its ranks.
A friend once asked me how I could reconcile my creed of African
nationalism with a belief in dialectical materialism. For me, there was no
contradiction. I was first and foremost an African nationalist fighting for
our emancipation from minority rule and the right to control our own
destiny But at the same time. South Africa and the African continent were P^ of the larger world. Our problems, while distinctive and special, were not entirely unique, and a philosophy that placed those problems m an "^ernational and historical context of the greater world and the
°urse of history was valuable. I was prepared to use whatever means to ^e "P Ac erasure of human prejudice and the end of chauvinistic and ť. enr "^""slism. I did not need to become a Communist in order to
_ with them. I found that African nationalists and African Comcvn
T ^"^^y na^ far more uniting them than dividing them. The
who" ^ays suggested that the Communists were using us. But is to say that we were not using them?
106	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
14
IF WE HAD ANY HOPES or illusions about the National Party before
they came into office, we were disabused of them quickly. Their threat
to put the kaffir in his place was not an idle one. Apart from the Suppression
of Communism Act, two laws passed in 1950 formed the cornerstones
of apartheid: the Population and Registration Act and the Group Areas
Act. As I have mentioned, the Population and Registration Act authorized
the government officially to classify all South Africans according to race.
If it had not already been so, race became the sine qua non of South
African society. The arbitrary and meaningless tests to decide black from
Coloured or Coloured from white often resulted in tragic cases where
members of the same family were classified differently, all depending on
whether one child had a lighter or darker complexion. Where one was
allowed to live and work could rest on such absurd distinctions as the
curl of one's hair or the size of one's lips.
The Group Areas Act was the foundation of residential apartheid.
Under its regulations, each racial group could own land, occupy premises, and trade only in its own separate area. Indians could henceforth only
live in Indian areas, Africans in African, Coloureds in Coloured. If whites
wanted the land or houses of the other groups, they could simply declare the land a white area and take them. The Group Areas Act initiated the
era of forced removals, when African communities, towns, and villages
in newly designated "white" urban areas were violently relocated because
the nearby white landowners did not want Africans living near them or
simply wanted their land.
At the top of the list for removal was Sophiatown, a vibrant community
of more than fifty thousand people, which was one of the oldest black
settlements in Johannesburg. Despite its poverty, Sophiatown brimmed
with a rich life and was an incubator of so much that was new and valuable
in African life and culture. Even before the government's efforts to remove
it, Sophiatown held a symbolic importance for Africans disproportionate
to its small population.
The following year, the government passed two more laws that directly
attacked the rights of the Coloureds and Africans. The Separate Representation
of Voters Act aimed to transfer Coloureds to a separate voters' roll in the Cape, thereby diluting the franchise rights that they had enjoyed
for more than a century. The Bantu Authorities Act abolished the Natives
Representative Council, the one indirect forum of national representation
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 107
for Africans, and replaced it with a hierarchical system of tribal chiefs
appointed liy the government. The idea was to restore power to traditional
g and mainh conservative ethnic leaders in order to perpetuate ethnic differences
thit were beginning to erode. Both laws epitomized the ethos
| of the Natonalist government, which pretended to preserve what they
|were attempting to destroy. Laws stripping people of their rights were
--nevitably described as laws restoring those rights.
"he Coloured people rallied against the Separate Representation of Voters
Act, organiiing a tremendous demonstration in Cape Town in March of
1951 and a strike in April that kept shops closed and schoolchildren at
fhome. It was in the context of this spirit ofactivism by Indians, Coloureds, ;and Africans that Walter Sisulu first broached the idea to a small group
of us of a rational civil disobedience campaign. He outlined a plan under
which selected volunteers from all groups would deliberately invite ims
; prisonmentby defying certain laws.
RThe idea immediately appealed to me, as it did to the others, but I
ffered with Walter on the question of who should take part. I had
cently become national president of the Youth League, and in my new
Ie I urgedthat the campaign should be exclusively African. The average
I African, I slid, was still cautious about joint action with Indians and
Coloureds. While I had made progress in terms of my opposition to
communism, I still feared the influence of Indians. In addition, many of
our grassroots African supporters saw Indians as exploiters of black labor
in their role as shopkeepers and merchants.
Walter vehemently disagreed, suggesting that the Indians, Coloureds,
and Africans were inextricably bound together. The issue was taken up
at a meetingofthe National Executive Committee and my view was voted
down, even by those who were considered staunch African nationalists.
i But I was nevertheless persistent and I raised the matter once more at the
I national conference in December 1951, where the delegates dismissed my ^ew as empirically as the National Executive Committee had done. Now
that my viev had been rejected by the highest levels of the ANC, I fully sccepted the sgreed-upon position. While my speech advocating a go-it- alone strategy ^s met with a lukewarm reception, the speech I gave as
President of^e Youth League after the league pledged its support for the new poli^ °t cooperation was given a resounding ovation.
At the hc'11^1 of a joint planning council consisting of Dr. Moroka,
Walter, J. B. Marks, YusufDadoo, and Yusuf Cachalia, the ANC confer- ^ce cndorst a resolution calling upon the government to repeal the
Suppression °^ Communism Act, the Group Areas Act, the Separate ^Presentatiff of Voters Act, the Bantu Authorities Act, the pass laws,
108 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and stock limitation laws by February 29, 1952. The law was intended
reduce overgrazing by cattle, but its impact would be to further abrid
land for Africans. The council resolved that the ANC would hold dem
onstrations on April 6,1952, as a prelude to the launching of the Can-ioai^ for the Defiance of Unjust Laws. That same day white South Afr
cans would be celebrating the three hundredth anniversary of Jan Va
Riebeeck's arrival at the Cape in 1652. April 6 is the day white South
Africans annually commemorate as the founding of their country _ and
Africans revile as the beginning of three hundred years of enslavement
The ANC drafted a letter to the prime minister advising him of these resolutions and the deadline for repealing the laws. Because the letter was
to go out under the name of Dr. Moroka, and Dr. Moroka had not
participated in the writing of it, I was instructed to take him the letter
by driving to his home in Thaba 'Nchu, a town near Bloemfontein in the
Orange Free State, a very conservative area of the country. I almost did
not make it there to see him.
Only a few weeks before, I had taken my driver's test. In those days, a
driver's license was an unusual thing for an African, for very few blacks
had cars. On the appointed day, I borrowed a car to use for the test. I
was a bit cocky, and decided to drive the car there myself. I was running
late and was driving faster than I should have been, and as I maneuvered
the car along a side street that met a main road, I failed to look both
ways and collided with a car coming in another direction. The damage
was minimal, but now I would certainly be late. The other driver was a
reasonable fellow and we simply agreed to pay our own expenses.
When I reached the testing station, I observed a white woman ahead
of me in the middle of her test. She was driving properly and cautiously.
When the test was finished, the driving inspector said, "Thank you. Would
you please park the car over there," gesturing to a space nearby. She had
performed the test well enough to pass, but as the woman drove over to
the parking place, she did not negotiate a corner properly and the bai. wheel jumped the curb. The inspector hurried over and said, "I'm sorn.
madam, you've failed the test; please make another appointment." He my confidence ebbing. If this fellow tricks a white woman into tailing e test, what hope would I have? But I performed well on the test, and w11'
the inspector told me to park the car at the end of the exam, I df0^ carefully that I thought he might penalize me for going too slowly-
Once I could legally drive, I became a one-man taxi service. I1 '
one's obligation to give rides to comrades and friends. I was thu ^ putized to take the letter to Dr. Moroka. This was no hardship to '
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 109
Iwavs found it enjoyable to gaze out the window while driving. 1 j cQ have my best ideas while driving through the countryside 11^ the wind whipping through the window.
"n my way down to Thaba 'Nchu, I passed through Kroonstad, a
'rvative Free State town about 120 miles south of Johannesburg. I Iriving up a hill and saw two white boys ahead of me on bicycles.
, ^ 4,-, vine was still a bit unsteady, and I came too close to the boys, one
' if hom suddenly made a turn without signaling, and we collided. He
knocked off his bicycle and was groaning when I got out of the car
help him. He had his arms out signaling for me to pick him up, but just as I was about to do so, a white truck driver yelled for me not to
touch the boy. The truck driver scared the child, who then dropped his
arms as though he did not want me to pick him up. The boy was not
badiv hurt, and the truck driver took him to the police station, which was close by.
The local police arrived a short time later, and the white sergeant took
one look at me and said, "Kaffer, jy sal kak vandag!" (Kaffir, you will shit
today!) I was shaken by the accident and the violence of his words, but
I told him in no uncertain terms that I would shit when I pleased, not
when a policeman told me to. At this, the sergeant took out his notebook
to record my particulars. Afrikaans policemen were surprised if a black
man could speak English, much less answer back.
After I identified myself, he turned to the car, which he proceeded to
ransack. From under the floor mat he pulled out a copy of the left-wing weekly The Guardian, which I had hidden immediately after the accident.
(I had slipped the letter for Dr. Moroka inside my shirt.) He looked at
the title and then held it up in the air like a pirate with his booty: ''Wrapftig
ons het 'n Kommunis gevangi" he cried. (My word, we've caught a Communist!)
Brandishing the newspaper, he hurried off.
rhe sergeant returned after about four hours, accompanied by another "nicer. This sergeant, while also an Afrikaner, was intent on doing his "tv correctly. He said he would need to take measurements at the site iv, c accldent for police records. I told the sergeant that it was not proper
, fa the measurements at night when the accident had occurred in the
that'? l added that J intended to ^^ the "^ in Thaba 'Nchu. and p . could "of afford to stay in Kroonstad. The sergeant eyed me im
n^v -"^ said, "What is your name?" Mandela," I said. ^o cue first one," he said. I told him.
^Ipv0 son'" ^ ^g^"1' stlld! as ^he were talking to a boy, "I want to u resume your journey. But if you are going to be difficult with
110 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
me I will have no alternative but to be difficult with you and lock vn
for the night." That brought me down to earth and I consented tn ^ measurements. c
I resumed my journey late that night, and the next morning I yy traveling through the district of Excelsior when my car ground to a h l
I had run out of petrol. I walked to a nearby farmhouse and explain ^ in English to an elderly white lady that I would like to buy some petr 1
As she was closing the door, she said, "I don't have any petrol for you "
I tramped two miles to the next farm and, chastened by my unsuccessful
first effort, tried a different approach. I asked to see the farmer, and when
he appeared I assumed a humble demeanor. "My baas has run out of
petrol," I said. (Baas, the Afrikaans word for boss or master, signifies
subservience.) Friendly and helpful, the farmer was a relation of Prime
Minister Strydom. Yet, I believe he would have given me the petrol had
I told him the truth and not used the hated word baas.
The meeting with Dr. Moroka proved far less eventful than my journey there. He approved of the letter and I made my way back to Johannesburg
without incident. The letter to the prime minister noted that the ANC
had exhausted every constitutional means at our disposal to achieve our
legitimate rights, and that we demanded the repeal of the six "unjust laws"
by February 29, 1952, or else we would take extra-constitutional action.
Malan's reply, signed by his private secretary, asserted that whites had an
inherent right to take measures to preserve their own identity as a separate
community, and ended with the threat that if we pursued our actions the
government would not hesitate to make full use of its machinery to quell
any disturbances.
We regarded Malan's curt dismissal of our demands as a declaration
of war. We now had no alternative but to resort to civil disobedience,
and we embarked on preparations for mass action in earnest. The recruitment
and training of volunteers was one of the essential tasks of the campaign and would in large part be responsible for its success or failure.
On April 6, preliminary demonstrations took place in Johannesburg, i^' toria. Port Elizabeth, Durban, and Cape Town. While Dr. Moroka addressed
a crowd at Freedom Square in Johannesburg, I spoke to a gro"? of potential volunteers at the Garment Workers Union. I explained to a
group of several hundred Africans, Indians, and Coloureds that volun
teering was a difficult and even dangerous duty, as the authorities ťo
seek to intimidate, imprison, and perhaps attack the volunteers. No mat what the authorities did, the volunteers could not retaliate, others 1
they would undermine the value of the entire enterprise. They m"5
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 111 a m violence with nonviolence; discipline must be maintained at all
tos, ^v ^ the executives of the ANC and the SAIC met in Port
ci heth and announced that the Defiance Campaign would begin on 76 the anniversary of the first National Day of Protest. They also red a National Action Committee to direct the campaign and a NaI
volunteer Board to recruit and train volunteers. I was appointed
rional volunteer-in-chief of the campaign and chairman of both the
Arrion Committee and the Volunteer Board. My responsibilities were to
rp-anize the campaign, coordinate the regional branches, canvass for volunteers,
and raise funds.
We also discussed whether the campaign should follow Gandhian principles
of nonviolence, or what the Mahatma called satyagraka, a nonviolence
that seeks to conquer through conversion. Some argued for
nonviolence on purely ethical grounds, saying it was morally superior to any other method. This idea was strongly affirmed by Manilal Gandhi,
the Mahatina's son and the editor of the newspaper Indian Opinion, who
was a prominent member of the SAIC. With his gentle demeanor, Gandhi
seemed the very personification of nonviolence, and he insisted that the
campaign be run along identical lines to that of his father's in India.
Others said that we should approach this issue not from the point of
view of principles but of tactics, and that we should employ the method
demanded by the conditions. If a particular method or tactic enabled us
to defeat the enemy, then it should be used. In this case, the state was far
more powerful than we, and any attempts at violence by us would be
devastatingly crushed. This made nonviolence a practical necessity rather
than an option. This was my view, and I saw nonviolence in the Gandhian model not as an inviolable principle but as a tactic to be used as the
situation demanded. The principle was not so important that the strategy
should be used even when it was self-defeating, as Gandhi himself believed.
called for nonviolent protest for as long as it was effective. This view
prevailed, despite Manilal Gandhi's strong objections.
"s Joint planning council agreed upon an open-ended program of
"cooperation and nonviolence. Two stages of defiance were proposed.
,r e flrst ^ge, a small number of well-trained volunteers would break
sctcd laws in a handful of urban areas. They would enter proscribed
On^ wlthout P^mits, use Whites Only facilities such as toilets. Whites
Th , way Gompartments, waiting rooms, and post office entrances. ^oul^i0111^ de^l:>erate^y remain in town after curfew. Each batch ofdefiers
°fdi t3 ^ a ^^^ wn0 would inform the police in advance of the act sdience so that the arrests could take place with a minimum of
112 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
disturbance. The second stage was envisioned as mass defiance, accom
panted by strikes and industrial actions across the country.
Prior to the inauguration of the Defiance Campaign, a rally, called the
Day of the Volunteers, was held in Durban on June 22. Chief Luthuli
president of the Natal ANC, and Dr. Naicker, president of the Natal
Indian Congress, both spoke and committed themselves to the campaign
I had driven down the day before and was the main speaker. About ten
thousand people were in attendance, and I told the crowd that the Defiance
Campaign would be the most powerful action ever undertaken by the
oppressed masses in South Africa. I had never addressed such a great
crowd before, and it was an exhilarating experience. One cannot speak
to a mass of people as one addresses an audience of two dozen. Yet I have
always tried to take the same care to explain matters to great audiences
as to small ones. I told the people that they would make history and focus
the attention of the world on the racist policies of South Africa. I emphasized
that unity among the black people -- Africans, Coloureds, and
Indians -- in South Africa had at last become a reality.
All across the country, those who defied on June 26 did so with courage,
enthusiasm, and a sense of history. The camp<aign began in the early
morning hours in Port Elizabeth, where thirty-three defiers, under the
leadership of Raymond Mhlaba, entered a railway station through a
Whites Only entrance and were arrested. They imarched in singing freedom
songs, to the accompanying cheers of frie-nds and family. In a call
and response, the defiers and the crowd yelled, "Mayibuye Afrika!" (Let
Africa come back!)
On the morning of the twenty-sixth, I was in tjie ANC office overseeing
the day's demonstrations. The Transvaal batch of "volunteers was scheduled
to go into action at midday at an African towmship near Boksburg, east
of Johannesburg. Led by Reverend N. B. Tantsi,,, they were to court arrest
by entering the township without permission. Reverend Tantsi was an
elderly fellow, a minister in the African Methodiist Episcopal Church, an
the acting president of the Transvaal ANC.
It was late morning, and I was waiting for I Reverend Tantsi to arw from Pretoria, when he telephoned me at the Ťoffice. With regret in ( voice, he told me that his doctor advised him a;igainst defying and go
to prison. I assured him that we would provide; him with warm clot
and that he would spend only a night in jail, bnut to no avail. This '\ grave disappointment, for Reverend Tantsi was a a distinguished figure- had been selected in order to show the authori-ities that we were not)
a group of young rabble-rousers, p.
In place of Reverend Tantsi, we quickly founnd someone equally
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 113
1,1 Nana Sita, the president of the Transvaal Indian Congress, who e a ved a month in jail for his passive resistance during the 1946 protest
ien Despite his advanced age and acute arthritis, Sita was a fighter Sgreed to lead our defiers.
In the afternoon, as we were preparing to go to Boksburg, I realized
the secretary of the Transvaal branch of the ANC was nowhere to \v found. He was meant to accompany Nana Sita to Boksburg. This was nnther crisis, and I turned to Walter and said, "You must go." This was
g^t event in the Transvaal, and it was necessary to have prominent
figures lead the defiers, otherwise the leaders would appear to be hanging
back while the masses took the punishment. Even though Walter was one
of the organizers and was scheduled to defy later, he readily agreed. My
main concern was that he was wearing a suit, impractical dress for prison,
but we managed to find him some old clothes instead.
We then left for Boksburg, where Yusuf Cachalia and I planned to
deliver a letter to the Boksburg magistrate, advising him that fifty of our
volunteers would enter the African township in his area that day without
permits. When we arrived at the magistrate's office, we found a large
contingent of pressmen and photographers. As I handed the envelope to
the magistrate, the photographers went into action. The magistrate
shielded himself from the camera flashes and then invited Yusuf and myself
into his chambers to discuss the matter privately. He was a reasonable
man, and said his office was always open to us, but that excessive publicity
would only worsen matters.
From the magistrate's office, we went straight to the township where
the demonstration was taking place, and even from half a mile away we
heard the robust singing of our volunteers and the great crowd of supporters
who had come to encourage them. At the scene, we found the
igh metal gates to the township locked and our volunteers waiting palenuy
outside, demanding entrance. There were fifty-two volunteers in
' otn Africans and Indians, and a crowd of several hundred enthusiastic "pectators and journalists. Walter was at the head of the defiers; his pres- nce was ^idence that we meant business. But the guiding spirit of the ^nionstrators was Nana Sita, who, despite his arthritis, was moving
g the demonstrators in high spirits, clapping them on the back, and p "'"g t^ir confidence with his own.
''tica^ first hour there was a standofF- The P011^ were uncharacter''tratesrv
restralned and their behavior baffled us. Was their restraint a to derM " cxtlaust the volunteers? Were they waiting for the journalists
t(1cv fac A-tllen sta^0 a massacre finder the cover of darkness? Or were ^'ould k w ^le dilemma that by arresting us -- which is what they ave normally done -- they would be doing the very thing we
. i m\
114 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
wanted? But even while we were wondering, the situation suddeni
changed. The police ordered the gates opened. Immediately the volunte
surged through the gates, thus breaking the law. A police lieutenant ble
a whistle and seconds later the police surrounded the volunteers and beea
arresting them. The campaign was under way. The demonstrators were
carted off to the local police station and charged.
That same evening, the leaders of the Action Committee, which included
Oliver Tambo, Yusuf Cachalia, and myself, attended a meeting in
the city to discuss the day's events and to plan for the week ahead. It was
near the area where the second batch of defiers, led by Flag Boshielo
chairman of the central branch of the ANC, were courting arrest. Shortly after eleven o'clock, we found them marching in unison in the street- at
eleven, curfew regulations went into effect and Africans needed a permit
to be outside.
We emerged from our meeting at midnight. I felt exhausted and was
thinking not of defiance but of a hot meal and a night's sleep. At that
moment, a policeman approached Yusuf and me. It was obvious that we
were going home, not protesting. "No, Mandela," the policeman called
out. "You can't escape." He pointed with his nightstick to the police
wagon parked nearby and said, "Into the van." I felt like explaining to
him that I was in charge of running the campaign on a day-to-day basis
and was not scheduled to defy and be arrested until much later, but of
course, that would have been ridiculous. I watched as he arrested Yusuf,
who burst out laughing at the irony of it all. It was a lovely sight to see
him smiling as he was led away by the police.
Moments later, Yusuf and I found ourselves among the more than fifty
of our volunteers led by Flag Boshielo who were being taken in trucks
to the red-brick police station known as Marshall Square. As the leaders
of the Action Committee, we were worried that the others would wonder
at our absence and I was concerned about who would be running tw campaign. But spirits were high. Even on the way to prison, the vans
swayed to the rich voices of the defiers singing "Nkosi StkeleV iAfrtW
(God Bless Africa), the hauntingly beautiful African national anthem.
That first night, in the drill yard, one of us was pushed so violently
by a white warder that he fell down some steps and broke his ankle,1 protested to the warder about his behavior, and he lashed out at me .
kicking me in the shin. I demanded that the injured man receive "ledlc attention and we initiated a small but vocal demonstration. We were >-u
informed that the injured man could make a request for a doctor th<-nt^ day if he so wished. We were aware throughout the night of his ac
pain- i, rhis ^S
Until then I had spent bits and pieces of time in prison, but ui
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 115
concentrated experience. Marshall Square was squalid, dark, and n1\ hut we were all together and so impassioned and spirited that I ^ noticed my surroundings. The camaraderie of our fellow defiers Se'the two days pass very quickly.
r> that first day of the Defiance Campaign, more than 250 volunteers
nd the country violated various unjust laws and were imprisoned. It
auspicious beginning. Our troops were orderly, disciplined, and
confident.
Over the next five months, 8,500 people took part in the campaign.
Doctors factory workers, lawyers, teachers, students, ministers, defied
and went to jail. They sang, "Hey, Malan! Open the jail doors. We want
to enter." The campaign spread throughout the Witwatersrand, to Durban
to Port Elizabeth, East London, and Cape Town, and smaller towns
in the eastern and western Cape. Resistance was beginning to percolate
even in the rural areas. For the most part, the offenses were minor, and
the penalties ranged from no more than a few nights in jail to a few
weeks, with the option of a fine which rarely exceeded ten pounds. The
campaign received an enormous amount of publicity and the membership
of the ANC shot up from some 20,000 to 100,000, with the most spectacular
increase occurring in the eastern Cape, which contributed half of
all new members.
During the six months of the campaign I traveled a great deal throughout
the country. I generally went by car, leaving at night or very early in
the morning. I toured the Cape, Natal, and the Transvaal, explaining the
campaign to small groups, sometimes going from house to house in the
townships. Often, my task was to iron out differences in areas that were
about to launch actions or had recently done so. In those days, when "iass communication for Africans was primitive or nonexistent, politics
were parochial. We had to win people over one by one.
. On one occasion I drove to the eastern Cape to resolve a dispute
wiving Alcott Gwentshe, who was running the campaign in East Lon-
"' -'^ritshe had been a successful shopkeeper and had played an im^ '""tant role m organizing East London for the stay-at-home of June 26, ^ years before. He had briefly gone to jail at the beginning of the
(j,"" Csmpaign. He was a strong and able man, but he was an inunil
u w^0 l§norecl Ac advice of the executive and took decisions
Don, i '" ^e was now at "dds with his own executive, which was mainly
G^ with "^Uectuals.
°PPon e ^new now to exploit certain issues in order to discredit his
UlteUe s' would speak before local members who were workers not ^i and say -- in Xhosa, never English, for English was the
^^
116 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
language of the intellectuals  "Comrades, I think you know that T h
suffered for the struggle. I had a good job and then went to jail r I6
beginning of the Defiance Campaign and I lost that job. Now thai T e
out of prison, these intellectuals have come along and said, "Gwenf h
we are better educated than you, we are more capable than you ler '
run this campaign.'"
When I investigated the situation I found that Gwentshe had inde rl
ignored the advice of the executive. But the people were behind him and
he had created a disciplined and well-organized group of volunteers wh
had defied in an orderly fashion even while Gwentshe was in prison
Although I thought Gwentshe was wrong for disregarding the executive
he was doing a good job and was so firmly entrenched that he could not
easily be dislodged. When I saw the members of the executive, I explained
that it was impractical to do anything about the situation now, but ifthev
wanted to remedy it, they must defeat him at the next election. It was
one of the first times that I saw that it was foolhardy to go against the
masses of people. It is no use to take an action to which the masses are
opposed, for it will then be impossible to enforce.
The government saw the campaign as a threat to its security and its policy'
of apartheid. They regarded civil disobedience not as a form of protest
but as a crime, and were perturbed by the growing partnership between
Africans and Indians. Apartheid was designed to divide racial groups,
and we showed that different groups could work together. The prospect
of a united front between Africans and Indians, between moderates and
radicals, greatly worried them. The Nationalists insisted that the campaign
was instigated and led by Communist agitators. The minister of justice
announced that he would soon pass legislation to deal with our defiance,
a threat he implemented during the 1953 parliamentary session with the
passage of the Public Safety Act, which empowered the government to
declare martial law and to detain people without trial, and the Criminal
Laws Amendment Act, which authorized corporal punishment for defiers.
The government tried a number of underhanded means to interrup
the campaign. Government propagandists repeatedly claimed that
leaders of the campaign were living it up in comfort while the mass
were languishing in jail. This allegation was far from the truth, u '
achieved a certain currency. The government also infiltrated syws
agents provocateurs into the organization. The ANC welcomed vir ^
anyone who wanted to join. In spite of the fact that our volunteers
carefully screened before they were selected to defy, the police man^
to penetrate not only our local branches but some of the batches otc .
When I was arrested and sent to Marshall Square, I noticed t\vo
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 117
^Lg defiers, one of whom I had never seen before. He wore unusual arn n earb: a suit and tie with an overcoat and a silk scarf. What kind ^"-'f.liow goes to jail dressed like that? His name was Ramaila, and on
hird day when we were due to be released, he simply vanished.
Thf second fellow, whose name was Makhanda, stood out because of
. --iitary demeanor. We were out in the courtyard and we were all in
.. . spirits. The defiers would march in front ofYusufand myself and
kite us. Makhanda, who was tall and slender, marched in a soldierly
manner and then gave a crisp, graceful salute. A number of the fellows
teased him that he must be a policeman to salute so well.
Makhanda had previously worked as a janitor at ANC headquarters.
He was very industrious and was popular among the fellows because he would run out and get fish and chips whenever anyone was hungry. But
at a later trial we discovered that both Makhanda and Ramaila were police
spies. Ramaila testified that he had infiltrated the ranks of the defiers; the
trusty Makhanda was actually Detective-Sergeant Motloung.
Africans who worked as spies against their own brothers generally did
so for money. Many blacks in South Africa believed that any effort by the
black man to challenge the white man was foolhardy and doomed to
failure; the white man was too smart and too strong. These spies saw us
as a threat not to the white power structure but to black interests, for
whites would mistreat all blacks based on the conduct of a few agitators.
Yet, there were many black policemen who secretly aided us. They were
decent fellows and found themselves in a moral quandary. They were loyal
to their employer and needed to keep their jobs to support their families,
but they were sympathetic to our cause. We had an understanding with
a handful of African officers who were members of the security police
that they would inform us when there was going to be a police raid.
These men were patriots who risked their lives to help the struggle.
The government was not our only impediment. Others who might
have helped us instead hindered us. At the height of the Defiance CamP^gn,
the United Party sent two of its MPs to urge us to halt the
P'ugn. They said that if we abandoned our campaign in response to
the made by L G- N- strauss' the united ^fty leader' lt w()uld hd? Stra defeat the Nationalists in the next election. We rejected this and
proceeded to attack us with the same scorn used by the Nationalists.
\'a^ a s0 came under attack from a breakaway ANC group called the Nation^ Mlnded Bloc- Led by Selope Thema. a former member of the L B. M i''^0111^ Committee, the group bolted from the ANC when ^as edit'1 was elected president of the Transvaal ANC. Thema, who
^'8" in0!1-^1^ "^^P""thc Bantu World, fiercely criticized the cams Paper, claiming that Communists had taken over the ANC
118 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and that Indians were exploiting the Africans. He asserted that flu- c
munists were more dangerous now that they were working undersround
and that Indian economic interests were in conflict with those of African
Although he was in a minority in the ANC, his views got a svm.pather'
hearing among certain radical Youth Leaguers.
In May, during the middle of the Defiance Campaign, J. B. Marks was banned under the 1950 Suppression of Communism Act for "furtherinp
the aims of communism." Banning was a legal order by the government
and generally entailed forced resignation from indicated organizations
and restriction from attending gatherings of any kind. It was a kind of
walking imprisonment. To ban a person, the government required no
proof, offered no charges; the minister of justice simply declared it so. It
was a strategy designed to remove the individual from the struggle, allowing
him to live a narrowly defined life outside of politics. To violate
or ignore a banning order was to invite imprisonment.
At the Transvaal conference that year in October, my name was proposed
to replace the banned J. B. Marks, who had recommended that I
succeed him. I was the national president of the Youth League, and the
favorite for Marks's position, but my candidacy was opposed by a group
from within the Transvaal ANC that called itself "Bafabegiya" (Those
Who Die Dancing). The group consisted mainly of ex-Communists
turned extreme African nationalists. They sought to cut all links with
Indian activists and to move the ANC in the direction of a more confrontational
strategy. They were led by MacDonald Maseko, a former
Communist who had been chairman of the Orlando Branch of the ANC
during the.Defiance Campaign, and Seperepere Marupeng, who had been
the chief volunteer for the Defiance Campaign in the Witwatersrand. Both
Maseko and Marupeng intended to stand for the presidency of the
Transvaal.
Marupeng was considered something of a demagogue. He used to
wear a military-style khaki suit replete with epaulets and gold buttons,
and carried a baton like that made famous by Field Marshal Montgomery He would stand up in front of meetings, his baton clutched underneati
his arm, and say: "I am tired of waiting for freedom. I want freedom
now! I will meet Malan at the crossroads and I will show him wh31 want." Then, banging his baton on the podium, he would cry, 1 w freedom now!" ,^
Because of speeches like these, Marupeng became extremely P0?" during the Defiance Campaign, but popularity is only one factor i
election. He thought that because of his newfound prominence he w
win the presidency. Before the election, when it was known that 1
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 119
didate for the presidency, I approached him and said, "I would ^ a L to stand for election to the executive so that you can serve with
,  t am president." He regarded this as a slight, that I was in effect nu me him and he refused, choosing instead to run for the presidency
It But he had miscalculated, for I won the election with an overwhelming
majority.
n Tulv ?o i952i at the height of the Defiance Campaign, I was at work r my then law firm of H. M. Basner when the police arrived with a
warrant for my arrest. The charge was violation of the Suppression of fonununism Act. The state made a series of simultaneous arrests of
campaign leaders in Johannesburg, Port Elizabeth, and Kimberley. Earlier
in the month, the police had raided homes and offices ofANC and SAIC
officials all over the country and confiscated papers and documents. This
type of raid was something new and set a pattern for the pervasive and
illegal searches that subsequently became a regular feature of the government's
behavior.
My arrest and those of the others culminated in a trial in September
in Johannesburg of twenty-one accused, including the presidents and
general-secretaries of the ANC, the SAIC, the ANC Youth League, and
the Transvaal Indian Congress. Among the twenty-one on trial in Johannesburg
were Dr. Moroka, Walter Sisulu, and J. B. Marks. A number of
Indian leaders were arrested, including Dr. Dadoo, Yusuf Cachalia, and
Ahmed Kathrada.
Our appearances in court became the occasion for exuberant political
rallies. Massive crowds of demonstrators marched through the streets of
Johannesburg and converged on the city's Magistrate's Court. There were
white students from the University of the Witwatersrand; old ANC campaigners
from Alexandra; Indian schoolchildren from primary and secondary
schools; people of all ages and colors. The court had never been
deluged with such crowds before. The courtroom itself was packed with
People, and shouts of "Mayibuye Afrika!" punctuated the proceedings.
e trial should have been an occasion of resolve and solidarity, but \as sulhed b}' a breach of faith by Dr. Moroka. Dr. Moroka, the presidenthv
/ ° ^ "^^ an(^ Ac figurehead of the campaign, shocked us all
tog^ ylng his own a"""1^- The plan was for all of us to be tried
Mor I" Aiy fellow -^"sed designated me to discuss the matter with Dr. ^forp aand attemPt to persuade him not to separate himself. The day
AtA trla1'T went to see Dr- Moroka at Village Deep, Johannesburg. \\ ^ note outset of our meeting, I suggested alternatives to him, but he fch thailnterested and instead aired a number of grievances. Dr. Moroka e had been excluded from the planning of the campaign. Yet,
120	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Moroka was often quite uninterested in ANC affairs and content tn kť so. But he said the matter that disturbed him more than any other vu that by being defended with the rest of us, he would be associated w'rh
men who were Communists. Dr. Moroka shared the government's an
mosity to communism. I remonstrated with him and said that it was th
tradition of the ANC to work with anyone who was against racial opore
sion. But Dr. Moroka was unmoved.
The greatest jolt came when Dr. Moroka tendered a humiliating plea
in mitigation to Judge Rumpffand took the witness stand to renounce the
very principles on which the ANC had been founded. Asked whether he
thought there should be equality between black and white in South Africa
Dr. Moroka replied that there would never be such a thing. We felt like
slumping in despair in our seats. When his own lawyer asked him whether
there were some among the defendants who were Communists, Dr. Moroka
actually began to point his finger at various people, including Dr.
Dadoo and Walter. The judge informed him that that was not necessary.
His performance was a severe blow to the organization and we all
immediately realized that Dr. Moroka's days as ANC president were numbered.
He had committed the cardinal sin of putting his own interests
ahead of the organization and the people. He was unwilling to jeopardize
his medical career and fortune for his political beliefs, thereby he had
destroyed the image that he had built during three years of courageous
work on behalf of the ANC and the Defiance Campaign. I regarded this
as a tragedy, for Dr. Moroka's faintheartedness in court took away some
of the glow from the campaign. The man who had gone round the country
preaching the importance of the campaign had now forsaken it.
On December 2, we were all found guilty of what Judge Rumpff
defined as "statutory communism'" -- as opposed to what he said "is
commonly known as communism." According to the statutes of the
Suppression of Communism Act, virtually anyone who opposed the government
in any way could be defined as -- and therefore convicted or---
being a "statutory" Communist, even without ever having been a member
of the party. The judge, who was fair-minded and reasonable, said tha
although we had planned acts that ranged from "open noncompliaii^ °
laws to something that equals high treason," he accepted that \\e a consistently advised our members "to follow a peaceful course of acti
and to avoid violence in any shape or form." We were sentenced to m
months' imprisonment with hard labor, but the sentence was suspendl for two years.
We made many mistakes, but the Defiance Campaign marked a new c
ter in the struggle. The six laws we singled out were not overturne ť
BIRTH OF A FREEDOM FIGHTER 121
{^d any illusion that they would be. We selected them as the \\c ' imediate burden pressing on the lives of the people, and the best rnos re engage the greatest number of people in the struggle. \\>- . co (he campaign, the ANC was more talk than action. We had
aid organizers, no staff, and a membership that did little more than
' lie service to our cause. As a result of the campaign, our membership
lied to 100,000. The ANC emerged as a truly mass-based organization
rh an impressive corps of experienced activists who had braved the
notice the courts, and the jails. The stigma usually associated with imnrisonment
had been removed. This was a significant achievement, for
fear of prison is a tremendous hindrance to a liberation struggle. From
the Defiance Campaign onward, going to prison became a badge of honor
among Africans.
We were extremely proud of the fact that during the six months of the
campaign, there was not a single act of violence on our side. The discipline
of our resistors was exemplary. During the later part of the campaign,
riots broke out in Port Elizabeth and East London in which more than
forty people were killed. Though these outbreaks had nothing whatsoever
to do with the campaign, the government attempted to link us with them.
In this, the government was successful, for the riots poisoned the views
of some whites who might otherwise have been sympathetic.
Some within the ANC had unrealistic expectations and were convinced
that the campaign could topple the government. We reminded them that
the idea of the campaign was to focus attention on our grievances, not
eradicate them. They argued that we had the government where we wanted
them, and that we should continue the campaign indefinitely. I stepped
in and said that this government was too strong and too ruthless to be
brought down in such a manner. We could embarrass them, but overthrowing
them as a result of the Defiance Campaign was impossible.
As it was, we continued the campaign for too long. We should have
"stened to Dr. Xuma. The Planning Committee met with Dr. Xuma ^ing the tail end of the campaign and he told us that the campaign
°uld soon lose momentum and it would be wise to call it off before it
'zz d out altogether. To halt the campaign while it was still on the ^ ensive would be a shrewd move that would capture the headlines. Dr.
and was rl^lt' the campaign soon slackened, but in our enthusiasm
the even "'""g'"11-^ ^ brushed aside his advice. My heart wanted to keep
tor ^"^'"g" g^ng but my head told me that it should stop. I argued
cam lurc ^ut went ^""g witr1 the majority. By the end of the year, the ^'gn foundered.
of m ^"^paign never expanded beyond the initial stage of small batches
V urban defiers. Mass defiance, especially in the rural areas, was
122 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
never achieved. The eastern Cape was the only region where w, -iiccee 1 in reaching the second stage and where a strong resistance niovem
emerged in the countryside. In general, we did not penetrate the con
tryside, an historical weakness of the ANC. The campaign was hampered
by the fact that we did not have any full-time organizers. I was atrcrnptino- to organize the campaign and practice as a lawyer at the same time and
that is no way to wage a mass campaign. We were still amateurs.
I nevertheless felt a great sense of accomplishment and satisfaction-1
had been engaged in a just cause and had the strength to fight for it and
win. The campaign freed me from any lingering sense of doubt or inferiority
I might still have felt; it liberated me from the feeling of being overwhelmed by the power and seeming invincibility of the white man
and his institutions. But now the white man had felt the power of my
punches and I could walk upright like a man, and look everyone in the
eye with the dignity that comes from not having succumbed to oppression
and fear. I had come of age as a freedom fighter. _
Part Four
[E STRUGGLE IS
MY LIFE
15
at THE ANC annual conference at the end of 1952, there was a changing if die guard. The ANC designated a new, more vigorous president for
new more activist era: Chief Albert Luthuli. In accordance with the
ANC constitution, as provisional president of the Transvaal, I became
one of the four deputy presidents. Furthermore, the National Executive
Committee appointed me as first deputy president, in addition to my position as president of the Transvaal. Luthuli was one of a handful of
ruling chiefs who were active in the ANC and had staunchly resisted the
policies of the government.
The son of a Seventh-Day Adventist missionary, Luthuli was born in
what was then Southern Rhodesia and educated in Natal. He trained as
a teacher at Adam's College near Durban. A fairly tall, heavyset, darkskinned
man with a great broad smile, he combined an air of humility with deep-seated confidence. He was a man of patience and fortitude, who
spoke slowly and clearly as though every word was of equal importance.
I had first met him in the late 1940S when he was a member of the
Natives Representative Council. In September of 1952, only a few months
before the annual conference, Luthuli had been summoned to Pretoria
and given an ultimatum: he must either renounce his membership in the
ANC and his support of the Defiance Campaign, or he would be dismissed horn his position as an elected and government-paid tribal chief. Luthuli was a teacher, a devout Christian, and a proud Zulu chief, but he was even more firmly committed to the struggle against apartheid. Luthuli
refused to resign from the ANC and the government dismissed him from is post. In response to his dismissal, he issued a statement of principles
called "The Road to Freedom Is via the Cross," in which he reaffirmed 13 ^PP0^ for nonviolent passive resistance and justified his choice with 0 that st[\^ echo plaintively today: "Who will deny that thirty years
mr^ e ^een ^^ knocking in vain, patiently, moderately and "^dy at a closed and barred door?"
conf-11131301^ cnief ^"uli. but I was unable to attend the national ^ader^"^ ^ ^ew days l:5efore the conference was to begin, fifty-two
gathťr, ou the country were banned from attending any meetings or ^'ei-c re if or slx rrlontns-1 was among those leaders, and my movements
My h lc to ^le dlstnct of Johannesburg for that same period. ^uld no.. s extended to meetings of all kinds, not just political ones. I
' or ^^ple, attend my son's birthday party. I was prohibited
126 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
from talking to more than one person at a time. This was part if
systematic effort by the government to silence, persecute, and imrnobil'
the leaders of those fighting apartheid and was the first of a series ofba
on me that continued with brief intervals of freedom until the time I w
deprived of all freedom some years hence.
Banning not only confines one physically, it imprisons one's spirit ir induces a kind of psychological claustrophobia that makes one yearn not
only for freedom of movement but spiritual escape. Banning was a dangerous
game, for one was not shackled or chained behind bars; the bars
were laws and regulations that could easily be violated and often were. One
could slip away unseen for short periods of time and have the temporary illusion of freedom. The insidious effect of bans was that at a certain
point one began to think that the oppressor was not without but within.
Although I was prevented from attending the 1952 annual conference I
was immediately informed as to what had transpired. One of the most
significant decisions was one taken in secret and not publicized at the time.
Along with many others, I had become convinced that the government
intended to declare the ANC and the SAIC illegal organizations, just as
it had done with the Communist Party. It seemed inevitable that the state
would attempt to put us out of business as a legal organization as soon
as it could. With this in mind, I approached the National Executive
Committee with the idea that we must come up with a contingency plan
for just such an eventuality. I said it would be an abdication of our
responsibility as leaders of the people if we did not do so. They instructed
me to draw up a plan that would enable the organization to operate from
underground. This strategy came to be known as the Mandela-Plan, or
simply, M-Plan.
The idea was to set up organizational machinery that would allow the
ANC to make decisions at the highest level, which could then be swiftly
transmitted to the organization as a whole without calling a meeting. u1 other words, it would allow an illegal organization to continue to function
and enable leaders who were banned to continue to lead. The MP"" was designed to allow the organization to recruit new members, respon
to local and national problems, and maintain regular contact between
membership and the underground leadership.
I held a number of secret meetings among ANC and SAIC lea e , both banned and not banned, to discuss the parameters of the P1'"1,
worked on it for a number of months and came up with a system
was broad enough to adapt itself to local conditions and not fette ^ dividual initiative, but detailed enough to facilitate order. The sin
unit was the cell, which in urban townships consisted of rough,
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 127
>< on a street. A cell steward would be in charge of each of these
If a street had more than ten houses, a street steward would take ^(j the cell stewards would report to him. A group of streets c ed a zone directed by a chief steward, who was in turn responsible
rhe secretariat of the local branch of the ANC. The secretariat was a l committee of the branch executive, which reported to the provincial
retarv. My notion was that every cell and street steward should know
erv person and family in his area, so that he would be trusted by the
neople and would know whom to trust. The cell steward arranged meetings
organized political classes, and collected dues. He was the linchpin
of the plan. Although the strategy was primarily created for more urban
areas it could be adapted to rural ones.
The plan was accepted, and was to be implemented immediately. Word
went out to the branches to begin to prepare for this covert restructuring.
The plan was accepted at most branches, but some of the more far-flung
outposts felt that the plan was an effort by Johannesburg to centralize
control over the regions.
As part of the M-Plan, the ANC introduced an elementary course of
political lectures for its members throughout the country. These lectures
were meant not only to educate but to hold the organization together.
The lectures were given in secret by branch leaders. Those members in
attendance would in turn give the same lectures to others in their homes
and communities. In the beginning, the lectures were not systemized, but
within a number of months there was a set curriculum.
There were three courses, "The World We Live In," "How We Are
Governed," and "The Need for Change." In the first course, we discussed
the different types of political and economic systems around the world as we^ ^ "I South Africa. It was an overview of the growth of capitalism
" well as socialism. We discussed, for example, how blacks in South Africa verc ^pressed both as a race and an economic class. The lecturers were "^stiy banned members, and I myself frequently gave lectures in the
(-ning. This arrangement had the virtue of keeping banned individuals
i_e as well as keeping the membership in touch with these leaders.
unrig this time, the banned leadership would often meet secretly and
It-'ad0 ^ then b^"^ to meet Ac present leaders. The old and the new
Iccri s ^ mesne^ ^'"y we^, and the decision-making process was col- ^cenc a^1( *:leen ^e^ore Sometimes it felt as if nothing had changed
P chat we had to meet in secret.
rhe Mpi with , an was conceived with the best intentions, but it was instituted
' "^dest success and its adoption was never widespread. The
. m r
128	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
most impressive results were once again in the eastern Cape and P
Elizabeth. The spirit of the Defiance Campaign continued in the caste
Cape long after it vanished elsewhere, and ANC members there seized
on the M-Plan as a way of continuing to defy the government.
The plan faced many problems: it was not always adequately explained
to the membership; there were no paid organizers to help implement o
administer it; and there was often dissension within branches that prevented
agreement on imposing the plan. Some provincial leaders resisted
it because they believed it undermined their power. To some, the government's
crackdown did not seem imminent so they did not take the precautions
necessary to lessen its effect. When the government's iron fist
did descend, they were not prepared.
16
MY LIFE, during the Defiance Campaign, ran on two separate tracks:
my work in the struggle and my livelihood as an attorney. I was never a
full-time organizer for the ANC; the organization had only one, and that
was Thomas Titus Nkobi. The work I did had to be arranged around my
schedule as an attorney. In 1951, after I had completed my articles at Witkin,
Sidelsky and Eidelman, I went to work for the law firm of Terblanche &
Briggish. When I completed my articles, I was not yet a fully-fledged
attorney, but I was in a position to draw court pleadings, send out summonses,
interview witnesses -- all of which an attorney must do before
a case goes to court.
After leaving Sidelsky, I had investigated a number of white firms --
there were, of course, no African law firms. I was particularly interested in
the scale of fees charged by these firms and was outraged to discover that
many of the most blue-chip law firms charged Africans even higher fe" for criminal and civil cases than they did their far wealthier white clients^
After working for Terblanche & Briggish for about one year, I joins the firm ofHelman and Michel. It was a liberal firm and one of the "^ that charged Africans on a reasonable scale. In addition, the firm priu^ itself on its devotion to African education, toward which they donate
handsomely. Mr. Helman, the firm's senior partner, was involved w1^ African causes long before they became popular or fashionable. The
other partner, Rodney Michel, a veteran of World War II, was also ^ tremely liberal. He was a pilot, and years later helped fly ANC pc out of South Africa during the worst periods of repression. Michels ^ discernible vice was that he was a heavy smoker who puffed on
cigarette after another all day long at the office.
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 129
ved at Helman and Michel for a number of months while I was
. for my qualification exam, which would establish me as a fully- st^ d attorney. I had given up studying for an LL.B. degree at the e & jj-y of the Witwatersrand after failing my exams several times. I
j .0 raJ<e the qualifying exam so that I could practice and begin to
enough money to support my family. At the time, my sister was i ,' (t with us, and my mother had come to visit, and Evelyn's wages as
urse trainee plus my own paltry income were not enough to keep
everyone warm and fed.
When I passed the qualification exam, I went to work as a fully-fledged
attorney at the firm of H. M. Basner. Basner had been an African Representative
in the Senate, an early member of the Communist Party, and
a passionate supporter of African rights. As a lawyer, he was a defender
of African leaders and trade unionists. For the months that I worked
there I was often in court representing the firm's many African clients.
Mr. Basner was an excellent boss and as long as I got my work done at
the firm he encouraged my political work. After the experience I gained
there, I felt ready to go off on my own.
In August of 1952, I opened my own law office. What early success I
enjoyed I owed to Zubeida Patel, my secretary. I had met her when she
had gone to work at H. M. Basner as a replacement for an Afrikaansspeaking
secretary. Miss Koch, who had refused to take my dictation.
Zubeida was the wife of my friend Cassim Patel, a member of the Indian
Congress, and she was without any sense of color bar whatsoever. She
had a wide circle of friends, knew many people in the legal world, and
when I went out on my own, she agreed to work for me. She brought a
great deal of business through the door.
Oliver Tambo was then working for a firm called Kovalsky and Tuch.
°ften visited him there during his lunch hour, and made a point of
sitting m a Whites Only chair in the Whites Only waiting room. Oliver
1 were very good friends, and we mainly discussed ANC business ""ng those lunch hours. He had first impressed me at Fort Hare, where notlced his thoughtful intelligence and sharp debating skills. With his
, °g'cal style he could demolish an opponent's argument -- precisely
he h80" °^ '"^hgence Aat 1s useful in a courtroom. Before Fort Hare,
'cm a " a ^ri^^l student at St. Peter's in Johannesburg. His even' °bjcctivity was an antidote to my more emotional reactions to
rriin., er ^s deeply religious and had for a long time considered the
in ? , l0 uc his calling. He was also a neighbor: he came from Bizana 'if),. ^od, part of the Transkei, and his face bore the distinctive scars
hii^ . e- It seemed natural for us to practice together and I asked Joln me. A few months later, when Oliver was able to extricate
130 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
himself from his firm, we opened our own office in downtown Jorn
burg.
"Mandela and Tambo" read the brass plate on our office door in Chancell
House, a small building just across the street from the marble statue
justice standing in front of the Magistrate's Court in central Johannesbii
Our building, owned by Indians, was one of the few places where Africa
could rent offices in the city. From the beginning, Mandela and Tamhn
was besieged with clients. We were not the only African lawyers in South
Africa, but we were the only firm of African lawyers. For Africans we
were the firm of first choice and last resort. To reach our offices each
morning, we had to move through a crowd of people in the hallways on
the stairs, and in our small waiting room.
Africans were desperate for legal help in government buildings: it was
a crime to walk through a Whites Only door, a crime to ride a Whites
Only bus, a crime to use a Whites Only drinking fountain, a crime to
walk on a Whites Only beach, a crime to be on the streets past eleven, a
crime not to have a pass book and a crime to have the wrong signature
in that book, a crime to be unemployed and a crime to be employed in
the wrong place, a crime to live in certain places and a crime to have no
place to live.
Every week we interviewed old men from the countryside who told
us that generation after generation of their family had worked a scraggly
piece of land from which they were now being evicted. Every week we
interviewed old women who brewed African beer as a way to supplement
their tiny incomes, who now faced jail terms and fines they could not
afford to pay. Every week we interviewed people who had lived in the same house for decades only to find that it was now declared a white area
and they had to leave without any recompense at all. Every day we heard
and saw the thousands of humiliations that ordinary Africans confronted
every day of their lives.
Oliver had a prodigious capacity for work. He spent a great deal of tirn
with each client, not so much for professional reasons but because he v^ a man of limitless compassion and patience. He became involved in
clients' cases and in their lives. He was touched by the plight of the mass
as a whole and by each and every individual. /.
as
I realized quickly what Mandela and Tambo meant to ordinary ^ cans. It was a place where they could come and find a sympatheti ^ and a competent ally, a place where they would not be either turne ^ or cheated, a place where they might actually feel proud to be repre5 ^ by men of their own skin color. This was the reason I had w
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 131
in the first place, and my work often made me feel I had made the
he dec1510"" r w often dealt with a half-dozen cases in a morning, and were in and
nf court all day long. In some courts we were treated with courtesy;
rhers we were treated with contempt. But even as we practiced and
ht and won cases, we always knew that no matter how well we pursued
r careers as attorneys, we could never become a prosecutor, a magistrate,
udee. Although we were dealing with officials whose competence was
no greater than our own, their authority was founded on and protected by the color of their skin.
We frequently encountered prejudice in the court itself. White witnesses
often refused to answer questions from a black attorney. Instead
of citing them for contempt of court, the magistrate would then pose the
questions they would not answer from me. I routinely put policemen on
the stand and interrogated them; though I would catch them in discrepancies
and lies, they never considered me anything but a "kaffir lawyer."
I recall once being asked at the outset of a trial to identify myself. This
was customary. I said, "I am Nelson Mandela and I appear for the accused."
The magistrate said, "I don't know you. Where is your certificate?"
A certificate is the fancy diploma that one frames and hangs on the wall;
it is not something that an attorney ever carries with him. It would be
like asking a man for his university degree. I requested that the magistrate
begin the case, and I would bring in my certificate in due course. But the
magistrate refused to hear the case, even going so far as to ask a court
officer to evict me.
This was a clear violation of court practice. The matter eventually came hrfore the Supreme Court and my friend George Bizos, an advocate, Speared on my behalf. At the hearing, the presiding judge criticized the conduct of the magistrate and ordered that a different magistrate must
"ear the case.
"eing a lawyer did not guarantee respect out of court either. One day, earour office, I saw an elderly white woman whose motorcar was sand- c e "otween two cars. I immediately went over and pushed the car,
helped free it. The Enelish-speaking woman turned to me and
said "tl i o r &
anvAc ^ou' ^°hn"--J°hn being the name whites used to address ^ rlcan whose name they did not know. She then handed me a
^ai "" coln' whllch J politely refused. She pushed it toward me, and
You sald n0 thank you. She then exclaimed, "You refuse a sixpence. ^in ';>t want a Filing, but you shall not have it!" and then threw the
With"^ and drove off-
w'e we in a ^ear' o[ivcr and I discovered that under the Urban Areas Act not permitted to occupy business premises in the city without
132 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ministerial consent. Our request was denied, and we received ins^e d
temporary permit, under the Group Areas Act, which soon expired Th3 authorities refused to renew it, insisting that we move our offices to
African location many miles away and virtually unreachable for our client
We inierpieted this as an effort by the authorities to put us out ofbusines
and occupied our premises illegally, with threats of eviction constant!' hanging over our heads.
Working as a lawyer in South Africa meant operating under a debased
system of justice, a code of law that did not enshrine equality but its
opposite. One of the most pernicious examples of this is the Population
Registration Act, which defined that inequality. I once handled the case
of a Coloured man who was inadvertently classified as an African. He
had fouglit for South Africa during World War II in North Africa and
Italy, bui after his return, a white bureaucrat had reclassified him as
African, fhis was the type of case, not at all untypical in South Africa
that offeied a moral jigsaw puzzle. I did not support or recognize the
principles in the Population Registration Act, but my client needed representation,
and he had been classified as something he was not. There
were many practical advantages to being classified as Coloured rather than
African, such as the fact that Coloured men were not required to carry
passes.
On his behalf, I appealed to the Classification Board, which adjudicated
cases fating under the Population Registration Act. The board consisted
of a magistrate and two other officials, all white. I had formidable documentaiy
evidence to establish my client's case and the prosecutor formally
indicated that he would not oppose our appeal. But the magistrate seemed
uninterested in both my evidence and the prosecutor's demurral. He stared
at my dent and gruffly asked him to turn around so that his back faced
the bench. After scrutinizing my client's shoulders, which sloped down
sharply, he nodded to the other officials and upheld the appeal. In the
view of the white authorities those days, sloping shoulders were one
stereotype of the Coloured physique. And so it came about that the course
of this nan's life was decided purely on a magistrate's opinion about
structuie of his shoulders.
We tried many cases involving police brutality, though our success ra
was quite low. Police assaults were always difficult to prove. The po
were clwer enough to detain a prisoner long enough for the woun s. bruises to heal, and often it was simply the word of a policeman ag. ^ our cliait. The magistrates naturally sided with the police. The coro' ^ verdicton a death in police custody would often read, "Death due to' ^ tiple causes," or some vague explanation that let the police off the ^
Whmever I had a case outside Johannesburg, I applied to
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 133
noorarily lifted, and this was often granted. For example, I traveled
, , astern Transvaal, and defended a client in the town of Carolina. ^ rrival caused quite a sensation, as many of the people had never ',. geen an African lawyer. I was received warmly by the magistrate
A nrosecutor, and the case did not begin for quite a while, as they asked
numerous questions about my career and how I became a lawyer. The ^urt was similarly crowded with curious townspeople.
In a nearby village I appeared for a local medicine man charged with
vitchcraft. This case also attracted a large crowd -- not to see me, but
r^j put whether the white man's laws could be applied to a sangoma. The medicine man exerted tremendous power in the area, and many people
both worshipped and feared him. At one point, my client sneezed violently
causing a virtual stampede in the courtroom; most observers believed
he was casting a spell. He was found not guilty, but I suspect that
the local people attributed this not to my skill as a lawyer, but to the
power of the medicine man's herbs.
As an attorney, I could be rather flamboyant in court. I did not act as
though I were a black man in a white man's court, but as if everyone
else -- white and black -- was a guest in my court. When trying a case,
I often made sweeping gestures and used high-flown language. I was
punctilious about all court regulations, but I sometimes used unorthodox
tactics with witnesses. I enjoyed cross-examinations, and often played on
racial tension. The spectators' gallery was usually crowded, because people
from the township attended court as a form of entertainment.
I recall once defending an African woman employed as a domestic
worker in town. She was accused of stealing her "madam's" clothes. The
clothing that was allegedly stolen was displayed on a table in court. After "ie madam" had testified, I began my cross-examination by walking over
to the table of evidence. I perused the clothing and then, with the tip of "V pencil, I picked up an item of ladies' underwear. I slowly turned to the wltn^s box brandishing the panties and simply asked, "Madam, are
rh^il ^c)urs?" "No," she replied quickly, too embarrassed to admit
at they were hers. Because of this response, and other discrepancies in ^ evidence, the magistrate dismissed the case.
17
facc^^0 ^UR MILES WEST of Johannesburg's center, on the
°^Sonh' roc outcroP overlooking the city, was the African township ^cnds latown' ^hcr Trevor Huddleston, one of the township's greatest
nce compared Sophiatown to an Italian hill town and from a
134 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
distance the place did indeed have a good deal of charm: the
packed, red-roofed houses; the smoke curling up into a pink sky n ^ ,n
and slender gum trees that hugged the township. Up close one ^jv\ ^.
poverty and squalor in which too many ofSophiatown's people lived. The
streets were narrow and unpaved, and every lot was filled with dozens of
shanties huddled close together.
Sophiatown was part of what was known as the Western Areas townships,
along with Martindale and Newclare. The area was originally intended
for whites, and a real estate developer actually built a number of
houses there for white buyers. But because of a municipal refuse dump
in the area, whites chose to live elsewhere. Reluctantly, the developer sold
his houses to Africans. Sophiatown was one of the few places in the
Transvaal where Africans had been able to buy stands, or plots, prior to
the 1923 Urban Areas Act. Many of these old brick and stone houses
with their tin-roofed verandas, still stood in Sophiatown, giving the township
an air of Old World graciousness. As industry in Johannesburg grew,
Sophiatown became the home of a rapidly expanding African workforce.
It was convenient and close to town. Workers lived in shanties that were
erected in the back and front yards of older residences. Several families
might all be crowded into a single shanty. Up to forty people could share
a single water tap. Despite the poverty, Sophiatown had a special character;
for Africans, it was the Left Bank in Paris, Greenwich Village in New
York, the home of writers, artists, doctors, and lawyers. It was both
bohemian and conventional, lively and sedate. It was home to both Dr.
Xuma, where he had his practice, and assorted tsotsis (gangsters), like the
Berliners and the Americans, who adopted the names of American movie
stars like John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart. Sophiatown boasted the
only swimming pool for African children in Johannesburg.
In Johannesburg, the Western Areas Removal scheme meant the evacuation
of Sophiatown, Martindale, and Newclare, with a collective population
that was somewhere between 60,000 and 100,000. In i953. ^ Nationalist government had purchased a tract of land called Meadowlands.
thirteen miles from the city. People were to be resettled there in seven
different "ethnic groups." The excuse given by the government \vas slum
clearance, a smokescreen for the government policy that regarded .ill urban
areas as white areas where Africans were temporary residents.
The government was under pressure from its supporters in t!K su
rounding areas of Westdene and Newlands, which were compelatl\e,
poor white areas. These working-class whites were envious of some
the fine houses owned by blacks in Sophiatown. The government ^nte to control the movements of all Africans, and such control was tar n'10
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 135
^fficult in freehold urban townships, where blacks could own property,
j people came and went as they pleased. Though the pass system was
'11 in effect, one did not need a special permit to enter a freehold township
was the case with municipal locations. Africans had lived and owned
noertv in Sophiatown for over fifty years; now the government was
allouslv planning on relocating all Sophiatown's African residents to
another black township. So cynical was the government's plan that the
removal was to take place even before the houses were built to accommodate
the evacuated people. The removal of Sophiatown was the first major
test of strength for the ANC and its allies after the Defiance Campaign.
Although the government's removal campaign for Sophiatown had
started in 1950, efforts by the ANC to combat it did not begin in earnest
until 195?. By the middle of the year, the local branches of the ANC and
the TIC and the local Ratepayers Association were mobilizing people to
resist. In June of 1953, a public meeting was called by the provincial
executive of the ANC and the TIC at Sophiatown's Odin cinema to discuss
opposition to the removal. It was a lively, exuberant meeting attended by
more than twelve hundred people, none of whom seemed intimidated by
the presence of dozens of heavily armed policemen.
Only a few days before the meeting, my banning orders, as well as
Walter's, had expired. This meant that we were no longer prevented from
attending or speaking at gatherings, and arrangements were quickly made
for me to speak at the theater.
Shortly before the meeting was to begin, a police officer saw Walter
and me outside the cinema talking with Father Huddleston, one of the
leaders of the opposition to the removal. The officer informed the two
of us that as banned individuals we had no right to be there, and he then
ordered his officers to arrest us. Father Huddleston shouted to the policemen
coming toward us, "No, you must arrest me instead, my dears."
The officer ordered Father Huddleston to stand aside, but he refused. As "e policemen moved Father Huddleston out of the way, I said to the
officer, "You must make sure if we are under a ban or not. Be careful,
cause it would be a wrongful arrest to take us in if our bans have ^pired. Now, do you think we would be here tonight talking to you if ""r bans had not expired?"
e police were notorious for keeping very poor records and were
^ten unaware when bans ended. The officer knew this as well as I did. ^e pondered what I had said, then told his officers to pull back. They
°°d a-idc as we entered the hall.
Pisr 1s1 e' ^ P0^^ were provocative and contemptuous. Equipped with t^ ,.s anc* rifles, they strutted around the hall pushing people around, S insulting remarks. I was sitting onstage with a number of other
136 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
leaders, and as the meeting was about to begin, I saw Major PrinsI
come swaggering in through the stage door, accompanied by a numh
of armed officers. I caught his eye, and I made a gesture as if to saw "Me?"
and he shook his head no. He then walked over to the podium whe
YusufCachalia had already begun to speak, and ordered the other office
to arrest him, whereupon they took him by the arms and started to drao- him off. Outside, the police had already arrested Robert Resha and Ahrned
Kathrada.
The crowd began yelling and booing, and I saw that matters could
turn extremely ugly if the crowd did not control itself. I jumped to the
podium and started singing a well-known protest song, and as soon as I
pronounced the first few words the crowd joined in. I feared that the
police might have opened fire if the crowd had become too unruly.
The ANC was then holding meetings every Sunday evening in Freedom
Square, in the center of Sophiatown, to mobilize opposition to the removal.
These were vibrant sessions, punctuated by repeated cries of "Asihambi!" (We are not moving!) and the singing of "Sophiatown likhaya lam
asihambi" (Sophiatown is my home; we are not moving). The meetings
were addressed by leading ANC members, standholders, tenants, city
councillors, and often by Father Huddleston, who ignored police warnings
to confine himself to church affairs.
One Sunday evening, not long after the incident at the Odin, I was
scheduled to speak in Freedom Square. The crowd that night was passionate,
and their emotion undoubtedly influenced mine. There were a
great many young people present, and they were angry and eager for
action. As usual, policemen were clustered around the perimeter, armed
with both guns and pencils, the latter to take notes as to who was speaking
and what the speaker was saying. We tried to make this into a virtue by
being as open with the police as possible to show them that in fact we
had nothing to hide, not even our distaste for them.
I began by speaking about the increasing repressiveness of the government
in the wake of the Defiance Campaign. I said the government was
now scared of the might of the African people. As I spoke, I grew more
and more indignant. In those days, I was something of a rabble-rousing
speaker. I liked to incite an audience, and I was doing so that evening-
As I condemned the government for its ruthlessness and lawlessness,
I stepped across the line: I said that the time for passive resistance "a ended, that nonviolence was a useless strategy and could never overtu
a white minority regime bent on retaining its power at any cost. At
end of the day, I said, violence was the only weapon that would destro)
apartheid and we must be prepared, in the near future, to use that weap
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 137
The crowd was excited; the youth in particular were clapping and
ine They were ready to act on what I said right then and there. At c p,nt I began to sing a freedom song, the lyrics of which say, "There
i-he enemies, let us take our weapons and attack them." I sang this ^ the crowd joined in, and when the song was finished, I pointed
rhe police and said, "There, there are our enemies!" The crowd again
farted cheering and made aggressive gestures in the direction of the
nnlice. The police looked nervous, and a number of them pointed back
at me as if to say, "Mandela, we will get you for this." I did not mind.
In the hear of the moment I did not think of the consequences.
But my words that night did not come out of nowhere. I had been
thinking of the future. The government was busily taking measures to
prevent anything like the Defiance Campaign from reoccurring. I had
begun to analyze the struggle in different terms. The ambition of the
ANC was to wage a mass struggle, to engage the workers and peasants
of South Africa in a campaign so large and powerful that it might overcome
the status quo of white oppression. But the Nationalist government
was making any legal expression of dissent or protest impossible. I saw
that they would ruthlessly suppress any legitimate protest on the part of
the African majority. A police state did not seem far off.
I began to suspect that both legal and extra-constitutional protests
would soon be impossible. In India, Gandhi had been dealing with a
foreign power that ultimately was more realistic and farsighted. That was
not the case with the Afrikaners in South Africa. Nonviolent passive
resistance is effective as long as your opposition adheres to the same rules
as you do. But if peaceful protest is met with violence, its efficacy is at
an end. For me, nonviolence was not a moral principle but a strategy;
there is no moral goodness in using an ineffective weapon. But my
thoughts on this matter were not yet formed, and I had spoken too soon.
That was certainly the view of the National Executive Committee.
"hen they learned of my speech, I was severely reprimanded for advocating
such a radical departure from accepted policy. Although some on
e executive sympathized with my remarks, no one could support the "temperate way that I had made them. The executive admonished me, " ln^ mat the impulsive policy I had called for was not only premature
angerous. Such speeches could provoke the enemy to crush the
g nizarion entirely while the enemy was strong and we were as yet still
accepted the censure, and thereafter faithfully defended the policy
not ^v10 ce m P"^1*-'- ^ut in try heart, I knew that nonviolence was - ^e answer.
19, those ^Y^ z was often in hot water with the executive. In early
' ^efLuthuli, Z. K. Matthews, and a handful of other high-ranking
138 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ANC leaders were invited to a meeting with a group of whites \\ ho \i >
in the process of forming the Liberal Party. A meeting of the ANr
executive took place afterward at which a few of us asked for a report if the earlier meeting with the white liberals. The attendees refused, sa\ in
that they had been invited in their private capacity, not as members of
the ANC. We continued to pester them, and finally Professor Matthews
who was a lawyer, said that it had been a privileged conversation. In a fir
of indignation, I said, "What kind of leaders are you who can discuss
matters with a group of white liberals and then not share that information
with your colleagues at the ANC? That's the trouble with you, you are
scared and overawed of the white man. You value his company more than
that of your African comrades."
This outburst provoked the wrath of both Professor Matthews and
Chief Luthuli. First, Professor Matthews responded: "Mandela, what do
you know about whites? I taught you whatever you know about whites
and you are still ignorant. Even now, you are barely out of your student
uniform.'1'' Luthuli was burning with a cold fire and said, "All right, if
you are accusing me of being afraid of the white man then I have no
other recourse but to resign. If that is what you say then that is what I
intend to do." I did not know whether Luthuli was bluffing or not, but
his threat frightened me. I had spoken hastily, without thinking, without
a sense of responsibility, and I now greatly regretted it. I immediately
withdrew my charge and apologized. I was a young man who attempted
to make up for his ignorance with militancy.
At the same time as my speech in Sophiatown, Walter informed me that
he had been invited to attend the World Festival of Youth and Students
for Peace and Friendship in Bucharest as a guest of honor. The timing
of the invitation gave Walter virtually no opportunity to consult with the
National Executive Committee. I was keen that he should go and encouraged
him to do so, whether or not he conferred with the executive.
Walter resolved to go and I helped him arrange for a substitute passport, an affidavit stating his identity and citizenship. (The government would
never have issued him a proper passport.) The group, which was heade
by Walter Sisulu and Duma Nokwe, traveled on the only airline that would accept such an affidavit: the Israeli airline. El Al.
I was convinced, despite my reprimand from the executive, that t
policies of the Nationalists would soon make nonviolence an even mo
limited and ineffective policy. Walter was privy to my thoughts and ^ fore he left, I made a suggestion: he should arrange to visit the Pcop
Republic of China and discuss with them the possibility of supply^
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 139
,-t.h weapons for an armed struggle. Walter liked the idea and promised
^makc the attempt.
This action was taken purely on my own and my methods were highly
orthodox. To some extent, they were the actions of a hotheaded revInrionarv
who had not thought things through and who acted without
tisciplins- They were the actions of a man frustrated with the immorality if apartheid and the ruthlessness of the state in protecting it.
Walter's visit caused a storm within the executive. I undertook the task
of personally conveying his apologies. I did not mention my secret request.
Luthuli objected to the flouting of the ANC's code of conduct, and
Professor Matthews expressed dismay about Walter visiting socialist countries.
The executive was skeptical about Walter's motives, and questioned my explanation of the circumstances. A few wanted to formally censure
Walter and me, but in the end did not.
Walter managed to reach China, where the leadership received him
warmly. They conveyed their support of our struggle, but they were wary
and cautious when he broached the idea of an armed struggle. They
warned him that an armed struggle was an extremely grave undertaking
and they questioned whether the liberation movement had matured sufficiently
to justify such an endeavor. Walter came back with encouragement
but no guns.
18
IN JOHANNESBURG, I had become a man of the city I wore smart
suits; I drove a colossal Oldsmobile, and I knew my way around the back ^ys of the city. I commuted daily to a downtown office. But in fact I remained a country boy at heart, and there was nothing that lifted my ^irits as much as blue skies, the open veld, and green grass. In September, "V bans ended, I decided to take advantage of my freedom and get
respite from the city. I took on a case in the little dorp of Villiers in "e Orange Free State.
c urlve to the Orange Free State from Johannesburg used to take
a hours, and I set out on my journey from Orlando at 3 a.m., which
and wa^ m^ ^avonte hour for departure. I am an early riser anyway,
°ne' i3 A M' ^ "^^ are Gmpty and quiet, and one can be alone with
and Dr-011^5".l lil pounds to see ttle ^"""g of dawn, the change between day ^'Parr011^ ^'^ is slways majestic. It was also a convenient hour for
Th re use the police were usually nowhere to be found.
province of the Orange Free State has always had a magical effect
^
140 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
on me, though some of the most racist elements of the white popular
call the Free State its home. With its flat dusty landscape as far as the
can see, the great blue ceiling above, the endless stretches of yellow meal
fields, scrub and bushes, the Free State's landscape gladdens my heart
matter what my mood. When I am there I feel like nothing can shut rn
in, that my thoughts can roam as far and wide as the horizons.
The landscape bore the imprint of General Charles R. De Wet th
gifted Boer commander who outclassed the British in dozens of engaeements
during the final months of the Anglo-Boer War; fearless, proud
and shrewd, he would have been one of my heroes had he been fishtine
for the rights of all South Africans, not just Afrikaners. He demonstrated
the courage and resourcefulness of the underdog, and the power of a less
sophisticated but patriotic army against a tested war machine. As I drove
I imagined the hiding places of General De Wet's army and wondered
whether they would someday shelter African rebels.
The drive to Villiers cheered me considerably, and I was laboring under
a false sense of security when I entered the small courthouse on the
morning of the third of September. I found a group of policemen waiting
for me. With nary a word, they served me with an order under the
Suppression of Communism Act requiring me to resign from the ANC,
restricting me to the Johannesburg district, and prohibiting me from
attending any meetings or gatherings for two years. I knew such measures
would come, but I had not expected to receive my bans in the remote
town of Villiers.
I was thirty-five years old and these new and more severe bans ended
a period of nearly a decade of involvement with the ANC, years that had
been the time of my political awakening and growth, and my gradual
commitment to the struggle that had become my life. Henceforth, all of
my actions and plans on behalf of the ANC and the liberation struggle
would become secret and illegal. Once served, I had to return to Johannesburg
immediately.
My bans drove me from the center of the struggle to the sideline from a role that was primary to one that was peripheral. Though I v3 often consulted and was able to influence the direction of events, I d1 so at a distance and only when expressly asked. I no longer felt like a vit
organ of the body -- the heart, lungs, or backbone -- but a severed lim
Even freedom fighters, at least then, had to obey the laws, and at t a
point, imprisonment for violating my bans would have been useless
the ANC and to myself. We were not yet at the point where \ve \\t ^ open revolutionaries, overtly fighting the system no matter what th^ c We believed then that it was better to organize underground than to e to prison. When I was forced to resign from the ANC, the organiz311
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 141
j _ replace me, and no matter what I might have liked, I could no r wield the authority I once possessed. While driving back to Jonesburg,
the Free State scenery did not have quite the same elevating effect on me as before.
19
^ffi^ I RECEIVED my banning, the Transvaal conference of the
ANC was due to be held the following month, and I had already completed
the draft of my presidential address. It was read to the conference
by Andrew Kunene, a member of the executive. In that speech, which
subsequently became known as "The No Easy Walk to Freedom" speech,
a line taken from Jawaharlal Nehru, I said that the masses now had to be
prepared for new forms of political struggle. The new laws and tactics
of the government had made the old forms of mass protest -- public
meetings, press statements, stay-aways -- extremely dangerous and selfdestructive.
Newspapers would not publish our statements; printing
presses refused to print our leaflets, all for fear of prosecution under the
Suppression of Communism Act. "These developments," I wrote, "require
the evolution of new forms of political struggle. The old methods," I said,
were now "suicidal."
"The oppressed people and the oppressors are at loggerheads. The day
of reckoning between the forces of freedom and those of reaction is not
very far off. I have not the slightest doubt that when that day comes truth
and justice will prevail. . . . The feelings of the oppressed people have
never been more bitter. The grave plight of the people compels them to
resist to the death the stinking policies of the gangsters that rule our
country. ... To overthrow oppression has been sanctioned by humanity an(! is the highest aspiration of every free man."
" '^P"1 ^1954, the Law Society of the Transvaal applied to the Supreme
urt for my name to be struck off the roll of accredited attorneys on
n ^round tnat the political activities for which I was convicted in the ^ce case amounted to unprofessional and dishonorable conduct. This ^ ""ed at a time when Mandela and Tambo was flourishing and I was
°urt dozens of times a week.
again e ^^ents were served at my office, and as soon as the application
supon nle ^ad been made and publicized, I began to receive offers of
knouJ ^d ^P' J even '"eceived offers of help from a number of well'^ion
I "l^aner ^^ers. Many of these men were supporters of the Sfty, but they believed that the application was biased and
I; t1,
142 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
unfair. Their response suggested to me that even in racist South Afr '
professional solidarity can sometimes transcend color, and that there we
still attorneys and judges who refused to be the rubber stamps of
immoral regime.
My case was ably defended by advocate Walter Pollack, Q.C., chairma
of the Johannesburg Bar Council. At the time that I retained Walte
Pollack, I was advised that I should also retain someone who \\'as nor
connected with the struggle, as that would positively influence the Transvaal
bar. To that end, we retained William Aaronsohn, as instructing attorney or barrister, who was head of one of the oldest law firms in
Johannesburg. Both men acted for me without charge. We argued that
the application was an affront to the idea of justice and that I had an
inherent right to fight for my political beliefs, which was the right of all
men in a state where the rule of law applied.
But the argument that had great weight was Pollack's use of the case
of a man called Strijdom, who was detained during the Second World
War together with B. J. Vorster (who later became prime minister). Both
were interned for their pro-Nazi stance. Following a failed escape attempt,
Strijdom had been found guilty of car theft. Later, after he was released,
he applied to the bar for admission as an advocate. Despite his crimes
and strong objections from the Bar Council, the court decided to admit
him on the ground that his offense was political and that a man cannot
be barred from practicing as an advocate for his political beliefs. Pollack
said, "There are of course differences between Strijdom and Mandela.
Mandela is not a Nationalist and Mandela is not a white."
Judge Ramsbottom, who heard the case, was an example of a judge
who refused to be a mouthpiece for the Nationalists and upheld the
independence of the judiciary. His judgment in the case completely upheld
our claim that I had a right to campaign for my political beliefs even
though they were opposed to the government, and he dismissed the Law
Society's application. And in a rare instance the Law Society was ordered
to pay its own costs.
20
THE ANTIREMOVAL CAMPAIGN in Sophiatown was a long^ running battle. We held our ground, as did the state. Through 1954 an into 1955, rallies were held twice a week, on Wednesday and Sun ^ evenings. Speaker after speaker continued to decry the government s p
The ANC and the Ratepayers Association, under the direction "I ^ Xuma, protested to the government in letters and petitions. We ran
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 143
.. -mo\ al campaign on the slogan "Over Our Dead Bodies," a motto
shouted from the platforms and echoed by the audience. One night,
,. .n roused the otherwise cautious Dr. Xuma to utter the electrifying
i an used to rally African warriors to battle in the previous century:
^7emV inkomo magwalandini!" (The enemy has captured the cattle, you
cowards!)
The government had scheduled the removal for February 9, 1955. As
rhe day approached, Oliver and I were in the township daily, meeting
local leaders, discussing plans, and acting in our professional capacity for
those being forced out of the area or prosecuted. We sought to prove to
the court that the government's documentation was often incorrect and
that many orders to leave were therefore illegal. But this was only a
temporary measure; the government would not let a few illegalities stand
in their way.
Shortly before the scheduled removal, a special mass meeting was
planned for Freedom Square. Ten thousand people gathered to hear Chief
Luthuli speak. But upon his arrival in Johannesburg, he was served with
a banning order forcing him to return to Natal.
The night before the removal, Joe Modise, one of the most dedicated of
the local ANC leaders, addressed a tense meeting of more than five
hundred youthful activists. They expected the ANC to give them an order
to battle the police and the army. They were prepared to erect barricades
overnight and engage the police with weapons and whatever came to hand
the next day. They assumed our slogan meant what it said: that Sophiatown
would be removed only over our dead bodies.
But after discussions with the ANC leadership, including myself, Joe
told the youth to stand down. They were angry and felt betrayed. But
\\e "Sieved that violence would have been a disaster. We pointed out that
an. '"^rrection required careful planning or it would become an act of
^icide. We were not yet ready to engage the enemy on its own terms.
n the hazy dawn hours of February 9, four thousand police and army
°°ps cordoned off the township while workers razed empty houses and
oovernrnent trucks began moving families from Sophiatown to Meadands.
The night before, the ANC had evacuated several families to
^arranged accommodation with pro-ANC families in the interior of
b1 latown- But our efforts were too little and too late, and could only
Afte "^P ""^a^re- The army and the police were relentlessly efficient.
^'en h lew wee*"' our resistance collapsed. Most of our local leaders had
""und (aTOed or arrested' and in me cnd. Sophiatown died not to the
q gunfire but to the sound of rumbling trucks and sledgehammers.
can ^ays be correct about a political action one is reading about
144 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in the next day's newspaper, but when you are in the center of a hea
political fight, you are given little time for reflection. We made a varied
of mistakes in the Western Areas antiremoval campaign and learned
number of lessons. "Over Our Dead Bodies" was a dynamic slogan h
it proved as much a hindrance as a help. A slogan is a vital link betwe
the organization and the masses it seeks to lead. It should synthesize
particular grievance into a succinct and pithy phrase, while mobilizing the people to combat it. Our slogan caught the imagination of the people
but it led them to believe that we would fight to the death to resist the
removal. In fact, the ANC was not prepared to do that at all.
We never provided the people with an alternative to moving to Meadowlands.
When the people in Sophiatown realized we could neither stop
the government nor provide them with housing elsewhere, their own
resistance waned and the flow of people to Meadowlands increased. Many tenants moved willingly, for they found they would have more space and
cleaner housing in Meadowlands. We did not take into account the different
situations of landlords and tenants. While the landlords had reasons
to stay, many tenants had an incentive to leave. The ANC was criticized
by a number of Africanist members who accused the leadership of protecting
the interests of the landlords at the expense of the tenants.
The lesson I took away from the campaign was that in the end, we
had no alternative to armed and violent resistance. Over and over again,
we had used all the nonviolent weapons in our arsenal -- speeches, deputations,
threats, marches, strikes, stay-aways, voluntary imprisonment --
all to no avail, for whatever we did was met by an iron hand. A freedom
fighter learns the hard way that it is the oppressor who defines the nature
of the struggle, and the oppressed is often left no recourse but to use
methods that mirror those of the oppressor. At a certain point, one can
only fight fire with fire.
Education is the great engine of personal development. It is through
education that the daughter of a peasant can become a doctor, that the
son of a mineworker can become the head of the mine, that a child °
farmworkers can become the president of a great nation. It is what v make out of what we have, not what we are given, that separates one
person from another.
Since the turn of the century, Africans owed their educational opp°
tunities primarily to the foreign churches and missions that created
sponsored schools. Under the United Party, the syllabus for African s
ondary schools and white secondary schools was essentially the same- mission schools provided Africans with Western-style English-lang" &
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 145
, ^Ťon which I myself received. We were limited by lesser facilities
^ by what we could read or think or dream.
Yet even before the Nationalists came to power, the disparities in fi nding tell a story of racist education. The government spent about six
mes as much per white student as per African student. Education was
compulsory for Africans and was free only in the primary grades.
, j^^n half of all African children of school age attended any school -y and only a tiny number of Africans were graduated from high
school.
Even this amount of education proved distasteful to the Nationalists.
The Afrikaner has always been unenthusiastic about education for Africans.
To him it was simply a waste, for the African was inherently ignorant
and lazy and no amount of education could remedy that. The Afrikaner
was traditionally hostile to Africans learning English, for English was a
foreign tongue to the Afrikaner and the language of emancipation to us.
In 1953, the Nationalist-dominated Parliament passed the Bantu Education
Act, which sought to put apartheid's stamp on African education.
The act transferred control of African education from the Department of
Education to the much loathed Native Affairs Department. Under the
act, African primary and secondary schools operated by the church and
mission bodies were given the choice of turning over their schools to the
government or receiving gradually diminished subsidies; either the government
took over education for Africans or there would be no education
for Africans. African teachers were not permitted to criticize the government
or any school authority. It was intellectual "basskap," a way of institutionalizing
inferiority.
Dr. Hendrik Verwoerd, the minister of Bantu education, explained mat education "must train and teach people in accordance with their
°Pportunities in life." His meaning was that Africans did not and would not have any opportunities, therefore, why educate them? "There is no
P ace for the Bantu in the European community above the level of certain
onus of labor," he said. In short, Africans should be trained to be menial
orkers, to be in a position of perpetual subordination to the white man.
o the ANC, the act was a deeply sinister measure designed to retard
set i^0^1^ °^ African culture as a whole and, if enacted, permanently
of llf the freedom ''truggle of the African people. The mental outlook ^ uture generations of Africans was at stake. As Professor Matthews
^ocrri'^ tlme' "^ucatlon for ignorance and for inferiority in Ver-
schools is worse than no education at all."
indicm act an<^ Verwoerd's crude exposition of it aroused widespread on ^m both black and white. With the exception of the Dutch
----Hi
146 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Reform Church, which supported apartheid, and the Lutheran miss
all Christian churches opposed the new measure. But the unity of rh
opposition extended only to condemning the policy, not resistin" it Th
Anglicans, the most fearless and consistent critics of the new policy h d
a divided policy. Bishop Ambrose Reeves of Johannesburg took the ex
treme step of closing his schools, which had a total enrollment of ten
thousand children. But the archbishop of the church in South Africa
anxious to keep children out of the streets, handed over the rest of the
schools to the government. Despite their protests, all the other churches
did the same with the exception of the Roman Catholics, the SeventhDay
Adventists, and the United Jewish Reform Congregation--who
soldiered on without state aid. Even my own church, the Wesleyan Church
handed over their two hundred thousand African students to the government.
If all the other churches had followed the example of those who
resisted, the government would have been confronted with a stalemate
that might have forced a compromise. Instead, the state marched over us.
The transfer of control to the Native Affairs Department was set to take
place on April i, 1955, and the ANC began to discuss plans for a school
boycott that would begin on that date. Our secret discussions among the
executive turned on whether we should call on the people to stage a
protest for a limited period or whether we should proclaim a permanent
school boycott to destroy the Bantu Education Act before it could take
root. The discussions were fierce and both sides had forceful advocates.
The argument for an indefinite boycott was that Bantu Education was a
poison one could not drink even at the point of death from thirst. To
accept it in any form would cause irreparable damage. They argued that
the country was in an explosive mood and the people were hungry tor
something more spectacular than a mere protest.
Although I had the reputation of being a firebrand, I always felt that
the organization should never promise to do more than it was able, tor
the people would then lose confidence in it. I took the stance that our
actions should be based not on idealistic considerations but on practical
ones. An indefinite boycott would require massive machinery and was
resources that we did not possess, and our past campaigns showed no
indication that we were up to such an undertaking. It was simply un possible for us to create our own schools fast enough to accommoda
hundreds of thousands of pupils, and if we did not offer our peop^ alternative, we were offering next to nothing. Along with others, I "'"B a week's boycott. [
The National Executive Committee resolved that a weeklong sc
boycott should begin on April i. This was recommended at the an
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 147
t'-rence in Durban in December of 1954, but the delegates rejected the L -imendation and voted for an indefinite boycott. The conference was r .uprernc authority, even greater than the executive, and we found
celves saddled with a boycott that would be almost impossible to effect.
Verwoerd announced that the government would permanently close
ll schools that were boycotted and that children who stayed away would
not be readmitted.
For this boycott to work, the parents and the community would have to
step in and take the place of the schools. I spoke to parents and ANC
members and told them that every home, every shack, every community
structure, must become a center of learning for our children.
The boycott began on April i and had mixed results. It was often
sporadic, disorganized, and ineffectual. On the east Rand it affected some
seven thousand schoolchildren. Predawn marches called on parents to
keep their children at home. Women picketed the schools and plucked
out children who had wandered into them.
In Germiston, a township southeast of the city, Joshua Makue, chairman
of our local branch, ran a school for eight hundred boycotting children
that lasted for three years. In Port Elizabeth, Barrctt Tyesi gave up
a government teaching post and ran a school for boycotting children. In
1956, he presented seventy of these children for the Standard VI exams;
all but three passed. In many places, improvised schools (described as
"cultural clubs" in order not to attract the attention of the authorities)
taught boycotting students. The government subsequently passed a law
that made it an offense punishable by fine or imprisonment to offer
unauthorized education. Police harassed these clubs, but many continued
to exist underground. In the end, the community schools withered away ^d parents, faced with a choice between inferior education and no education
at all, chose the former. My own children were at the Seventh-
sy Adventist school, which was private and did not depend on government
subsidies.
he campaign should be judged on two levels: whether the immediate elective was achieved, and whether it politicized more people and drew ^ into the struggle. On the first level, the campaign clearly failed. We
rid of down African schools throughout the country nor did we
fici011"01^ of dle Bantu Education Act. But the government was suf^oc dv rattled ^ our protest to modify the act, and at one point Ver- all y, I/as Impelled to declare that education should be the same for
then .^^""^"t's November 1954 draft syllabus was a retreat from In the^10^ notlon of modeling the school system on tribal foundations. nd, we had no option but to choose between the lesser of two
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 149
149
hiirman was Chief Luthuli, and the secretariat consisted of Walter
i /later replaced by Oliver after Walter's banning forced him to 11 ) YusufCachalia of the SAIC, Stanley Lollan of the South African
Ix! ired People's Organization (SACPO), and Lionel Bernstein of the
Congress of Democrats (COD).
Farmed in Cape Town in September of 1953 by Coloured leaders and
de unionists, SACPO was the belated offspring of the struggle to cserve the Coloured vote in the Cape and sought to represent Coloured
rerests. SAPCO's founding conference was addressed by Oliver Tambo md Yusuf Cachalia. Inspired by the Defiance Campaign, the COD was
formed in late 1952 as a party for radical, left-wing, antigovemment whites.
The COD, though small and limited mainly to Johannesburg and Cape
Town had an influence disproportionate to its numbers. Its members,
such as Michael Harmel, Bram Fischer, and Rusty Bernstein, were eloquent
advocates of our cause. The COD closely identified itself with the
ANC and the SAIC and advocated a universal franchise and full equality
between black and white. We saw the COD as a means whereby our
views could be put directly to the white public. The COD served an
important symbolic function for Africans; blacks who had come into the
struggle because they were antiwhite discovered that there were indeed
whites of goodwill who treated Africans as equals.
The National Action Council invited all participating organizations
and their followers to send suggestions for a freedom charter. Circulars
were sent out to townships and villages all across the country. "IF YOU
COULD MAKE THE LAWS . . . WHAT WOULD YOU DO?" they
said. "HOW WOULD YOU SET ABOUT MAKING SOUTH AFRICA
A HAPPY PLACE FOR ALL THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN
IT?" Some of the flyers and leaflets were filled with the poetic idealism
Aat characterized the planning:
WE CALL THE PEOPLE OF SOUTH AFRICA BLACK AND
WHITE -- LET US SPEAK TOGETHER OF FREEDOM.' . . . LET
THE VOICES OF ALL THE PEOPLE BE HEARD. AND LET ^HE DEMANDS OF ALL THE PEOPLE FOR THE THINGS
_HAT WILL MAKE US FREE BE RECORDED. LET THE DEMANDS
BE GATHERED TOGETHER IN A GREAT CHARTER
°F FREEDOM.
T'L
from e ca11 cau^"" ^lc ""agination of the people. Suggestions came in
'vom <i^orts an<^ cultural clubs, church groups, ratepayers' associations,
scrvien s ^S^^tions, schools, trade union branches. They came on
tfn, i Is' on P^er torn from exercise books, on scraps of foolscap, on '- 'ť of our own leaflets. It was humbling to see how the sugges-
ML.
150 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
tions of ordinary people were often far ahead of the leaders'. The m
commonly cited demand was for one-man-one-vote. There was a
ognition that the country belongs to all those who have made it th
home.
The ANC branches contributed a great deal to the process ofwritin
the charter and in fact the two best drafts came from Durban and Pie
termaritzburg. A combination of these drafts was then circulated to different
regions and committees for comments and questions. The charter
itself was drafted by a small committee of the National Action Council
and reviewed by the ANC's National Executive Committee.
The charter would be presented at the Congress of the People and
each of its elements submitted to the delegates for approval. In June a
few days before the congress was scheduled, a small group of us reviewed
the draft. We made few changes, as there was little time and the document
was already in good shape.
The Congress of the People took place at Kliptown, a multiracial village
on a scrap of veld a few miles southwest of Johannesburg, on two clear,
sunny days, June 25 and 26, 1955. More than three thousand delegates
braved police intimidation to assemble and approve the final document.
They came by car, bus, truck, and foot. Although the overwhelming
number of delegates were black, there were more than three hundred
Indians, two hundred Coloureds, and one hundred whites.
I drove to Kliptown with Walter. We were both under banning orders,
so we found a place at the edge of the crowd where we could observe
without mixing in or being seen. The crowd was impressive both in its
size and in its discipline. "Freedom volunteers" wearing black, green, and
yellow armbands met the delegates and arranged for their seating. There
were old women and young wearing congress skirts, congress blouses,
congress doekies (scarves); old men and young wearing congress armbands
and congress hats. Signs everywhere said, "FREEDOM IN OUR LIFETIME,
LONG LIVE THE STRUGGLE." The platform was a rainbow
of colors: white delegates from the COD, Indians from the SAIC, Coloured
representatives from SACPO all sat in front of a replica of a fourspoked
wheel representing the four organizations in the Congress Al' ance. White and African police and members of the Special Branch rnil^ around, taking photographs, writing in notebooks, and trying unsu
cessfully to intimidate the delegates. ,
There were dozens of songs and speeches. Meals were served.
atmosphere was both serious and festive. On the afternoon of the day, the charter was read aloud, section by section, to the people English, Sesotho, and Xhosa. After each section, the crowd shoutcc
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 151
,^\ \vith cries of "Afrika!" and "Mayibuye!" The first day of the egress was a success.
t "^. second day was much like the first. Each section of the charter
, i^gri adopted by acclamation and at 3:30, the final approval was to
.,Qted when a brigade of police and Special Branch detectives bran,
i .-p. 5 ten guns swarmed onto the platform. In a gruff, Afrikaansfenrcd
voice, one of the police took the microphone and announced
Aat treason was suspected and that no one was to leave the gathering
without police permission. The police began pushing people off the platform
and confiscating documents and photographs, even signs such as
"soup with meat" and "soup without meat." Another group of constables
armed with rifles formed a cordon around the crowd. The people
responded magnificently by loudly singing ''Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika." The
delegates were then allowed to leave one by one, each person interviewed
by the police and his or her name taken down. I had been on the outskirts
of the crowd when the police raid began, and while my instinct was to
stay and help, discretion seemed the wiser course, because I would have
immediately been arrested and tossed in jail. An emergency meeting had
been called in Johannesburg and I made my way back there. As I returned
to Johannesburg, I knew that this raid signaled a harsh new turn on the
part of the government.
Though the Congress of the People had been broken up, the charter itself
became a great beacon for the liberation struggle. Like other enduring
political documents, such as the American Declaration of Independence,
the French Declaration of the Rights of Man, and the Communist Man"esto,
the Freedom Charter is a mixture of practical goals and poetic wiguage. It extols the abolition of racial discrimination and the achievement
of equal rights for all. It welcomes all who embrace freedom to
participate in the making of a democratic, nonracial South Africa. It
ptured the hopes and dreams of the people and acted as a blueprint for e liberation struggle and the future of the nation. The preamble reads:
we. the people of South Africa, declare for all our country and the ^rid to know: --
hat South Africa belongs to all who live in it, black and white, and
no government can justly claim authority unless it is based on the ^f the people;
m our people have been robbed of their birthright to land, liberty
r ce by a form of government founded on injustice and inequality;
livg atour "-^untry will never be prosperous or free until all our people ''otherhood, enjoying equal rights and opportunities;
152 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
That only a democratic state, based on the will of the people
secure to all their birthright without distinction of colour, race scy
belief;
And therefore, we, the people of South Africa, black and whit
together--equals, countrymen and brothers--adopt this FRpp DOM CHARTER. And we pledge ourselves to strive together sparin
nothing of our strength and courage, until the democratic changes here
set out have been won.
The charter then lays out the requirements for a free and democrat;
South Africa.
THE PEOPLE SHALL GOVERN!
Every man and woman shall have the right to vote for and stand as
a candidate for all bodies which make laws.
All the people shall be entitled to take part in the administration of
the country.
The rights of the people shall be the same regardless of race, colour
or sex.
All bodies of minority rule, advisory boards, councils and authorities
shall be replaced by democratic organs of self-government.
ALL NATIONAL GROUPS SHALL HAVE EQUAL RIGHTS!
There shall be equal status in the bodies of state, in the courts and
in the schools for all national groups and races;
All national groups shall be protected by law against insults to their
race and national pride;
All people shall have equal rights to use their own language and to
develop their own folk culture and customs;
The preaching and practice of national, race or colour discrimination
and contempt shall be a punishable crime;
All apartheid laws and practices shall be set aside.
THE PEOPLE SHALL SHARE IN THE COUNTRY'S WEALTH!
The national wealth of our country, the heritage of all South Africans,
shall be restored to the people;
The mineral wealth beneath the soil, the banks and monopoly 1""
dustry shall be transferred to the ownership of the people as a whole,
All other industries and trade shall be controlled to assist the we being
of the people;
All people shall have equal rights to trade where they choose,
manufacture and to enter all trades, crafts and professions.
154 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the open veld and rolling valleys of my childhood. I was anxious in
my family and confer with Sabata and Daliwonga on certain probi e involving the Transkei, while the ANC was eager that I confer with rh
on political matters. I was to have a working holiday, the only kind
holiday I knew how to take.
The night before I left, a number of friends gathered at my home t
see me off. Duma Nokwe, the young and good-natured barrister wh
was then national secretary of the Youth League, was among them. Dum
had accompanied Walter on his trip to the Youth Conference in Bucharest and that night he entertained us with the Russian and Chinese songs he
had learned on his trip. At midnight, as my guests were getting readv to
leave, my daughter Makaziwe, then two, awoke and asked me if she could
come along with me. I had been spending insufficient time with my family and Makaziwe's request provoked pangs of guilt. Suddenly, my enthusiasm
for my trip vanished. But I carried her back to bed and kissed her good
night and as she dropped off to sleep, I made my final preparations for
my journey.
I was embarking on a fact-finding mission, which I would combine
with the pleasures of seeing the countryside and old friends and comrades.
I had been isolated from developments in other parts of the country and
was eager to see for myself what was transpiring in the hinterlands. Although
I read a variety of newspapers from around the country, newspapers
are only a poor shadow of reality; their information is important
to a freedom fighter not because it reveals the truth, but because it discloses
the biases and perceptions of both those who produce the paper and those
who read it. On this trip I wanted to talk firsthand with our people in
the field.
I left shortly after midnight and within an hour I was on the highway
to Durban. The roads were empty and I was accompanied only by the
stars and gentle Transvaal breezes. Though I had not slept, I felt lighthearted
and fresh. At daybreak I crossed from Volksrust to Natal, the country of Cetywayo, the last independent king of the Zulus, whose
troops had defeated a British column at Isandhlwana in 1879. But the king
was unable to withstand the firepower of the British and eventually sur"
rendered his kingdom. Shortly after crossing the river on the Natal boi "Lr I saw the Majuba Hills, the steep escarpment where a small Boer com
mando ambushed and defeated a garrison of British redcoats less tli'-1 two years after the defeat of Cetywayo. At Majuba Hill the Afrikaner ha1' stoutly defended his independence against British imperialism and stir1 a blow for nationalism. Now the descendants of those same treci °
fighters were persecuting my people who were struggling for prec"'1 the same thing the Afrikaners had once fought and died tor. I dt0
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 155
i rhose historic hills thinking less of the ironies of history by which
nressed becomes the oppressor, than of how the ruthless Afrikaners \L ved their own Majuba Hill at the hands of my people. 1 ^This harsh reverie was interrupted by the happy music of Radio Bantu ^ radio. While I despised the conservative politics of Radio Bantu
d up by the government-run South African Broadcasting CorporaI
reveled in its music. (In South Africa, African artists made the
sic but white record companies made the money.) I was listening to
nooular program called "Rediffusion Service," which featured most of rhe country's leading African singers: Miriam Makeba, Dolly Rathebe, Dorothy Masuku, Thoko Shukuma, and the smooth sound of the Manhattan
Brothers. I enjoy all types of music, but the music of my own flesh
and blood goes right to my heart. The curious beauty of African music
is that it uplifts even as it tells a sad tale. You may be poor, you may have
only a ramshackle house, you may have lost your job, but that song gives you hope. African music is often about the aspirations of the African
people, and it can ignite the political resolve of those who might otherwise
be indifferent to politics. One merely has to witness the infectious singing
at African rallies. Politics can be strengthened by music, but music has a
potency that defies politics.
I made a number of stops in Natal, meeting secretly with ANC leaders.
Nearing Durban, I took the opportunity of stopping in Pietermaritzburg,
where I spent the entire night with Dr. Chota Motale, Moses Mabhida,
and others, reviewing the political situation in the country. I then traveled
on to Groutville, spending the day with Chief Luthuli. Although he had
been confined by banning orders for more than a year, the chief was wellinformed
about ANC activities. He was uneasy about what he saw as the
increasing centralization of the ANC in Johannesburg and the declining
power of the regions. I reassured him that we wanted the regions to
remain strong.
My next stop was a meeting in Durban with Dr. Naicker and the executive Committee of the Natal Indian Congress, where I raised the ^nsitive issue that the National Executive Committee believed that the In_
an Congress had become inactive of late. I was reluctant to do this as
bur' aldsŁr was "^ senior anc^ a man \v^0 had suffered far more than I, e discussed ways to overcome government restrictions.
Pon'^T0111^^ I ^rove south a^g Ae coast past Port Shepstone and
be^L t- 'onns' ^all and lovely colonial towns that dotted the shimmering
the a^ """""g me Indian Ocean. While mesmerized by the beauty of
the n^' was Instantly rebuked by the buildings and streets that bear '^iTies K08 wmte imperialists who suppressed the very people whose slonged there. At this point, I turned inland and drove to
156 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Umzumkulu to meet with Dr. Conco, the treasurer-general of the am
for further discussions and consultations.
With excitement mounting, I then set off for Umtata. When I in
into York Road, the main street of Umtata, I felt the rush of famili
and fond memories one gets from coming home after a lone exile I h ^ been away for thirteen years, and while there were no banners and fan rl calves to greet this prodigal son upon his return, I was tremendous!'
excited to see my mother, my humble home, and the friends ofmv vouch
But my trip to the Transkei had a second motive: my arrival coincided
with the meeting of a special committee appointed to oversee the transition
of the Transkcian Bungha system to that of the Bantu Authorities
The role of the Bungha, which consisted ofio8 members, one-quarter
of whom were white and three-quarters African, was to advise the government
on legislation affecting Africans in the area and to regulate local
matters like taxes and roads. While the Bungha was the most influential
political body in the Transkei, its resolutions were advisory and its decisions
subject to review by white magistrates. The Bungha was only as
powerful as whites permitted it to be. Yet, the Bantu Authorities Act
would replace it with an even more repressive system: a feudalistic order
resting on hereditary and tribal distinctions as decided by the state. The
government suggested that Bantu Authorities would free the people from
the control of white magistrates, but this was a smoke screen for the state's
undermining of democracy and promotion of tribal rivalries. The ANC
regarded any acceptance of Bantu Authorities as a capitulation to the
government.
On the night of my arrival, I met briefly with a number ofTranskeian
councillors and my nephew, K. D. Matanzima, whom I called Daliwonga.
Daliwonga was playing a leading part in persuading the Bungha to accept
Bantu Authorities, for the new order would reinforce and even increase
his power as the chief of Emigrant Thembuland. Daliwonga and I were
on separate sides of this difficult issue. We had grown apart: he had opted
for a traditional leadership role and was cooperating with the system. B"1 it was late, and rather than begin a lengthy discussion, we resolved to
meet the following day.
I spent that night in a boardinghouse in town, rose early, and ^ joined for coffee in my room by two local chiefs to discuss their rol<-' the new Bantu Authorities. In the middle of our conversation the rnlstrc of the boardinghouse nervously ushered a white man into my room.
you Nelson Mandela?" he demanded.
"And who is asking?" I said. , .^
He gave his name and rank as a detective sergeant in the securit} p'
"May I see your warrant, please?" I asked. It was obvious the '^^
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 157
d my audacity, but he grudgingly produced an official document. L i was Nelson Mandela, I told him. He informed me that the cornting
officer wanted to see me. I replied that if he wanted to see me
knew where I was. He then ordered me to accompany him to the
, station. I asked him whether I was under arrest, and he replied
Yes,
^ l was not.
"In that case," I said, "I am not going." He was taken aback by my
fusal but knew I was on firm legal ground. He proceeded to fire a
iccession of questions at me: when had I left Johannesburg? where had
I visited? whom had I spoken with? did I have a permit to enter the
Transkei and how long would I be staying? I informed him that the
Transkei was my home and that I did not need a permit to enter it. The
sergeant stomped out of the room.
The chiefs were taken aback by my behavior and upbraided me for my
rudeness. I explained that I had merely treated him in the manner that
he had treated me. The chiefs were unconvinced, and clearly thought I
was a hotheaded young man who would get himself in trouble. These
were men I was trying to persuade to reject Bantu Authorities, and it was apparent that I had not made a very good impression. The incident
reminded me that I had returned to my homeland a different man from
the one who had left thirteen years before.
The police were unsophisticated in the Transkei, and from the moment
I left the boardinghouse, they followed me everywhere I went. After I
talked to anyone, the police would confront the person and say, "If you
talk with Mandela, we will come and arrest you."
I met briefly with a local ANC leader and was dismayed to learn of
the organization's lack of funds, but at that moment, I was thinking less
rout the organization than my next stop: Qunu, the village where I was ""aiscd and where my mother still lived.
roused my mother, who at first looked as though she was seeing a
ghost. But she was overjoyed. I had brought some food -- fruit, meat, , gar, salt, and a chicken -- and my mother lit the stove to make tea. We . not ""g or kiss; that was not our custom. Although I was happy to ^k, I felt a sense of guilt at the sight of my mother living all alone
in I ^ ^oor clrcumstances I tried to persuade her to come live with me she I B"11^111'^ but she swore that she would not leave the countryside
lustifi '< won^erccl -- "of for the first time -- whether one was ever
for ^ in "leering the welfare of one's own family in order to fight ^okin \vetaK °^ others. Can there be anything more important than
one's a ter ""^ ^"g mother? Is politics merely a pretext for shirking r"11-' \va ^onsl*:)^ltles^ a3^ excuse for not being able to provide in the way
158 ^OMG WALK TO FREEDOM
After an hour or so \vith my mother, I left to spend the night
Mqhekezweni. It was tiight when I arrived, and in my enthusiasm I starter to blow the horn of fty car- I had not considered how this noise might
be interpreted and people emerged fearfully from their huts, thinking u might be the police, l^ut when I was recognized, I was met with surprise
and joy by a number of villagers.
But instead of sleeping like a child in my old bed, I tossed and turned
that night wondering whether or not I had taken the right path. But I
did not doubt that I had chosen correctly. I do not mean to suggest that
the freedom struggle is of a higher moral order than taking care of one's
family. It is not; the^ are merely different.
Returning to QuAu the next morning, I spent the day reminiscing
with people, and walking the fields around the village. I also visited with
my sister Mabel, the mo?t practical and easygoing of my sisters and of
whom I was very fo^d. Mabel was married, but her union involved an
interesting tale. My ^istef Baliwe, who was older than Mabel, had been
engaged to be marred, and ^bola had already been paid. But two weeks
before the wedding, Baliwe, who was a spirited girl, ran away. We could
not return the cattle as they had already been accepted, so the family
decided that Mabel ŤWould take Baliwe's place, and she did so.
I left late that aft^rnopn to drive to Mqhekezweni. Again I arrived at
night and announced my presence with loud hooting, only this time
people emerged froi^ th^ir homes with the idea that Justice, their chief,
had returned. Justice had been deposed from his chieftancy by the government
and was Aen living in Durban. Though the government had
appointed someone in his stead, a chief is a chief by virtue of his birth
and wields authority because of his blood. They were happy to see me,
but they would haW been happier still welcoming home Justice.
My second mother, No-England, the widow of the regent, had been
fast asleep when I qfrived, but when she appeared in her nightdress and
saw me, she became so excited she demanded I drive her immediately to
a nearby relative to Celebrate. She hopped into my car and we set ott o
a wild ride through the untamed veld, to get to the remote rondavel o
her relative. There ye w(?ke up another family, and I finally went to sleep-
tired and happy, ju.A before dawn. ^
Over the next f^tni^ht I moved back and forth between (2un.. Mqhekezweni, staying by turns with my mother and No-England, vis ^ ^ and receiving friends and relatives. I ate the same foods I had eate ^ boy, I walked the s,tme fields, and gazed at the same sky during t"^^ the same stars at r^ht. It is important for a freedom fighter to ^ ^ in touch with his o-Vn roots, and the hurly-burly of city life has a ^ erasing the past. Tfte vjisit restored me and revived my feelings
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 159
p ,n which I grew up. I was once again my mother's son in her house;
P yncc again the regent's charge in the Great Place.
The visit was also a way of measuring the distance I had come. I saw
h w my own P^P^ had remained in one place, while I had moved on
j gen new worlds and gained new ideas. If I had not realized it before,
l knew that I was right not to have returned to the Transkei after Fort
Hare If I had returned, my political evolution would have been stunted.
When rhe Special Committee considering the introduction of the
Bantu Authorities had adjourned, Daliwonga and I went to visit Sabata
in hospital in Umtata. I had hoped to talk with Sabata about the Bantu
Authorities, but his health made it impossible. I wanted Sabata and his
brother, Daliwonga, to begin talks on this issue as soon as Sabata was
well enough to do so, and made this clear. I felt proud to be organizing
a meeting between the descendants of Ngubengcuka, and mused for a
moment on the irony that I was finally fulfilling the role of counselor to
Sabata for which I'd been groomed so many years before.
From Umtata, Daliwonga and I drove to Qamata, where we met his
younger brother George, who was then a practicing attorney. His two
articled clerks were well known to me and I was pleased to see them both:
A. P. Mda and Tsepo Letlaka. Both were still firm supporters of the
organization who had given up teaching and decided to become lawyers.
In Qamata, we all sat down to examine the issue of the proposed Bantu
Authorities.
My mission was to persuade Daliwonga -- a man destined to play a
leading role in the politics of the Transkei -- to oppose the imposition
oi the Bantu Authorities. I did not want our meeting to be a showdown,
or even a debate; I did not want any grandstanding or faultfinding, but a serious discussion among men who all had the best interests of their
Psople and their nation at heart.
In many ways, Daliwonga still regarded me as his junior, both in terms "niy rank in the Thembu hierarchy and in my own political development.
"e I was his junior in the former realm, I believed I had advanced ^ ° rnv °netime mentor in my political views. Whereas his concerns
. on his own tribe, I had become involved with those who thought
rrns of the entire nation. I did not want to complicate the discussion and r0 '"S grand political theories; I would rely on common sense ^d T e, s orou'" history. Before we began, Daliwonga invited Mda
pi-ff.." and his brother, George, to participate, but they demurred,
^ndJ"^ to llsten to the tw0 °^ us' "Let ^le ^Phew and the uncle ' ^oui'd ^hate," Mda said as a sign of respect. Etiquette dictated that
answp Irla^' my case first and he would not interrupt; then he would r ^ile I listened.
160 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
In the first place, I said, the Bantu Authorities was impractical bee
more and more Africans were moving out of the rural homelands to } cities. The government's policy was to try to put Africans into eth
enclaves because they feared the power of African unity. The peoolp
said, wanted democracy, and political leadership based on merit not birti The Bantu Authorities was a retreat from democracy.
Daliwonga's response was that he was trying to restore the status
his royal house that had been crushed by the British. He stressed ri
importance and vitality of the tribal system and traditional leadershi
and did not want to reject a system that enshrined those things. He to
wanted a free South Africa but he thought that goal could be achievi faster and more peacefully through the government's policy of separa
development. The ANC, he said, would bring about bloodshed and b
terness. He ended by saying that he was startled and disturbed to lea
that in spite of my own position in the Thembu royal house I did n
support the principle of traditional leadership.
When Daliwonga finished, I replied that while I understood his p< sonal position as a chief quite well, I believed that his own interests we
in conflict with those of the community. I said that if I were in a simi.
position to his, I would try to subordinate my own interests to those
the people. I immediately regretted that last point because I have discc
ered that in discussions it never helps to take a morally superior tone
one's opponent. I noticed that Daliwonga stiffened when I made tl
point and I quickly shifted the discussion to more general issues.
We spoke the whole night, but came no closer to each other's positic
As the sun was rising, we parted. We had embarked on different to;
that put us in conflict with one another. This grieved me because if
men had inspired me as Daliwonga had, and nothing would have gn me greater joy than to fight beside him. But it was not to be. On farn
issues, we remained friends; politically, we were in opposite and ant;
onistic camps.
I returned to Qunu that morning and spent another few days then
tramped across the veld to visit friends and relatives, but the magic we
of my childhood had fled. One evening I bade my mother and sis
farewell. I visited Sabata in hospital to wish him a speedy recovery, a by 3 a.m. I was on my way to Cape Town. The bright moonlight a crisp breeze kept me fresh all the way across the Kei River. The r(
winds up the rugged mountains, and as the sun rose my mood li
had last been on that road eighteen years before, when Jongintaba
driven me to Healdtown.
I was driving slowly when I noticed a limping man at the side o
road raising his hand to me. I instinctively pulled over and oftere
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 161
^f He was about my own age, of small stature, and rather unkempt;
3 i d not bathed in quite a while. He told me that his car had broken u on the other side of Umtata and he had been walking for several
ro\vard Port Elizabeth. I noticed a number of inconsistencies in his
 and I asked him the make of his car. A Buick, he replied. And the
stration? I said. He told me a number. A few minutes later, I said,
'What did you say that registration number was?" He told me a slightly
different figure. I suspected he was a policeman, and I decided to say very
little. My reserve went unnoticed by my companion as he talked the entire
\vav to Port Elizabeth. He pointed out various curiosities and was well
versed in the history of the region. He never asked who I was and I did
not tell him. But he was entertaining, and I found his conversation useful
and interesting.
I made a stop in East London and spoke to a few ANC people. Before
leaving I had a conversation with some other people in the township, one
of whom struck me as an undercover policeman. My companion had
learned my identity, and a few minutes after we were back in the car, he
said to me, "You know, Mandela, I suspected that one chap at the end
was a policeman." This raised my own suspicions, and I said to my companion,
"Look here, how do I know you're not a policeman yourself?
You must tell me who you are -- otherwise I will dump you back on the
road again."
He protested and said, "No, I will introduce myself properly." He
confessed that he was a smuggler and had been carrying dagga (marijuana)
"from the Pondoland coast when he ran into a police roadblock. When
he saw the roadblock, he jumped out of the car and tried to make a break
°r it. The police fired, wounding him in the leg. That explained his limp
nd his lack of transportation. He waved me down because he assumed "^ police were hunting for him.
^ked him why he had chosen such a dangerous livelihood. He had Jiginally wanted to be a teacher, he told me, but his parents were too ''to send him to college. After school he had worked in a factory, but
su ^es were t00 "^g^ fo1" him to) l^e on his own. He started to Aaterncnt: t:hem by smuggling dagga, and soon found it so profitable ^'orlrll ^le ^^'"y altogether. He said in any other country in the nig- e wo\1^ have found an opportunity for his talents. "I saw white ^v^ " owere "V ^eriors in ability and brains earning fifty times what
niemb ter a ^"S P^se, he announced in a solemn tone, "I am also a
^fiance ?- ANC'" He told me that he had defied during the I952 ^izaberh ^P^S" an^ had served on various local committees in Port
quizzed him on various personalities, all of whom he seemed
162 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
to know, and later in Port Elizabeth I confirmed that he was tellin
the truth. In fact, he had been one of the most reliable of those who w c to jail during the Defiance Campaign. The doors of the liberation stm
are open to all who choose to walk through them.
As an attorney with a fairly large criminal practice, I was convers
with such tales. Over and over again, I saw men as bright and talenr ri as my companion resort to crime in order to make ends meet. Whil i
do think certain individuals are disposed to crime because of their genet
inheritance or an abusive upbringing, I am convinced that apartheid
turned many otherwise law-abiding citizens into criminals. It stands to
reason that an immoral and unjust legal system would breed conternot
for its laws and regulations.
We reached Port Elizabeth at sunset, and Joe Matthews, Z. K. Matthews^
son, arranged accommodation. The next morning I met with
Raymond Mhlaba, Frances Baard, and Govan Mbeki, whom I was meeting
for the first time. I knew his work, for as a student I had read his booklet
"The Transkei in the Making." He had been running a cooperative store
in the Transkei which he was soon to give up to become an editor of the
weekly Nnv Age. Govan was serious, thoughtful, and soft-spoken, equally
at home in the world of scholarship and the world of political acdvism.
He had been deeply involved in the planning of the Congress of the
People and was destined for the highest levels of leadership in the
organization.
I departed in the late morning for Cape Town, with only my radio for
company. I had never before driven on roads between Port Elizabeth and
Cape Town, and I was looking forward to many miles of entrancing
scenery. It was hot, and the road was bordered by dense vegetation on
either side. I had hardly left the city when I ran over a large snake slithering
across the road. I am not superstitious and do not believe in omens, but
the death of the snake did not please me. I do not like killing any living
thing, even those creatures that fill some people with dread.
Once I passed Humansdorp, the forests became denser and for tw first time in my life I saw wild elephants and baboons. A large baboon
crossed the road in front of me, and I stopped the car. He stood a)
If U'l1'
stared at me as intently as if he were a Special Branch detective. 11 ^ ironic that I, an African, was seeing the Africa of storybooks and legs'l for the first time. Such beautiful land, I thought, and all of it outoftca^ owned by whites and untouchable for a black man. I could no
choose to live in such beauty than run for Parliament. ^
Seditious thoughts accompany a freedom fighter wherever he S^.^ the town ofKnysna, more than a hundred miles west of Port Eh/a
I stopped to survey the surroundings. The road above the town
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 163
noramic view as far as the eye can see. In every direction, I saw ; vling. dense forests and I dwelt not on the greenery but the fact
,here were many places a guerrilla army could live and train un-
j erected.
T arrived in Cape Town at midnight for what turned out to be a two-
pk srav. I stayed at the home of Reverend Walter Teka, a leader in the
 prhodist Church, but I spent most of my days with Johnson Ngwevela
j Q-eenwood Ngotyana. Ngwevela was the chairman of the Cape western
region of the ANC and Ngotyana a member of its executive. Both
v'ere Communists as well as leading members of the Wesleyan Church. I
traveled every day to meet ANC officials in places like Worcester, Paarl,
Siellenbosch, Simonstown, and Hermanus. I planned to work each day
of my stay and when I asked what had been arranged for Sunday -- a
rorking day for me in the Transvaal -- they informed me that the sabbath
was reserved for churchgoing. I protested, but to no avail. Communism
and Christianity, at least in Africa, were not mutually exclusive.
While I was walking in the city one day, I noticed a white woman in
die gutter gnawing on some fish bones. She was poor and apparently
homeless, but she was young and not unattractive. I knew of course that
Acre were poor whites, whites who were every bit as poor as Africans,
but one rarely saw them. I was used to seeing black beggars on the street,
and it startled me to see a white one. While I normally did not give to
African beggars, I felt the urge to give this woman money. In that moment
I realized the tricks that apartheid plays on one, for the everyday travails
th at afflict Africans are accepted as a matter of course, while my heart
innmediately went out to this bedraggled white woman. In South Africa,
to be poor and black was normal, to be poor and white was a tragedy.
"s I was. preparing to leave Cape Town, I went to the offices of New Age to see some old friends and discuss their editorial policy. New Age, the sllccess011' to earlier banned left-wing publications, was a friend of the
, ^ was early in the morning of the twenty-seventh of September,
, j as walked up the steps I could hear angry voices inside the office
urniture being moved. I recognized the voice of Fred Carneson, the
vni ^cr °^ ^c ^^P^r and its guiding spirit. I also heard the gruff
do, me ^curity police who were in the process of searching the '"cid^ ^"^y ^en:' and later discovered that this had not been an isolated
Afc, , P^l °f the largest nationwide raid undertaken in South ^'Kard ^ lstory Armed with warrants authorizing the seizure of anything ^IPPre as evl^ence °f high treason, sedition, or violations of the hundred Jon °^ ^""""^ism Act, the police searched more than five
psople in their homes and offices around the country. My office
164 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in Johannesburg was searched, as well as the homes of Dr. Moroka, parh
Huddleston, and Professor Matthews.
The raid cast a shadow over my last day in Cape Town, for it sienal r4 the first move in the state's new and even more repressive stratea-v. At rh
very least, a new round of bannings would take place, and I was cenai
to be among them. That evening. Reverend Teka and his wife had
number of people over to the house to bid me farewell, and led by the
reverend, we knelt in prayer for the well-being of those whose homes had
been raided. I left the house at my favored departure time of 3 a.m. and
within half an hour I was on the road to Kimberley, the rough-andreadv
mining town where the South African diamond business had begun in
the last century.
I was to stay at the home of Dr. Arthur Letele for one night. Later to
become the treasurer-general of the ANC, Arthur was a scrupulous medical
practitioner. I had a cold, and when he greeted me on my arrival, he
confined me to bed. He was a brave and dedicated man, and had led a
small group of defiers to jail during the Defiance Campaign. This was a
risky action for a doctor in a town where political action by blacks was
rare. In Johannesburg, one has the support of hundreds and even thousands
of others who are engaging in the same dangerous activities, but
in a conservative place like Kimberley, with no liberal press or judiciary
to oversee the police, such an action requires true valor. It was in Kimberley
during the Defiance Campaign that one of the ANC's leading members
was sentenced to lashes by the local magistrate.
Despite my cold, Arthur allowed me to address an ANC meeting in
his house the following evening. I was preparing to leave the next morning
at three o'clock, but Arthur and his wife insisted I remain for breakfast,
which I did. I made good time on the way back to Johannesburg and
arrived home just before supper, where I was met with excited cries from
my children, who well knew that I was a father bearing gifts. One by
one, I handed out the presents I had purchased in Cape Town and patiently
answered their questions about the trip. Though not a true holiday, it
had the same effect: I felt rejuvenated and ready to take up the fight once
more.
22
IMMEDIATELY upon my return I reported on my trip to the Worki^ Committee of the ANC. Their principal concern was whether or not ^ Congress Alliance was strong enough to halt the government's pi30 ^ did not give them good news. I said the Transkei was not a well-orga"
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 165 ^ ga and the power of the security police would soon immobilize
^hat lit^ influence the ANC had\\ t nut forth an alternative that I knew would be unpopular. Why
Idn't the ANC participate in the new Bantu Authorities structures
means of remaining in touch with the masses of people? In time,
, participation would become a platform for our own ideas and
policies. ..... ...
Any suggestion or participating in apartheid structures in any way was
automatically met with angry opposition. In my early days, I, too, would
hive strenuously objected. But my sense of the country was that relatively
few people were ready to make the sacrifices to join the struggle. We
should meet the people on their own terms, even if that meant appearing
to collaborate. My idea was that our movement should be a great tent
that included as many people as possible.
At the time, however, my report was given short shrift because of another
related report with greater ramifications. The publication of the report
of the Tomlinson Commission for the Socio-Economic Development of
the Bantu Areas had set off a nationwide debate. The government-created
commission proposed a plan for the development of the so-called Bantu
Areas or bantustans. The result was in fact a blueprint for "separate
development" or grand apartheid.
The bantustan system had been conceived by Dr. H. IF. Verwoerd, the
minister of native affairs, as a way of muting international criticism of
South African racial policies but at the same time institutionalizing apartheid.
The bantustans, or reserves as they were also known, would be
separate ethnic enclaves or homelands for all African citizens. Africans,
Verwoerd said, "should stand with both feet in the reserves" where they ^re to "develop along their own lines." The idea was to preserve the
status quo where three million whites owned 87 percent of the land, and re ^ate the eight million Africans to the remaining 13 percent.
"e central theme of the report was the rejection of the idea of integration
between the races in favor of a policy of separate development of ^ac and white. To that end, the report recommended the industrialdid10"
African areas, noting that any program of development that ^ alm at providing opportunities for Africans in their own regions
Ko oome^ to failure. The commission pointed out that the present "ecom lca1 ^"^g111"30"11 of the African areas was too fragmentary, and ^en "h"' '"stead a consolidation of African areas into what it termed
But "''"'"^^"^g^-11" homelands of the principal ethnic groups. ^\' the e creatlon °^ individual, self-contained bantustans, as proposed "Wiission, was farcical. Transkei, the showpiece of the proposed
166 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
homeland system., would be broken into three geographically sen
blocks. The Swazi bantustan, Lebowa, and Venda were composed ofrh e pieces each; Gazankule, four; the Ciskei, seventeen; Bophuthatswa
nineteen; and KwaZulu, twenty-nine. The Nationalists were creating
cruel jigsaw puzzle out of people's lives.
The government's intention in creating the homeland system was
keep the Transkei -- and other African areas -- as reservoirs of chea
labor for white industry. At the same time, the covert goal of the eov
ernment was to create an African middle class to blunt the appeal of the ANC and the liberation struggle.
The ANC denounced the report of the Tomlinson Commission, despite
some of its more liberal recommendations. As I told Daliwonga, separate
development was a spurious solution to a problem that whites had no
idea how to control. In the end, the government approved the report
but rejected a number of its recommendations as being too progressive.
Despite the encroaching darkness and my pessimism about the government's
policies, I was thinking about the future. In February 1956, I
returned to the Transkei to purchase a plot of land in Umtata. I have
always thought a man should own a house near the place he was born,
where he might find a restfulness that eludes him elsewhere.
With Walter, I journeyed down to the Transkei. Walter and I met with
various ANC people in both Umtata and Durban, where we went first.
Once again, we were clumsily shadowed by Special Branch police. In
Durban, we paid a call on our colleagues at the Natal Indian Congress
in an effort to boost activism in the area.
In Umtata, with Walter's help, I made a down payment to C. K. Sakwe
for a plot of land he owned in town. Sakwe was a member of the Bunga
and had served on the Natives Representative Council. While we were
there he told us of an incident that had occurred the previous Saturday
at Bumbhane, the Great Place of Sabata, at a meeting of government
officials and chiefs about the introduction of the bantustans. A number
of the chiefs objected to the government's policy and verbally attacke
the magistrate. The meeting broke up in anger; this gave us some sens
of the grassroots objections to the Bantu Authorities Act.
In March 1956, after several months of relative freedom, I receive
third ban, which restricted me to Johannesburg for five years and p
hibited me from attending meetings for that same period. For uk- sixty months I would be quarantined in the same district, seeing th*- streets, the same mine dumps on the horizon, the same sky. I w01" ,, to depend on newspapers and other people for reports on wha
occurring outside of Johannesburg, another prospect I did not re
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 167
r r this time my attitude toward my bans had changed radically. When
first banned I abided by the rules and regulations of my persecutors.
j Q^y developed contempt for these restrictions. I was not going to
involvement in the struggle and the scope of my political activities
^(.rcrmined by the enemy I was fighting against. To allow my activities
he circumscribed by my opponent was a form of defeat, and I resolved
not to become my own jailer.
I soon became involved in mediating a bitter political dispute right in
Tnhannesburg. It pitted two sides against each other, both of which were
seeking my support. Each side within this particular organization had
legitimate grievances and each side was implacably opposed to the other.
The altercation threatened to descend into an acrimonious civil war, and
I did my best to prevent a rupture. I am speaking, of course, of the
struggle at the boxing and weight lifting club at the Donaldson Orlando
Community Center where I trained almost every evening.
I had joined the club in 1950, and on almost every free night I worked
out at the Community Center. For the previous few years I had taken my
son, Thembi, with me, and by 1956, when he was ten years old, he was
a keen if spindly paperweight boxer. The club was managed by Johannes
(Skipper Adonis) Molotsi, and its membership consisted of both professional
and amateur boxers, as well as a variety of dedicated weight lifters.
Our star boxer. Jerry (Uyinja) Moloi, later became the Transvaal lightweight
champion and number one contender for the national title.
The gym was poorly equipped. We could not afford a ring and trained
on a cement floor, which was particularly dangerous when a boxer was knocked down. We boasted a single punching bag and a few pairs of
boxing gloves. We had no medicine or speed balls, no proper boxing
trunks or shoes, and no mouth guards. Almost no one owned head guards.
espite the lack of equipment, the gym produced such champions as Eric
_olack Material) Ntsele, bantamweight champion of South Africa, and
reddie (Tomahawk) Ngidi, the Transvaal flyweight champion, who spent is avs ^wking for me as an assistant at Mandela and Tambo. Altogether, vehad Psrhaps twenty or thirty members.
^ Although I had boxed a bit at Fort Hare, it was not until I had lived
our B1111^111? that I took up the sport in earnest. I was never an
eno an § boxer. I was in the heavyweight division, and I had neither ^afe^ I50wer to rompensate for my lack of speed nor enough speed to
my,.. P or "^ l^k of power. I did not enjoy the violence of boxing so
to p e ^^nce of it. I was intrigued by how one moved one's body how n c onese^-' how one used a strategy both to attack and retreat, ^rik a e ^ace^ ""^elf over a match. Boxing is egalitarian. In the ring, be' "^or, and wealth are irrelevant. When you are circling your
168 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
opponent, probing his strengths and weaknesses, you are not thinic'
about his color or social status. I never did any real fighting after I enr ^
politics. My main interest was in training; I found the rigorous exer '
to be an excellent outlet for tension and stress. After a strenuous workn
I felt both mentally and physically lighter. It was a way of losing mys ifin something that was not the struggle. After an evening's workour T
would wake up the next morning feeling strong and refreshed, readv r
take up the fight again.
I attended the gym for one and a half hours each evening from Mondav
through Thursday. I would go home directly after work, pick up Thembi
then drive to the Community Center. We did an hour of exercise some
combination ofroadwork, skipping ropeJ calisthenics, or shadow boxing
followed by fifteen minutes of body work, some weight lifting and then
sparring. If we were training for a fight or a tournament, we would extend
the training time to two and a half hours.
We each took turns leading the training sessions in order to develop
leadership, initiative, and self-confidence. Thembi particularly enjoyed
leading these sessions. Things would get a bit rough for me on the nights
that my son was in charge, for he would single me out for criticism. He
was quick to chastise me whenever I got lazy. Everybody in the gym called
me "Chief," an honorific he avoided, calling me "Mister Mandela," and
occasionally, when he felt sympathy for his old man, "My bra," township
slang meaning "My brother." When he saw me loafing, he would say in
a stern voice, "Mister Mandela, you are wasting our time this evening. If
you cannot keep up, why not go home and sit with the old women."
Everyone enjoyed these jibes immensely, and it gave me pleasure to see
my son so happy and confident.
The camaraderie of the club was shattered that year because of a spat
between Skipper Molotsi and Jerry Moloi. Jerry and the other boxers felt
that Skipper was not paying enough attention to the club. Skipper was
a skillful coach, but was rarely present to impart his knowledge. He was
a historian of boxing lore and could narrate all twenty-six rounds 01 Jac
Johnson's famous bout in Havana in 1915 when the first black heavyweig
champion of the world lost his tide. But Skipper tended to appear on}
before a match or a tournament to collect the small fee that was his u ^
I myself was sympathetic to Jerry's point of view but did my best to p
up the quarrel in the interest of keeping harmony. In the end, even
son agreed with Jerry's criticism of Skipper and there was nothing 1c
do to prevent a rupture, i^
The boxers, under Jerry's leadership, threatened to secede from ^ ,
club and start their own. I called a meeting for all the members anj
was a lively session  conducted in Sesotho, Zulu, Xhosa, and Eng _a
THE STRUGGLE IS MY LIFE 169
laspeare was even cited by Skipper in his attack against the rebellious
accusing Jerry of double-crossing him as Brutus had betrayed "Who are Caesar and Brutus?" my son asked. Before I could
ver someone said, "Aren't they dead?" To which Skipper replied, "Yes,
the truth about the betrayal is very much alive!"
The meeting resolved nothing and the boxers left for another venue
hile the weight lifters remained at the Community Center. I joined the boxers and for the first few weeks of the separation we trained at an
uncomfortable place for a freedom fighter, the police gymnasium. Thereafter
the Anglican Church gave us premises at a reasonable rental in
Orlando East, and we trained under Simon (Mshengu) Tshabalala, who
later became one of the ANC's leading underground freedom fighters.
Our new facilities were no better than the old, and the club was never
reconstituted. African boxers, like all black athletes and artists, were shackled
by the twin handicaps of poverty and racism. What money an African
boxer earned was typically used on food, rent, clothing, and whatever
was left went to boxing equipment and training. He was denied the
opportunity of belonging to the white boxing clubs that had the equipment
and trainers necessary to produce a first-rate, world-class boxer.
L'nlike white professional boxers, African professional boxers had fulltime
day jobs. Sparring partners were few and poorly paid; without proper drilling and practice, the performance greatly suffered. Yet a number of
African fighters were able to triumph over these difficulties and achieve
great success. Boxers like Elijah (Maestro) Mokone, Enoch (Schoolboy) ^'hiapo, Kangaroo Macto, one of the greatest stylists of the ring, Levi
(Ciolden Boy) Madi, Nkosana Mgxaji, Mackeed Mofokeng, and Norman
'ckgapane, all won great victories, while Jake Tuli, our greatest hero, won
"ritish and Empire flyweight title. He was the most eloquent example
what African boxers could achieve if given the opportunity.
Part Five
TREASON
I
23
,,(,t AFTER DAWN, on the morning of December 5, 1956, I was
akened by a loud knocking on my door. No neighbor or friend ever
, j^ m such a peremptory way, and I knew immediately that it was
he security police. I dressed quickly and found Head Constable Rousseau,
security officer who was a familiar figure in our area, and two policemen.
He produced a search warrant, at which point the three of them immediately
began to comb through the entire house looking for incriminating
papers or documents. By this time the children were awake, and with a
stern look I bade them to be calm. The children looked to me for reassurance.
The police searched drawers and cabinets and closets, any place where contraband might have been hidden. After forty-five minutes,
Rousseau matter-of-facrly said, "Mandela, we have a warrant for your
arrest. Come with me." I looked at the warrant, and the words leapt out
at me: "HOOGVERRAAD -- HIGH TREASON."
I walked with them to the car. It is not pleasant to be arrested in front
of one's children, even though one knows that what one is doing is right.
But children do not comprehend the complexity of the situation; they
simply see their father being taken away by the white authorities without
an explanation.
Rousseau drove and I sat next to him -- without handcuffs -- in the
front seat. He had a search warrant for my office in town, where we were
now headed after dropping off the two other policemen in a nearby area. 10 get to downtown Johannesburg, one had to travel along a desolate ^ghway that cut through an unpopulated area. While we were motoring
along this stretch, I remarked to Rousseau that he must be very confident to drive with me alone and unhandcuffed. He was silent.
What would happen if I seized you and overpowered you?" I said.
Rousseau shifted uncomfortably. "You are playing with fire, Mandela," e said.
'Playing with fire is my game." I replied.
you continue speaking like this I will have to handcuff you," Rous- ^ said threateningly.
And if I refuse?"
P^sed continued Ais tense debate for a few more minutes, but as we
sai(j ,. lnt0 ^ P°pulated area near the Langlaagte police station, Rousseau ^rrif rne: ^"dela, I have treated you well and I expect you to do the 10 "ie. I don't like your jokes."
174 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
After a brief stop at the police station, we were joined by an
officer and went to my office, which they searched for another forrv fi r minutes. From there, I was taken to Marshall Square, the ramblinp ^ brick Johannesburg prison where I had spent a few nights in 1952 dur
the Defiance Campaign. A number of my colleagues were already th
having been arrested and booked earlier that morning. Over the next if
hours, more friends and comrades began to trickle in. This was the svvon
the government had long been planning. Someone smuggled in a con
of the afternoon edition of The Star, and we learned from its banne
headlines that the raid had been countrywide and that the premier leaders
of the Congress Alliance were all being arrested on charges of high treason
and an alleged conspiracy to overthrow the state. Those who had been
arrested in different parts of the country -- Chief Luthuli, Montv Naicker
Reggie September, Lilian Ngoyi, Piet Beyleveld -- were flown by military planes to Johannesburg, where they were to be arraigned. One hundred
forty-four people had been arrested. The next day we appeared in court
and we were formally charged. A week later, Walter Sisulu and eleven
others were arrested, bringing the total to one hundred fifty-six. All told,
there were one hundred five Africans, twenty-one Indians, twenty-three
whites, and seven Coloureds. Almost the entire executive leadership of
the ANC, both banned and unbanned, had been arrested. The government,
at long last, had made its move.
We were soon transferred to the Johannesburg Prison, popularly known
as the Fort, a bleak, castle-like structure located on a hill in the heart of
the city. Upon admission we were taken to an outdoor quadrangle and
ordered to strip completely and line up against the wall. We were forced
to stand there for more than an hour, shivering in the breeze and feeling
awkward -- priests, professors, doctors, lawyers, businessmen, men o
middle or old age, who were normally treated with deference and respect
Despite my anger, I could not suppress a laugh as I scrutinized the men
around me. For the first time, the truth of the aphorism "clothes m
the man" came home to me. If fine bodies and impressive physiques ^er essential to being a leader I saw that few among us would have qua" e
A white doctor finally appeared and asked whether any of us was ^ No one complained of any ailment. We were ordered to dress, an
escorted to two large cells with cement floors and no furniture, iw had recently been painted and reeked of paint fumes. We were each g ^ three thin blankets plus a sisal mat. Each cell had only one floor^,, latrine, which was completely exposed. It is said that no one tru } ^ a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not b<-)
TREASON 175
, it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones -- and South 1 \- treated its imprisoned African citizens like animals.
nved in the Fort for two weeks, and despite the hardships, our spirits
incd extremely high. We were permitted newspapers and read with
dcation of the waves of indignation aroused by our arrests. Protest
" -fines and demonstrations were being held throughout South Africa;
ole carried signs declaring "We Stand by Our Leaders." We read of
ntests around the world over our incarceration.
Our communal cell became a kind of convention for far-flung freedom
fighters. Many of us had been living under severe restrictions, making it
illegal tor us to meet and talk. Now, our enemy had gathered us all together
under one roof for what became the largest and longest unbanned meeting
of the Congress Alliance in years. Younger leaders met older leaders they
had only read about. Men from Natal mingled with leaders from the
Transvaal. We reveled in the opportunity to exchange ideas and experiences
for two weeks while we awaited trial.
Each day, we put together a program of activities. Patrick Molaoa and
Peter Nthite, both prominent Youth Leaguers, organized physical training.
Talks on a variety of subjects were scheduled, and we heard Professor
Matthews discourse on both the history of the ANC and the American Negro, Debi Singh lectured on the history of the SAIC, Arthur Letele
discussed the African medicine man, while Reverend James Calata spoke
on African music -- and sang in his beautiful tenor voice. Every day,
' uyisile Mini, who years later was hanged by the government for political 'rimes, led the group in singing freedom songs. One of the most popular "as: "Nans' indod' emnyama Strijdom, Bhasobha nans' indod emnyama Strij'wm" (Here's the black man, Strijdom, beware the black man, Strijdom). e ^ng at the top of our lungs, and it kept our spirits high.
°ne tune, Masabalala Yengwa (better known as M. B. Yengwa), the n of a Zulu laborer and the provincial secretary of the Natal ANC,
Sh i.l utedt0 a ^ecture on music by reciting a praise song in honor of a hi a! ^gondary Zulu warrior and king. Yengwa draped himself with -i , 1 et1 '""lied up a newspaper to imitate an assegai, and began to stride ^ and fw^ reciting the lines from the praise song. All of us, even ^ati n dld not ""derstand Zulu, were entranced. Then he paused dra''^iva^T^0*^ c^^ out the ^"es "Inyoni ediezinya! Tathi isadlezinye, yadi lts en? ; ^ncs ^en Shaka to a great bird of prey that relentlessly slays ^hiefi 'cs' ^ the conclusion of these words, pandemonium broke out.
^owed c1111' wt10 unti1 t^en ^ad remained quiet, sprang to his feet, and
' ^gu Shaka lawo!" (That is Shaka.'), and then began to dance
176	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and chant. His movements electrified us, and we all took to our feer
complished ballroom dancers, sluggards who knew neither traditional
Western dancing, all joined in the indlamu, the traditional Zulu war da r Some moved gracefully, others resembled frozen mountaineers trvin
shake off the cold, but all danced with enthusiasm and emotion. Sudd i there were no Xhosas or Zulus, no Indians or Africans, no rightist
leftists, no religious or political leaders; we were all nationalists and n
triots bound together by a love of our common history, our culture
country, and our people. In that moment, something stirred deep insid
all of us, something strong and intimate, that bound us to one another
In that moment we felt the hand of the great past that made us what we
were and the power of the great cause that linked us all together.
After the two weeks, we appeared for our preparatory examination on
December 19 at the Drill Hall in Johannesburg, a military structure not
normally used as a court of justice. It was a great bare barn of a building with a corrugated iron roof and was considered the only public building
large enough to support a trial of so many accused.
We were taken in sealed police vans escorted by a half-dozen troop
carriers filled with armed soldiers. One would have thought a full-scale
civil war was under way from the precautions the state was taking with
us. A massive crowd of our supporters was blocking traffic in Twist Street;
we could hear them cheering and singing, and they could hear us answering
from inside the van. The trip became a triumphal procession as
the slow-moving van was rocked by the crowd. The entire perimeter of
the hall was surrounded by gun-toting policemen and soldiers. The vans
were brought to an area behind the hall and parked so that we alighted
straight from the van into the courtroom.
Inside, we were met by another crowd of supporters, so that the hal
seemed more like a raucous protest meeting than a staid court of law. ^e
walked in with our thumbs raised in the ANC salute and nodded to our
supporters sitting in the non-Whites Only section. The mood inside ^as more celebratory than punitive, as the accused mingled with report
and friends. . ,
The government was charging all one hundred fifty-six of us with nig
treason and a countrywide conspiracy to use violence to overthro
present government and replace it with a Communist state. The ps covered by the indictment was October i, 1952, through Decern Ł 1956: it included the Defiance Campaign, the Sophiatown rernova, ^ the Congress of the People. The South African law of high vws0^^
based not on English law, but on Roman Dutch antecedents, and e ^^J
^rri
TREASON 177
cason as a hostile intention to disturb, impair, or endanger the ^1 ndence or safety of the state. The punishment was death. in -rh ourpose of a preparatory examination was to determine whether
ivernment's charges were sufficient to put us on trial in the Supreme r r There were two stages of giving evidence. The first stage took
i - in a magistrate's court. If the magistrate determined that there was
fficient evidence against the accused, the case would move to the Su-
Court and be tried before a judge. If the magistrate decided there
insufficient evidence, the defendants were discharged.
The magistrate was Mr. IF. C. Wessel, the chief magistrate from Bloemfontein.
That first day, when Wessel began to speak in his quiet voice it
was impossible to hear him. The state had neglected to provide microphones
and loudspeakers, and the court was adjourned for two hours
while amplification was sought. We assembled in a courtyard and had
what was very much like a picnic, with food sent in from the outside.
The atmosphere was almost festive. Two hours later, court was recessed
for the day because proper loudspeakers had not been found. To the cheers
of the crowd, we were once again escorted back to the Fort.
The next day, the crowds outside were even larger, the police more
tense. Five hundred armed police surrounded the Drill Hall. When we
arrived, we discovered that the state had erected an enormous wire cage
for us to sit in. It was made of diamond-mesh wire, attached to poles
and scaffolding with a grille at the front and top. We were led inside and
sat on benches, surrounded by sixteen armed guards.
In addition to its symbolic effect, the cage cut us off from communication
with our lawyers, who were not permitted to enter. One of my
colleagues scribbled on a piece of paper, which he then posted on the "ide of me cage: "Dangerous. Please Do Not Feed."
Our supporters and organization had assembled a formidable defense ^am, including Bram Fischer, Norman Rosenberg, Israel Maisels, Maurlce Franks, and Vernon Berrange. None of them had ever seen such a fucture in court before. Franks lodged a powerful protest in open court gainst the state's humiliating his clients in such a "fantastic" fashion and
fo M!ng them' the salc^ "^e ^^ c)easts-" Unless the cage was removed
Aft > WK announced, the entire defense team would walk out of court.
Pull ^-i "^B^J011"1"1^1!, the magistrate decided that the cage would be
own; in the meantime, the front of it was removed.
^ieke ^ ^n dld tllc state ^S"1 its case- The chief prosecutor, Mr. Van
Crown ' ^an ^ding part of an i8,ooo-word address outlining the tegn,,. case Bgsinst us. Even with amplification he was barely audible ^^^^_- ^Quring and singing outside, and at one point a group of
178 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
policemen rushed out. We heard a revolver shot, followed by shouts
more gunfire. The court was adjourned while the magistrate held a m
ing with counsel. Twenty people had been injured.
The reading of the charges continued for the next two davs V
Niekerk said that he would prove to the court that the accused, with h I
from other countries, were plotting to overthrow the existing governme
by violence and impose a Communist government on South Africa Th
was the charge of high treason. The state cited the Freedom Charter a
both proof of our Communist intentions and evidence of our plot tn
overthrow the existing authorities. By the third day, much of the case
had been dismantled. Finally, on the fourth day, we were released on bail
Bail was another example of the sliding scale of apartheid: Ł250 for whitesŁ100 for Indians; and Ł25 for Africans and Coloureds. Even treason was
not color-blind. Well-wishers from diverse walks of life came forward to
guarantee bail for each of the accused, gestures of support that later
became the foundation for the Treason Trial Defense Fund started by Bishop Reeves, Alan Paton, and Alex Hepple. The fund was ablv administered
during the trial by Mary Benson and then Freda Levson. We were
released provided we reported once a week to the police, and were forbidden
from attending public gatherings. Court was to resume in early
January.
The following day I was at my office bright and early. Oliver and I
had both been in prison, and our caseload had mounted in the meantime.
While trying to work that morning, I was visited by an old friend named
Jabavu, a professional interpreter whom I had not seen for several months.
Before the arrests I had deliberately cut down my weight, in anticipation
of prison, where one should be lean and able to survive on little. In jail,
I had continued my exercises, and was pleased to be so trim. But Jabavu
eyed me suspiciously. "Madiba," he said, "why must you look so thin?
In African cultures, portliness is often associated with wealth and wellbeing.
He burst out: "Man, you were scared of jail, that is all. You have
disgraced us, we Xhosas!"
24
EVEN BEFORE THE TRIAL, my marriage to Evelyn had begu"^" unravel. In 1953, Evelyn had become set on upgrading her ^"'""y^g
tificate in general nursing. She enrolled in a midwifery course at ^ Edward VII Hospital in Durban that would keep her away fro"1 ^ for several months. This was possible because my mother and siste
TREASON
179
^

with us and could look after the children. During her stay in sta\ 'i"" I visited her on at least one occasion. if I -n returned, having passed her examinations. She was pregnant
i i Inter that year, gave birth to Makaziwe, named after the daughter J^ h A lost six years before. In our culture, to give a new child the name
" r! -ceased child is considered a way of honoring the earlier child's 0 rv and retaining a mystical attachment to the child who left too
Over the course of the next year Evelyn became involved with the
Watch Tower organization, part of the church of Jehovah's Witnesses.
Whether this was due to some dissatisfaction with her life at the time, I
do not know. The Jehovah's Witnesses took the Bible as the sole rule of
faith and believed in a coming Armageddon between good and evil. Evelyn
zealously began distributing their publication The Watchtower, and began
to proselytize me as well, urging me to convert my commitment to the
struggle to a commitment to God. Although I found some aspects of the
Watch Tower's system to be interesting and worthwhile, I could not and
did not share her devotion. There was an obsessional element to it that
put me off. From what I could discern, her faith taught passivity and
submissiveness in the face of oppression, something I could not accept.
My devotion to the ANC and the struggle was unremitting. This
disturbed Evelyn. She had always assumed that politics was a youthful
diversion, that I would someday return to the Transkei and practice there
as a lawyer. Even as that possibility became remote, she never resigned
herself to the fact that Johannesburg would be our home, or let go of ^c idea that we might move back to Umtara. She believed that once I ^as back in the Transkei, in the bosom of my family, acting as counselor to ^bata, I would no longer miss politics. She encouraged Daliwonga's worts to persuade me to come back to Umtara. We had many arguments
t ^^i and I patiently explained to her that politics was not a disractlon but my lifework, that it was an essential and fundamental part m}' being. She could not accept this. A man and a woman who hold wFercnt views of their respective roles in life cannot remain close. '"ed to persuade her of the necessity of the struggle, while she ^ptcd to P"''"'1^ me of the value of religious faith. When I would
'as ^ that J was ^^"g Ae nation, she would reply that serving God
; ^ owe ^rving the nation. We were finding no common ground, and
We ^""""S ronvinced that the marriage was no longer tenable. '.^ted° ^^ a battle for me n1"1^ and hearts of the children. She
voulc) 'em to be religious, and I thought they should be political. She , e them to church at every opportunity and read them Watch
JB^
FR1;180 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Tower literature. She even gave the boys Watchtower pamphlets r tribute in the township. I used to talk politics to the boys. Themh' is a member of the Pioneers, the juvenile section of the ANC so h as already politically cognizant. I would explain to Makgatho in the sim as terms how the black man was persecuted by the white man. st
Hanging on the walls of the house, I had pictures of Roosevelt Ch
chill, Stalin, Gandhi, and the storming of the Winter Palace in St.'Per
burg in 1917. I explained to the boys who each of the men was, and wh
he stood for. They knew that the white leaders of South Africa stood if
something very different. One day, Makgatho came running into th
house, and said, "Daddy, Daddy, there is Malan on the hill!" Malan had
been the first Nationalist prime minister and the boy had confused him
with a Bantu Education official, Willie Maree, who had announced that
he would that day address a public meeting in the township. I went outside
to see what Makgatho was talking about, for the ANC had organized a
demonstration to ensure that the meeting did not succeed. As I went out
I saw a couple of police vans escorting Maree to the place he was meant
to speak, but there was trouble from the start and Maree had fled without
delivering his speech. I told Makgatho that it was not Malan but might
as well have been.
My schedule in those days was relentless. I would leave the house very
early in the morning and return late at night. After a day at the office, I
would usually have meetings of one kind or another. Evelyn could not
understand my meetings in the evening, and when I returned home larc
suspected I was seeing other women. Time after time, I would explain
what meeting I was at, why I was there, and what was discussed. But she- was not convinced. In 1955, she gave me an ultimatum: I had to choosi
between her and the ANC.
Walter and Albertina were very close to Evelyn, and their fondest \vis
was for us to stay together. Evelyn confided in Albertina. At one point- Walter intervened in the matter and I was very short with him, te ing
him it was none of his business. I regretted the tone I took, because W
had always been a brother to me and his friendship and support had n^
faltered. ^,
One day, Walter told me he wanted to bring someone over to the Ť11^ for me to meet. He did not tell me that it was my brother-m-laWi J1 ,
' l^/^llt U
was surprised but not displeased to see him. I was pessimistic a
marriage and I thought it only fair to inform him of my feeling?- ^
We were discussing this issue cordially among the three of u , ^ either Walter or I used a phrase like "Men such as ourselves," or so ^ of that ilk. Evelyn's brother-in-law was a businessman, opposed r
FR1;TREASON 181
liticians. He became very huffy and said, "If you chaps think you an the same position as myself, that is ridiculous. Do not compare lf elves to me." When he left, Walter and I looked at each other and
"rred laughing.
After we were arrested in December and kept m prison for two weeks,
, j ppg yisit from Evelyn. But when I came out of prison, I found that
. l j moved out and taken the children. I returned to an empty, silent
. 5he had even removed the curtains, and for some reason I found
rhis small detail shattering. Evelyn had moved in with her brother, who
rold me "Perhaps it is for the best; maybe when things will have cooled
down you will come back together." It was reasonable advice, but it was
not to be.
Evelyn and I had irreconcilable differences. I could not give up my life
in the struggle, and she could not live with my devotion to something
other than herself and the family. She was a very good woman, charming,
strong, and faithful, and a fine mother. I never lost my respect
and admiration for her, but in the end, we could not make our marriage
work.
The breakup of any marriage is traumatic, especially for the children.
Our family was no exception, and all of the children were wounded by
our separation. Makgatho took to sleeping in my bed. He was a gentle
child, a natural peacemaker and he tried to bring about some sort of
reconciliation between me and his mother. Makaziwe was still very small,
and I remember one day, when I was not in prison or in court, I visited
her creche (nursery school) unannounced. She had always been a very
affectionate child, but that day, when she saw me, she froze. She did not
know whether to run to me or retreat, to smile or frown. She had some conflict in her small heart, which she did not know how to resolve. It
was very painful.
Ihembi, who was ten at the time, was the most deeply affected. He topped studying and became withdrawn. He had once been keen on
"gush and Shakespeare, but after the separation he seemed to become stic about learning. The principal of his school spoke to me on one ^^lon, but there was little that I was able to do. I would take him to
Th^"1 whenever T could, and occasionally he would brighten a bit.
und were "^"y tmles when I could not be there and later, when I was ^n rground' Walter would take Thembi with him along with his own
to ^ ne time' Walter took him to an event, and afterward Walter said
frequg Man'that ^ap is quiet." Following the breakup, Thembi would ^ev o ^ wear "V ^"Aes, even though they were far too large for him;
we him some kind of attachment to his too-often-distant father.
l^L.
182	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
25
ON JANUARY 9, 1957, we once again assembled in the Drill Hall t
was the defense's turn to refute the state's charges. After surnrnarizin
the Crown's case against us, Vernon Berrange, our lead counsel a
nounced our argument. "The defense," he said, "will strenuously reondiate
that the terms of the Freedom Charter are treasonable or criminal
On the contrary, the defense will contend that the ideas and beliefs which
are expressed in this charter, although repugnant to the policy of the
present government, are such as are shared by the overwhelming majority of mankind of all races and colors, and also by the overwhelming majority
of the citizens of this country." In consultation with our attorneys, we
had decided that we were not merely going to prove that we were innocent
of treason, but that this was a political trial in which the government was
persecuting us for taking actions that were morally justified.
But the drama of the opening arguments was succeeded by the tedium
of court logistics. The first month of the trial was taken up by the state's
submission of evidence. One by one, every paper, pamphlet, document,
book, notebook, letter, magazine, and clipping that the police had accumulated
in the last three years of searches was produced and numbered;
twelve thousand in all. The submissions ranged from the United Nations
Declaration of Human Rights to a Russian cookbook. They even submitted
the two signs from the Congress of the People: "soup with meat" and "soup without meat."
During the preparatory examination, which was to last for months.
we listened day after day as African and Afrikaner detectives read out
their notes of ANC meetings, or transcripts of speeches. These recountings
were always garbled, and often either nonsensical or downright false Berrange later revealed in his deft cross-examination that many 01
African detectives were unable to understand or write English, the
guage in which the speeches were given.
To support the state's extraordinary allegation that we intended to rep
the existing government with a Soviet-style state, the Crown relie ^ the evidence of Professor Andrew Murray, head of the Deparuw- Political Science at the University of Cape Town. Murray labeled ^ of the documents seized from us, including the Freedom Charter
as communistic. , ^i , Professor Murray seemed, at the outset, relatively knowledges e' |
TREASON 183
m^tjl Berrange began his cross-examination. Berrange said that -ited to read Murray a number of passages from various documents
hen have Murray label them communistic or not. Berrange read him first passage, which concerned the need for ordinary workers to coate
with each other and not exploit one another. Communistic, Mur- 0 said Berrange then noted that the statement had been made by the
. y. premier of South Africa, Dr. Malan. Berrange proceeded to read
, p^Q other statements, both of which Professor Murray described as
mmunistic. These passages had in fact been uttered by the American presidents Abraham Lincoln and Woodrow Wilson. The highlight came
when Berrange read Murray a passage that the professor unhesitatingly
described as "communism straight from the shoulder." Berrange then
revealed that it was a statement that Professor Murray himself had written
in the 1930S.
In the seventh month of the trial, the state said it would produce
evidence of planned violence that occurred during the Defiance Campaign.
The state called the first of their star witnesses, Solomon Ngubase, who
offered sensational evidence that seemed to implicate the ANC. Ngubase
was a soft-spoken fellow in his late thirties, with a shaky command of English, who was currently serving a sentence for fraud. In his opening
testimony, Ngubase told the court he had obtained a bachelor of arts
degree from Fort Hare, and that he was a practicing attorney. He said he became secretary of the Port Elizabeth branch of the ANC as well as a
member of the National Executive Committee. He claimed to have been
present at a meeting of the National Executive when a decision was made
to send Walter Sisulu and David Bopape to the Soviet Union to procure alms for a violent revolution in South Africa. He said he was present at a meeting that planned the 1952 Port Elizabeth riot and that he had ^tnessed an ANC decision to murder all whites in the Transkei in the same ^nner as the Mau Mau in Kenya. Ngubase's dramatic testimony
ausea a stlr in and out of court. Here at long last was evidence of a
^nspiracv.
r>. ut ^^ Ngubase was cross-examined by Vernon Berrange, it was i cd that he was equal parts madman and liar. Berrange, whose crossination
skills earned him the nickname Isangoma (a diviner or healer
^ent^01^^ an illness) among the accused, quickly established that
m^L ase was wither a university graduate nor a member of the ANC,
'hov^-T a member of the National Executive Committee. Berrange
Poetic 'li Ngubase had forged certificates for a university degree, had
pendin aw ^g^y for several years, and had a further case of fraud ^nded agalnst him- At the time of the meeting he claimed to have 0 plan the Port Elizabeth riot, he was serving a sentence for
184 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
fraud in a Durban jail. Almost none ofNgubase's testimony bore ev
remote resemblance to the truth. At the end of his cross-examinai-' a Berrange asked the witness, "Do you know what a rogue is?" Np, l
said he did not. "You, sir, are a rogue!" Berrange exclaimed. e
Joe Slovo, one of the accused and a superb advocate, conducted h' own defense. He was an irritant to the state because of his sharp questi
and attempts to show that the state was the violator of laws not rh
Congress. Slovo's cross-examination was often as devastating as Be
range's. Detective Jeremiah Mollson, one of the few African members of
the Special Branch, claimed to recall lines verbatim from ANC speeches
that he attended. But what he reported was usually gibberish or outright
fabrication.
Slovo: "Do you understand English?"
Mollson: "Not so well."
Slovo: "Do you mean to say that you reported these speeches in English
but you don't understand English well?"
Mollson: "Yes, Your Worship."
Slovo: "Do you agree that your notes are a lot of rubbish?"
Mollson: "I don't know."
This last response caused an outbreak of laughter from the defendants.
The magistrate scolded us for laughing, and said, "The proceedings are
not as funny as they may seem."
At one point, Wessel told Slovo that he was impugning the integrity
of the court and fined him for contempt. This provoked the fury of most
of the accused, and it was only Chief Luthuli's restraining hand that kept
a number of the defendants from being cited for contempt as well.
As the testimony continued, much of it tedious legal maneuvering, we
began to occupy ourselves with other matters. I often brought a book to
read or a legal brief to work on. Others read newspapers, did crossword
puzzles, or played chess or Scrabble. Occasionally, the bench would Kprimand
us for not paying attention, and the books and puzzles would
disappear. But, slowly, as the testimony resumed its snail's pace, the game5 and reading material reemerged.
As the preparatory examination continued, the state became incre^.ingly
desperate. It became more and more apparent that the state
gathering -- often fabricating -- evidence as it went along, to he p
what seemed to be a lost cause. j Finally,
on September n, ten months after we had first assemble ^ the Drill Hall, the prosecutor announced that the state's case in theP^ paratory examination was completed. The magistrate gave the e four months to sift through the eight thousand pages of typed c^l<- and twelve thousand documents to prepare its case.
TREASON 185
, , .-ircparatory examination had lasted for the whole of 1957. Court icd in September, and the defense began reviewing the evidence.
* . -nonths later, without warning and without explanation, the Crown
meed that charges against sixty-one of the accused were to be <m ned Most of these defendants were relatively minor figures in the
akf but also among them were Chief Lutuli and Oliver Tambo. The r vn's release of Lutuli and Tambo pleased but bewildered us.
Tn January, when the government was scheduled to sum up its charges,
, Q-own brought in a new prosecutor, the formidable Oswald Pirow,
0 C Pirow was a former minister of justice and of defense and a pillar
of National Party politics. He was a longtime Afrikaner nationalist, and
an outspoken supporter of the Nazi cause; he once described Hitler as
the "greatest man of his age." He was a virulent anti-Communist. The
appointment of Pirow was new evidence that the state was worried about
the outcome and attached tremendous importance to a victory.
Before Pirow's summing-up, Berrange announced he would apply for
our discharge on the grounds that the state had not offered sufficient
evidence against us. Pirow opposed this application for dismissal, and
quoted from several inflammatory speeches by the accused, informing the
court that the police had unearthed more evidence of a highly dangerous
conspiracy. The country, he said portentously, was sitting on top of a
volcano. It was an effective and highly dramatic performance. Pirow
changed the atmosphere of the trial. We had become overconfident, and
were reminded that we were facing a serious charge. Don't fool yourselves,
counsel told us, you people might go to jail. Their warnings
sobered us.
After thirteen months of the preparatory examination, the magistrate fyled that he had found "sufficient reason" for putting us on trial in the
Transvaal Supreme Court for high treason. Court adjourned in January wltn the ninety-five remaining defendants committed to stand trial. When "e actual trial would begin, we did not know.
26
I j. x l^RNOON, during a recess in the preparatory examination,
Unh0^ -a fnend of mine from Oriando to the medical school at the
the pJ?'^ of the ^^atersrand and went past Baragwanath Hospital, ^P I nler c^ ^P11^ m Johannesburg. As I passed a nearby bus ^)r the h lce out ^^ "^ncr of my eye a lovely young woman waiting
bct^r i us' I was st:ruck by her beauty, and I turned my head to get a 00 at "^ but my car had gone by too fast. This woman's face
186 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
stayed with me -- I even considered turning around to drive by h
the other direction -- but I went on. ' in
Some weeks thereafter, a curious coincidence occurred. I \vas
office, and when I popped in to see Oliver, there was this same vn e woman with her brother, sitting in front of Oliver's desk. I was rak ^ aback, and did my best not to show my surprise -- or my delight --
this striking coincidence. Oliver introduced me to them and explain ri
that they were visiting him on a legal matter.
Her name was Nomzamo Winnifred Madikizela, but she was know
as Winnie. She had recently completed her studies at the Jan Hofmev
School of Social Work in Johannesburg and was working as me first black
female social worker at Baragwanath Hospital. At the time I paid little
attention to her background or legal problem, for something in me was
deeply stirred by her presence. I was thinking more of how I could ask
her out than how our firm would handle her case. I cannot say for certain
if there is such a thing as love at first sight, but I do know that the moment
I first glimpsed Winnie Nomzamo, I knew that I wanted to have her as
my wife.
Winnie was the sixth of eleven children of C. K. Madikizela, a school
principal turned businessman. Her given name was Nomzamo, which
means one who strives or undergoes trials, a name as prophetic as
my own. She came from Bizana in Pondoland, an area adjacent to the
part of the Transkei where I grew up. She is from the Phondo clan of
amaNgutyana, and her great-grandfather was Madikizela, a powerful chief
from nineteenth-century Natal who settled in the Transkei at the time of
the iMfecane.
I telephoned Winnie the next day at the hospital and asked her for
help in raising money for the Treason Trial Defense Fund from the Jan
Hofmeyr School. It was merely a pretext to invite her to lunch, which
did. I picked her up where she was staying in town, and took her to an
Indian restaurant near my office, one of the few places that served Africans
and where I frequently ate. Winnie was dazzling, and even the fact ths she had never before tasted curry and drank glass after glass of water to
cool her palate only added to her charm.
After lunch I took her for a drive to an area between Johannesburg
and Evaton, an open veld just past Eldorado Park. We walked on the W grass, grass so similar to that of the Transkei where we both had
raised. I told her of my hopes and of the difficulties of the Treason
I knew right there that I wanted to marry her -- and I told her so. ^ spirit, her passion, her youth, her courage, her willfulness -- I rc
these things the moment I first saw her.
TREASON 187
(.1^ next weeks and months we saw each other whenever we could.
isitcd me at the Drill Hall and at my office. She came to see me
i, gut in the gym; she met Thembi, Makgatho, and Makaziwe. She
to meetings and political discussions; I was both courting her and L I ricizins her. As a student, Winnie had been attracted to the Nonc
noean Unity Movement, for she had a brother who was involved with
, parcv. In latci" years, I would tease her about this early allegiance,
lline her that had she not met me, she would have married a leader of
the NEUM.
Shortly after I filed for divorce from Evelyn, I told Winnie she should
visit Ray Harmel, the wife of Michael Harmel, for a fitting for a wedding
dress. In addition to being an activist. Ray was an excellent dressmaker.
I asked Winnie how many bridesmaids she intended to have, and suggested
she eo to Bizana to inform her parents that we were to be married. Winnie
has laughingly told people that I never proposed to her, but I always told
her that I asked her on our very first date and that I simply took it for
granted from that day forward.
The Treason Trial was in its second year and it put a suffocating weight
on our law practice. Mandela and Tambo was falling apart as we could
not be there, and both Oliver and I were experiencing grave financial
difficulties. Since the charges against Oliver had been dropped, he was
able to do some remedial work; but the damage had already been done.
We had gone from a bustling practice that turned people away to one
that was practically begging for clients. I could not even afford to pay the
fifty-pound balance still owing on the plot of land that I had purchased "i Umtata, and had to give it up.
I explained all this to Winnie. I told her it was more than likely that
we would have to live on her small salary as a social worker. Winnie "nderstood and said she was prepared to take the risk and throw in her of with me. I never promised her gold and diamonds, and I was never
able to give her them.
he wedding took place on June 14, 1958. I applied for a relaxation of
anning orders and was given six days' leave of absence from Johanrr^u111^'
a^0 ^t^ged for lobola, the traditional brideprice, to be paid to Annie's father.
June we "§ P^ty left Johannesburg very early on the morning of
ai'v.ay 2' ^ we arrived in Bizana late that afternoon. My first stop, as ^riv rl^A" one was ^>anned' was me police station to report that I had
custom t s^ we Aen went to the bride's place, Mbongweni, as was Y- We were met by a great chorus of local women ululating with
188 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
happiness, and Winnie and I were separated; she went to the br'rl '
house, while I went with the groom's party to the house of one ofWinn^ relations.
The ceremony itself was at a local church, after which we celebrar ^ at the home of Winnie's eldest brother, which was the ancestral home if the Madikizela clan. The bridal car was swathed in ANC colors Th
was dancing and singing, and Winnie's exuberant grandmother did
special dance for all of us. The entire executive of the ANC had been
invited, but bans limited their attendance. Among those who came were
Duma Nokwe, Lilian Ngoyi, Dr. James Njongwe, Dr. Wilson Conco
and Victor Tyamzashe.
The final reception was at the Bizana Town Hall. The speech I recall
best was given by Winnie's father. He took note, as did everyone, that
among the uninvited guests at the wedding were a number of security police. He spoke of his love for his daughter, my commitment to the
country, and my dangerous career as a politician. When Winnie had first
told him of the marriage, he had exclaimed, "But you are marrying a
jailbird!" At the wedding, he said he was not optimistic about the future,
and that such a marriage, in such difficult times, would be unremittingly
tested. He told Winnie she was marrying a man who was already married
to the struggle. He bade his daughter good luck, and ended his speech by
saying, "If your man is a wizard, you must become a witch!" It was a way
of saying that you must follow your man on whatever path he takes. After
that, Constance Mbekeni, my sister, spoke on my behalf at the ceremony.
After the ceremony, a piece of the wedding cake was wrapped up for
the bride to bring to the groom's ancestral home for the second part of
the wedding. But it was never to be, for my leave of absence was up and
we had to return to Johannesburg. Winnie carefully stored the cake in
anticipation of that day. At our house, number 8115 Orlando West, a large
party of friends and family were there to welcome us back. A sheep hao been slaughtered and there was a feast in our honor.
There was no time or money for a honeymoon, and life quickly settle
into a routine dominated by the trial. We woke very early in the morning usually at about four. Winnie prepared breakfast before I left. I wou^ then take the bus to the trial, or make an early morning visit to my 01 c As much as possible, afternoons and evenings were spent at my ° ^ attempting to keep our practice going and to earn some money. Evenn ? were often taken up with political work and meetings. The wire
freedom fighter is often like a widow, even when her husband is t10 prison. Though I was on trial for treason, Winnie gave me cause for r
I felt as though I had a new and second chance at life. My love i01" gave me added strength for the struggles that lay ahead.
TREASON 189
27
thf MAJOR EVENT facing the country in 1958 was the general
, .q^ _ "general" only in the sense that three million whites could
rricipate but none of the thirteen million Africans. We debated whether
r not to stage a protest. The central issue was: Did an election in which
niv whites could participate make any difference to Africans? The answer,
ac far as the ANC was concerned, was that we could not remain indifferent
even when we were shut out of the process. We were excluded, but not
unaffected: the defeat of the National Party would be in our interest and
that of all Africans.
The ANC joined with the other congresses and SACTU, the South
African Congress of Trade Unions, to call a three-day strike during the
elections in April. Leaflets were distributed in factories and shops, at
railway stations and bus stops, in beer halls and hospitals, and from house
to house. "THE NATS MUST GO!" was the main slogan of this campaign.
Our preparations worried the government; four days before the
election, the state ruled that a gathering of more than ten Africans in any
urban area was illegal.
The night before a planned protest, boycott, or stay-away, the leaders
of the event would go underground in order to foil the police swoop that
inevitably took place. The police were not yet monitoring us around the
clock and it was easy to disappear for a day or two. The night before the
strike, Walter, Oliver, Moses Kotane, J. B. Marks, Clan Tloome, Duma
Nokwe, and I stayed in the house of Dr. Nthatho Motlana, my physician, 1" Uriando. Very early the next morning, we moved to another house in
e same neighborhood where we were able to keep in touch by telephone \ ^^ leaders around the city. Communications were not very emit
in those days, particularly in the townships where few people owned phones, and it was a frustrating task to oversee a strike. We dispatched
to strategic places around the townships to watch the trains, buses, i\ I,a\ls in ol"^er to determine whether or not people were going to
hey returned with bad news: the buses and trains were filled;
man^ \vere ^""""S the strike. Only then did we notice that the genrle''udr - \\\ h^se we were staying was nowhere to be found -- he had
W^ out and gone to work- The strike was shaping up as a failure. "n th-T01^ to ca11 offthe strike. A three-day strike that is canceled
runnii, rst ^ is ^y a one-day failure; a strike that fails three days a "^co. It was humiliating to have to retreat, but we felt that
El:. Ei ('
190 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
it would have been more humiliating not to. Less than one hour aft
had released a statement calling off the strike, the government-run Sn \^ African Broadcasting Corporation read our announcement in full \r
mally, the SABC ignored the ANC altogether; only in defeat did we m ir their broadcasts. This time, they even complimented us on calling offrh
strike. This greatly annoyed Moses Kotane. "To be praised by the SARr
that is too much," he said, shaking his head. Kotane questioned whethe
we had acted too hastily and played into the state's hands. It was a lerir
imate concern, but decisions should not be taken out of pride or embarrassment,
but out of pure strategy -- and strategy here suggested we call
off the strike. The fact that the enemy had exploited our surrender didn't
mean we were wrong to surrender.
But some areas did not hear that the strike was called off, while others
spurned our call. In Port Elizabeth, an ANC stronghold, and other areas
of the Cape, the response was better on the second and third days than
the first. In general, however, we could not hide the fact that the strike
was a failure. As if that were not enough, the Nationalists increased their
popular vote in the election by more than 10 percent.
We had heated discussions about whether we ought to have relied on
coercive measures. Should we have used pickets, which generally prevent
people from entering their place of work? The hard-liners suggested that
if we had deployed pickets, the strike would have been a success. But I
have always resisted such methods. It is best to rely on the freely given
support of the people; otherwise, that support is weak and fleeting. The
organization should be a haven, not a prison. However, if the majority
of the organization or the people support a decision, coercion can be
used in certain cases against the dissident minority in the interests of the
majority. A minority, however vocal, should not be able to frustrate the
will of the majority.
In my own house, I attempted to use a different sort of coercion, but
without success. Ida Mthimkhulu, a Sotho-speaking woman of my own
age, was then our house assistant. Ida was more a member of the fami\ than an employee and I called her Kgaitsedi, which means "Sister an
is a term of endearment. Ida ran the house with military efficiency, an
Winnie and I took our orders willingly; I often ran out to do erran
her command, u
The day before the strike, I was driving Ida and her twelve-year-^ son home, and I mentioned that I needed her to wash and press s
shirts for me the following day. A long and uncharacteristic sllence . lowed. Ida then turned to me and said with barely concealed
"You know very well that I can't do that."
TREASON 191
. u'hv not?" I replied, surprised by the vehemence of her reaction.
i ,g you forgotten that I, too, am a worker?" she said with some
,- -^ion. "I will be on strike tomorrow with my people and fellow
workers!" . .
Her son saw my embarrassment and in his boyish way tried to ease
. tension by saying that "Uncle Nelson" had always treated her as a ^ot a worker. In irritation, she turned on her well-meaning son and s id "Boy, where were you when I was struggling for my rights in that
house? If I h^ not ft^ght hard against your 'Uncle Nelson' I would not
rodav be treated like a sister!" Ida did not come to work the next day, ynd my shirts went impressed.
28
FEW ISSUES touched a nerve as much as that of passes for women.
The state had not weakened in its resolve to impose passes on women
and women had not weakened in their resolve to resist. Although the
government now called passes "reference books," women weren't fooled:
they could still be fined ten pounds or imprisoned for a month for failing
to produce their "reference book."
In 1957, spurred by the efforts of the ANC Women's League, women
all across the country, in rural areas and in cities, reacted with fury to
the state's insistence that they carry passes. The women were courageous,
persistent, enthusiastic, indefatigable, and their protest against passes set a standard for antigovernment protest that was never equaled. As Chief
Luthuh said, "When the women begin to take an active part in the struggle, "o power on earth can stop us from achieving freedom in our lifetime."
All across the southeastern Transvaal, in Standerton, Heidelberg, Bal- our, and other dorps, thousands of women protested. On recess from
Treason Trial, Frances Baard and Florence Matomela organized ^ornen to refuse passes in Port Elizabeth, their hometown. In Johan'iffi11^'ln ^'"^r, a lafgfi gtoup of women gathered at the central pass ^h ^ased away women who had come to collect passes and clerks
lund^0! in the omce' bringing the office to a standstill. Police arrested
^ds of the women.
a hop on^ ^tcr Aese arrests, Winnie and I were relaxing after supper ^rian-i, L ^"'^y informed me that she intended to join the group of
''ffice '] women ^o would be protesting the following day at the pass ^"irnit as a ^lt ^^ sback, and while I was pleased at her sense of
..^Rk: ent an<^ admired her courage, I was also wary. Winnie had
192 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
become increasingly politicized since our marriage, and had joined
Orlando West branch of the ANCs Women's League, all of wh h c encouraged.
I told her I welcomed her decision, but that I had to warn her ahr, the seriousness of her action. It would, I said, in a single act radic 11
change her life. By African standards, Winnie was from a well-to-do fam'i
and had been shielded from some of the more unpleasant realities ofl'f
in South Africa. At the very least, she never had had to worry aboi
where her next meal was coming from. Before our marriage she had moved in circles of relative wealth and comfort, a life very different from
the often hand-to-mouth existence of the freedom fighter.
I told her that if she was arrested she would be certain to be fired by
her employer, the provincial administration -- we both knew that it was
her small income that was supporting the household -- and that she could
probably never work again as a social worker, since the stigma of imprisonment
would make public agencies reluctant to hire her. Finally, she
was pregnant, and I warned her of the physical hardship and humiliations
of jail. My response may sound harsh, but I felt responsibility both as a
husband and as a leader of the struggle, to be as clear as possible about
the ramifications of her action. I, myself, had mixed emotions, for the
concerns of a husband and a leader do not always coincide.
But Winnie is a determined person, and I suspect my pessimistic reaction
only strengthened her resolve. She listened to all I said and informed
me that her mind was made up. The next morning I rose early to make
her breakfast, and we drove over to the Sisulus' house to meet Walter's
wife, Albertina, one of the leaders of the protest. We then drove to the
Phefeni station in Orlando, where the women would get the train into
town. I embraced her before she boarded the train. Winnie was nervous
yet resolute as she waved to me from the train, and I felt as though she were setting out on a long and perilous journey, the end of which neither
of us could know.
Hundreds of women converged on the Central Pass Office in downto^ Johannesburg. They were old and young; some carried babies on
backs, some wore tribal blankets, while others had on smart suits. ^ sang, marched, and chanted. Within minutes, they were surrounde ^ dozens of armed police, who arrested all of them, packed them into ^ and drove them to Marshall Square police station. The women ^^ cheerful throughout; as they were being driven away, some callec o
reporters, "Tell our madams we won't be at work tomorrow!" A
more than one thousand women were arrested. . ^ut
I knew this not because I was the husband of one of the detain1
TREASON 193
Mandela and Tambo had been called on to represent most of the
en who had been arrested. I quickly made my way to Marshall Square
isit the prisoners and arrange bail. I managed to see Winnie, who r0 ^ when she saw me and seemed as happy as one could be in a bare
1' -e cell. It was as if she had given me a great gift that she knew would
i. i<e me. I told her I was proud of her, but I could not stay and talk as [had quite a lot of legal work to do.
By the end of the second day, the number of arrests had increased and
early two thousand women were incarcerated, many of them remanded to die Fort to await trial. This created formidable problems not only for
Oliver and me, but for the police and the prison authorities. There was
simpiv not enough space to hold them all. There were too few blankets,
too few mats and toilets, and too little food. Conditions at the Fort were
cramped and dirty. While many in the ANC, including myself, were eager
to bail out the women, Lilian Ngoyi, the national president of the Wornen's
League, and Helen Joseph, secretary of the South African Women's
Federation, believed that for the protest to be genuine and effective, the
women should serve whatever time the magistrate ordered. I remonstrated
with them but was told in no uncertain terms that the matter was the
women's affair and that the ANC -- as well as anxious husbands -- should
not meddle. I did tell Lilian that I thought she should discuss the issue
with the women themselves before making a decision, and escorted her
down to the cells where she could poll the prisoners. Many were desperate
to be bailed out and had not been adequately prepared for what would
await them in prison. As a compromise, I suggested to Lilian that the women spend a fortnight in prison, after which we would bail them out.
Lilian accepted.
Over the next two weeks, I spent many hours in court arranging bail
or the women. A few were frustrated and took their anger out on me.
Mandela, I am tired of this case of yours," one woman said to me. "If
15 does not end today I will not ever reappear in court." With the help
atives and fund-raising organizations, we managed to bail them all ^ithin two weeks.
If <h l^ not seem the worse for wear from her prison experience. ! e ad Offered, she would not have told me anyway. While she was icsse ?1 nnle became friendly with two teenaged Afrikaner wardon
^.. y were sympathetic and curious, and after Winnie was released
to Or) ' we lnvlte^ Aem to visit us. They accepted and traveled by train
them if °' ^e gave Aem lunch at the house and afterward Winnie took ^"t rh a tour °^ ^lc ^^usiil?. Winnie and the two wardresses were '^v we c same ^ and got on well. They laughed together as though
all sisters. The two girls had an enjoyable day and thanked
194 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Winnie, saying that they would like to return. As it turned out rh
not to be, for in traveling to Orlando they had, of necessity, sat in ^ White carriage. (There were no white trains to Orlando for the <;' n reason that no whites went to Orlando.) As a result, they attracted a & deal of attention and it was soon widely known that two Afrikaner \v ^ resses from the Fort had visited Winnie and me. This was not a prohl
for us, but it proved to be one for them: the prison authorities dismiss ri them. We never saw nor heard from them again.
29
FOR SIX MONTHS -- ever since the end of the preparatory hearines
in January -- we had been awaiting and preparing for our formal trial
which was to commence in August 1958. The government set up a special
high court -- Mr. Justice IF. L. Rumpff, president of the three-man court
Mr. Justice Kennedy, and Mr. Justice Ludorf. The panel was not promising:
it consisted of three white men, all with ties to the ruling party.
While Judge Rumpff was an able man and better informed than the
average white South African, he was rumored to be a member of the
Broederbond, a secret Afrikaner organization whose aim was to solidify
Afrikaner power. Judge Ludorf was a well-known member of the National
Party, as was Judge Kennedy. Kennedy had a reputation as a hanging
judge, having sent a group of twenty-three Africans to the gallows for
the murder of two white policemen.
Shortly before the case resumed, the state played another unpleasant
trick on us. They announced that the venue of the trial was to be shifted
from Johannesburg to Pretoria, thirty-six miles away. The trial would be
conducted in an ornate former synagogue that had been converted into
a court of law. All of the accused as well as our defense team resided in
Johannesburg, so we would be forced to travel each day to Pretoria, i
trial would now take up even more of our time and money -- neither
which we had in abundance. Those who had managed to keep their )0
had been able to do so because the court had been near their ^° ^ Changing the venue was also an attempt to crush our spirits by separa . us from our natural supporters. Pretoria was the home of the Nati
Party, and the ANC barely had a presence there. . 3
Nearly all of the ninety-two accused commuted to Pretoria ^ lumbering, uncomfortable bus, with stiff wooden slats for seats, ^ ^ left every day at six in the morning and took two hours to rea ^ Old Synagogue. The round-trip took us nearly five hours--11
. TREASON 195
cpent earning money to pay for food, rent, and clothes for the
-i^Ct^r r
"n -e more we were privileged to have a brilliant and aggressive defense
ibly led by advocate Israel Maisels, and assisted by Brarn Fischer,
1 \\'elsh, Vernon Berrange, Sydney Kentridge, Tony O'Dowd, and
- Vicholas. On the opening day of the trial, they displayed their comveness
with a risky legal maneuver that a number of us had decided
in consultation with the lawyers. Issy Maisels rose dramatically and
nlied for the recusal of Judges Ludorfand Rumpffon the grounds that
hoth had conflicts of interest that prevented them from being fair arbiters
otour case. There was an audible murmur in the courtroom. The defense
contended that Rumpff, as the judge at the 1952 Defiance Trial, had already
adjudicated on certain aspects of the present indictment and therefore it
was not in the interest of justice that he try this case. We argued that
Ludorfwas prejudiced because he had represented the government in
1954 as a lawyer for the police when Harold Wolpe had sought a court
interdict to eject the police from a meeting of the Congress of the
People.
This was a dangerous strategy, for we could easily win this legal battle
but lose the war. Although we regarded both Ludorf and Rumpff as
strong supporters of the National Party, there were far worse judges in
the country who could replace them. In fact, while we were keen to have
Ludorf step down, we secretly hoped that Rumpff, whom we respected
as an honest broker, would decide not to recuse himself. Rumpff always
stood for law, no matter what his own political opinions might be, and
^'e were convinced that when it came to law, we could only be found
innocent.
That Monday, the atmosphere was expectant when the three red-robed
I ges marched into the courtroom. Judge Ludorf announced that he
d ^thdraw, adding that he had completely forgotten about the
evlous case- But Rumpff refused to recuse himself and instead offered
surance that his judgment in the Defiance case would have no inj
ence
on him in this one. To replace Ludorf, the state appointed Mr.
to th^ er' a man we liked right from the start and who was not linked
e National Party We were happy about Rumpff's decision.
n^  success of this first maneuver, we tried a second, nearly as
itscff , -^gan a long and detailed argument contesting the indictment
^d larirc me<^ among other things, that the indictment was vague
"^essa P^^larity. We also argued that the planning of violence was
^mple' "P1"0^ high treason, and the prosecution needed to provide
^s claim that we intended to act violently. It became apparent
I
198 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
three years. In 1957, the Africanists had called for a vote of no confiri
in the Transvaal executive at the national conference, but had bee ^ce feated. They had opposed the election day stay-at-home of 1958, and rh e leader, Potlako Leballo, had been expelled from the ANC. At the M
vember 1958 ANC conference, a group of Africanists had declared rh
opposition to the Freedom Charter, claiming it violated the princiole
African nationalism.
The PAC claimed that they drew their inspiration from the princini
surrounding the ANC's founding in 1912, but their views derived nri
cipally from the emotional African nationalism put forth by Anton
Lembede and A. P. Mda during the founding of the Youth League in
1944. The PAC echoed the axioms and slogans of that time: Africa for
the Africans and a United States of Africa. But the immediate cause for
their breakaway was their objection to the Freedom Charter and the
presence of whites and Indians in the Congress Alliance leadership. They
were opposed to interracial cooperation, in large part because they believed
that white communists and Indians had come to dominate the
ANC.
The founders of the PAC were all well known to me. Robert Sobukwe
was an old friend. He was the proverbial gentleman and scholar (his
colleagues called him "Prof"). His consistent willingness to pay the penalty
for his principles earned my enduring respect. Potlako Leballo, Peter
Raboroko, and Zephania Mothopeng were all friends and colleagues. I
was astonished and indeed somewhat dismayed to learn that my political
mentor Gaur Radebe had joined the PAC. I found it curious that a former
member of the Communist Party's Central Committee had decided to
align himself with an organization that then explicitly rejected Marxism
Many of those who cast their lot with the PAC did so out of personal
grudges or disappointments and were not thinking of the advancement
of the struggle, but of their own feelings of jealousy or revenge. I have always believed that to be a freedom fighter one must suppress many o
the personal feelings that make one feel like a separate individual ra
than part of a mass movement. One is fighting for the liberation ofrniUi0" of people, not the glory of one individual. I am not suggesting u131 man become a robot and rid himself of all personal feelings and nio ^ vations. But in the same way that a freedom fighter subordinates his ° ^ family to the family of the people, he must subordinate his own indi'.'
feelings to the movement. . ^.r
I found the views and the behavior of the PAC immature. A ph11050^, ,< once noted that something is odd if a person is not liberal whe ^ young and conservative when he is old. I am not a conservative, ^ matures and regards some of the views of one's youth as und^
FT
TREASON 199
callow. While I sympathized with the views of the Africanists and 3S[ shared many of them, I believed that the freedom struggle required to make compromises and accept the kind of discipline that one listed as a younger, more impulsive man.
The PAC put forward a dramatic and overambitious program that
mised quick solutions. Their most dramatic -- and naive -- promise
that liberation would be achieved by the end of 1963, and they urged Africans to ready themselves for that historic hour. "In 1960 we take our
hrst step " they promised, "in 1963, our last towards freedom and independence."
Although this prediction inspired hope and enthusiasm
among people who were tired of waiting, it is always dangerous for an
organization to make promises it cannot keep.
Because of the PAC's anticommunism, they became the darlings of the
Western press and the American State Department, which hailed its birth
as a dagger to the heart of the African left. Even the National Party saw
a potential ally in the PAC: they viewed the PAC as mirroring their
anticommunism and supporting their views on separate development. The
Nationalists also rejected interracial cooperation, and both the National
Party and the American State Department saw fit to exaggerate the size
and importance of the new organization for their own ends.
While we welcomed anyone brought into the struggle by the PAC, the
role of the organization was almost always that of a spoiler. They divided
the people at a critical moment, and that was hard to forget. They would
ask the people to go to work when we called a general strike, and make misleading statements to counter any pronouncement we would make. let the PAC aroused in me the hope that even though the founders were
breakaway ANC men, unity between our two groups was possible. I "ought that once the heated polemics had cooled, the essential commonality
of the struggle would bring us together. Animated by this belief,
paid particular attention to their policy statement and activities, with
eluea of finding affinities rather than differences.
C e ^y after the PAC's inaugural conference, I approached Sobukwe
, a ^Py of his presidential address, as well as the constitution and
policy material. Sobukwe, I thought, seemed pleased by my in^\\
h sal<^ ^e wou^ make sure I received the requested material. I
he , ^^n not long afterward and reminded him of my request and
and t e "serial was on its way. I subsequently met Potlako Leballo
''nc h~ ' an' you chaps keep promising me your material, but no
!t ^  ^lvcn lr to me." He said, "Nelson, we have decided not to give ^^ed h ecause we know you only want to use it to attack us." I dis- ^^ "^ of this notion, and he relented, giving me all that I had
200	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
31
IN 1959, Parliament passed the Promotion of Bantu SelfGovernm
Act, which created eight separate ethnic bantustans. This was the fn nt dation of what the state called groot or grand apartheid. At roughly rh
same time, the government introduced the deceptively named Extensi
of University Education Act, another leg of grand apartheid, which barred
nonwhites from racially "open" universities. In introducing the Bantu Self
Government Act, De Wet Nel, the minister of Bantu Administration an \ Development, said that the welfare of every individual and population
group could best be developed within its own national community. Africans,
he said, could never be integrated into the white community.
The immorality of the bantustan policy, whereby 70 percent of the
people would be apportioned only 13 percent of the land, was obvious.
Under the new policy, even though two-thirds of Africans lived in socalled
white areas, they could only have citizenship in their own "tribal
homelands." The scheme gave us neither freedom in "white" areas nor
independence in what they deemed "our" areas. Verwoerd said the creation
of the bantustans would engender so much goodwill that they would
never become the breeding grounds of rebellion.
In reality, it was quite the opposite. The rural areas were in turmoil.
Few areas fought so stubbornly as Zeerust, where Chief Abram Moilwa
(with the able assistance of advocate George Bizos) led his people to resist
the so-called Bantu Authorities. Such areas were usually invisible to
the press, and the government used their inaccessibility to veil the crueltv
of the state's actions. Scores of innocent people were arrested, prose-
I. I. _ . i
cuted, jailed, banished, beaten, tortured, and murdered. The people °
Sekhukhuneland also revolted, and the paramount chief, Moroamotsho
Sekhukhune, Godfrey Sekhukhune, and other counselors were banished
or arrested. A Sekhukhune chief, Kolane Kgoloko, who was perceived as a government lackey, was assassinated. By 1960, resistance in SekhuXn
land had reached open defiance, and people were refusing to pay ti\
In Zeerust and Sekhukhuneland, ANC branches played a P1"0"11"^ part in the protests. In spite of the severe repression, a number o ANC branches sprang up in the Zeerust area, one of them having kc ,
about two thousand members. Sekhukhuneland and Zeerust we
first areas in South Africa where the ANC was banned by the govern
evidence of our power in these remote areas, .i^cd
Protest erupted in Eastern Pondoland, where government
TREASON 201
iilred and killed. Thembuland and Zululand fiercely resisted, and \vere  ^e last areas to yield. People were beaten, arrested, deported, 1\LIL l ^jsoned. In Thembuland, resistance had been going on since 1955,
'""h'slbata part of the forces of protest.
"lr < especially painful to me that in the Transkei, the wrath of the
, ^ygs directed against my nephew and one-time mentor K. D. ^ nzima. There was no doubt that Daliwonga was collaborating with oovernment. All the appeals I had made to him over the years had
e to naught. There were reports that impis (traditional warriors) from
Uaranzima's headquarters had burned down villages that opposed him.
There were several assassination attempts against him. Equally painful
(^e fact that Winnie's father was serving on Matanzima's council and was an unwavering supporter. This was terribly difficult for Winnie: her
father and her husband were on opposite sides of the same issue. She
loved her father, but she rejected his politics.
On a number of occasions, tribesmen and kinsmen from the Transkei
visited me in Orlando to complain about chiefs collaborating with the
government. Sabata was opposed to the Bantu Authorities and would not
capitulate, but my visitors were afraid that Matanzima would depose him, which is eventually what happened. At one time, Daliwonga himself came
to visit during the Treason Trial and I brought him with me to Pretoria.
In the courtroom, Issy Maisels introduced him to the judges and they
accorded him a seat of honor. But outside -- among the accused -- he "as not treated so deferentially. He began aggressively to ask the various
defendants, who regarded him as a sellout, why they objected to separate development. Lilian Ngoyi remarked: "Tyhini, uyadelda lo mntu" (Gracious,
this man is provocative).
32
^ SAID that the mills of God grind exceedingly slowly, but even
moT ^\ machinations ^"'t compete with those of the South African ^ ^a system. On August 3, 1959, two years and eight months after our
i^m ^ and after a fu1^ year °^ ^B1 maneuvering, the actual trial comra,p
e at the o)d Synagogue in Pretoria. We were finally formally ar0^ and a11 thirty of us pleaded not guilty.
^isier) ^t cnsc team was once agaln ^ ^Y ^ssv Maisels, and he was
tinn; ^ y ^"ey Kentridge, Bram Fischer, and Vernon Berrange. This
^thc on^ ' t^lc trla^ was m earnest. During the first two months ^"rd a ^ Crown entered some two thousand documents into the ^ed two hundred ten witnesses, two hundred of whom were
202 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
members of the Special Branch. These detectives admitted to hH
closets and under beds, posing as ANC members, perpetrating vi ^ in any deception that would enable them to get information abo
organization. Yet many of the documents the state submitted anrl ^ speeches they transcribed were public documents, public speeche c formation available to all. As before, much of the Crown's evidence in sisted of books, papers, and documents seized from the accused di
numerous raids that took place between 1952 and 1956, as well as n r ^ taken by the police at Congress meetings during this same period a
before, the reports by the Special Branch officers of our speeches we
generally muddled. We used to joke that between the poor acoustics of
the hall and the confused and inaccurate reports of the Special Branch
detectives, we could be fined for what we did not say, imprisoned for
what we could not hear, and hanged for what we did not do.
Each day at lunchtime we were permitted to sit outside in the spacious
garden of a neighboring vicarage where we were supplied with a meal cooked by the redoubtable Mrs. Thayanagee Pillay and her friends. They
prepared a spicy Indian lunch for us almost every day, and also tea, coffee,
and sandwiches during the morning and afternoon breaks. These
respites were like tiny vacations from court, and were a chance for us to
discuss politics with each other. Those moments under the shade of the
jacaranda trees on the vicarage lawn were the most pleasant of the trial,
for in many ways the case was more a test of our endurance than a trial
of justice.
On the morning of October n, as we were preparing to go to court,
heard an announcement on the radio that the prosecutor, Oswald Pirow,
had died suddenly from a stroke. His death was a severe setback to the
government, and the effectiveness and aggressiveness of the Crown team
diminished from that point on. In court that day. Judge Rumpffgavean emotional eulogy to Pirow, and praised his legal acumen and thoroughness.
Although we would benefit from his absence, we did not rejoice a his death. We had developed a certain affection for our opponent,
despite Pirow's noxious political views, he was a humane man ^' _
the virulent personal racism of the government he was acting to''- '^ habitual polite reference to us as "Africans" (even one of our own atton ^ occasionally slipped and referred to us as "natives") contrasted ^' ^ supremacist political leanings. In a curious way, our small worť- the Old Synagogue seemed balanced when, each morning, w ° w ^,,
Pirow reading the right-wing Nuwe Order at his table and Brarn ^ reading the left-wing New Age at ours. His donation to us or
we
TREASON 203
hundred volumes of the preparatory examination free of charge ^ on nerous gesture that saved the defense a great deal of money.
'' 1< ' ", pg Vos became the new leader of the Crown's team and could \ r-h the eloquence or acuity of his predecessor.
l' after Pirow's death, the prosecution concluded its submission of s',', ' Jr yyas then that the prosecution began its examination of expert ''"" .cces commencing with the long-suffering Professor Murray, its sup"i
pxpert in communism who had proved so inept in his subject during
preparatory examination. In a relentless cross-examination by Maisels,
 y admitted that the charter was in fact a humanitarian document
hat might well represent the natural reaction and aspirations ofnonwhites to the harsh conditions in South Africa.
Murray was not the only Crown witness who did little to advance the state's case. Despite the voluminous amount of Crown evidence and the
paees and pages of testimony from their expert witnesses, the prosecution
had not managed to produce any valid evidence that the ANC plotted
violence, and they knew it. Then, in March, the prosecution displayed a new burst of confidence. They were about to release their most damning
evidence. With great fanfare and a long drumroll in the press, the state
plaved for the court a secretly recorded speech of Robert Resha's. The
speech was given in his capacity as Transvaal Volunteer-in-Chief to a
roomfui of Freedom Volunteers in 1956, a few weeks before we were all
to be arrested. The courtroom was very quiet, and despite the static of
the recording and the background din, one could make out Robert's words
''cry dearly.
When you are disciplined and you are told by the organization not to "c violent, you must not be violent... but if you are a true volunteer ^d you arc called upon to be violent, you must be absolutely violent,
'"" must murder.' Murder! That is all.
"e prosecution believed it had sealed its case. Newspapers promi- } featured Resha's words and echoed the sensibilities of the state.
^0 th/-* /~'
n c ^rown, the speech revealed the ANC's true and secret intent,
l^ g the ANCS P"^ P"^"^ of nonviolence. But in fact, Resha's
;. were an anomaly. Robert was an excellent if rather excitable plat-
'-"uld^'anci ^is cnoice of analogy was unfortunate. But as the defense ^ th ow' was "^^y emphasizing the importance of discipline and ^'r a ^ ° eer must do whatever he is ordered, however unsavory.
'nir ^ , over' our witnesses would show that Resha's speech was not e" out of context but did not represent ANC policy.
204 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
* * *
The prosecution concluded its case on March 10, 1960, and w
call our first witness for the defense four days later. We had be ( :
doldrums for months, but as we started to prepare ourselves r'" ^ testimony, we were eager to go on the offensive. We had been n r ()u the enemy's attacks for too long. n \ in?
There had been much speculation in the press that our first .
would be Chief Luthuli. The Crown apparently believed that us for there was great consternation among the prosecution whe l March 14, our first witness was not Luthuli but Dr. Wilson Concn
Conco was the son of a Zulu cattle farmer from the beautiful I
district of Natal. In addition to being a practicing physician, he had he one of the founders of the Youth League, an active participant in rh
Defiance Campaign, and the treasurer of the ANC. As a preparation to
his testimony, he was asked about his brilliant academic record at the
University of the Witwatersrand, where he graduated first in his medical school class, ahead of all the sons and daughters of white privilege. As
Conco's credentials were cited, I got the distinct impression that Justice
Kennedy, who was also from Natal, seemed proud. Natalians are noted
for their loyalty to their region, and these peculiar bonds of attachment
can sometimes even transcend color. Indeed, many Natalians thought of
themselves as white Zulus. Justice Kennedy had always seemed to be i fair-minded man, and I sensed that through Wilson Conco's example, he
began to see us not as heedless rabble-rousers but men of worthy ambitions
who could help their country if their country would only help
them. At the end of Conco's testimony, when Conco was cited for some medical achievement, Kennedy said in Zulu, a language in which he w fluent, "Sinjalo thina maZulu," which means, "We Zulus are like that- Dr. Conco proved a calm and articulate witness who reaffirmed the AM commitment to nonviolence.
Chief Luthuli was next. With his dignity and sincerity, he made a dr^ impression on the court. He was suffering from high blood pressure, a ^ the court agreed to sit only in the mornings while he gave evidence.
evidence-in-chief lasted several days and he was cross-examined for n
three weeks. He carefully outlined the evolution of the ANC s p* putting things simply and clearly, and his former positions as teac ^ ^ chief imparted an added gravity and authority to his words. As a 11^ Christian, he was the perfect person to discuss how the ANC ha
strived for racial harmony. \ In
The chief testified to his belief in the innate goodness oftnan<^ .
moral persuasion plus economic pressure could well lead to a _^heart
on the part of white South Africans. In discussing rl^ A
^^n^
TREASON 205
l nce he emphasized that there was a difference between non- if '1("l\ rl oacifism. Pacifists refused to defend themselves even when
:l'^nt,e ,,-irted but that was not necessarily the case with those who
I n[lV atw-'"' ' ^ _'
' .4 nonviolence. Sometimes men and nations, even when non- \1X)11SL hid to defend themselves when they were attacked.
listened to Conco and Luthuli, I thought that here, probably for
- rime in their lives, the judges were listening not to their domestic ::H who said only what they knew their masters would like to hear, lr\ independent and articulate Africans spelling out their political
.''^fs and how they hoped to realize them.
\ The chief was cross-examined by Advocate Trengrove, who doggedly
rfprnoted to get him to say the ANC was dominated by Communists
j ^ a dual policy of nonviolence intended for the public and a secret
plan of waging violent revolution. The chief steadfastly refuted the implications
of what Trengrove was suggesting. He himself was the soul of
moderation, particularly as Trengrove seemed to lose control. At one
point, Trengrove accused the chief of hypocrisy. The chief ignored Trengrove's
aspersion and calmly remarked to the bench, "My Lord, I think
the Crown is running wild."
But on March 21, the chief's testimony was interrupted by a shattering event outside the courtroom. On that day, the country was rocked by an
occurrence of such magnitude that when Chief Luthuli returned to testify
j month later, the courtroom -- and all of South Africa -- was a different
place.
' 33
^HE DECEMBER 1959 ANC annual conference was held in Durban
-^ing that city's dynamic antipass demonstrations. The conference unan.s \ ^ted to initiate a massive countrywide antipass campaign be-
"ing March 31 and climaxing on June 26 with a great bonfire of passes.
-o | c ^ ""^ began immediately. On March 31, deputations were sent ^'an? authorities- A^C officials toured the country, talking to the '^nsh" about the ''""P'1^"- ANC neld-workers spread the word in '""cular'T and factories- Leaflets, stickers, and posters were printed and
The and postcd in ^"is and buses.
>hc ^sa. ot t^e ^"""'y was gr1"1- The state was threatening to ban ^n be "lzat10"' ^th cabinet ministers warning the ANC that it would
'""^gle^0"^ with "an ""gloved fist. "Elsewhere in Africa, the freedom ^sna in s "^^'"S on: the emergence of the independent republic of 1957 and ite pan-Africanist, anti-apartheid leader, Kwame Nkru-
FR1;206 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
mah, had alarmed the Nationalists and made them even mir-i- ,ť
' '- ^llL^'llt'
clamping down on dissent at home. In 1960, seventeen former c i °'
in Africa were scheduled to become independent states. In peh nlc British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan visited South Africa and ar a speech before Parliament in which he talked of "winds of ch
sweeping Africa. °1'
The PAC at the time appeared lost; they were a leadership in sear h
of followers, and they had yet to initiate any action that put them on rk
political map. They knew of the ANC's antipass campaign and had he invited to join, but instead of linking arms with the Congress movement
they sought to sabotage us. The PAC announced that it was launchinp
its own antipass campaign on March 21, ten days before ours was to beein
No conference had been held by them to discuss the date, no organizational
work of any significance had been undertaken. It was a blatant case
of opportunism. Their actions were motivated more by a desire to eclipse
the ANC than to defeat the enemy.
Four days before the scheduled demonstration, Sobukwe invited us to
join with the PAC. Sobukwe's offer was not a gesture of unity but a
tactical move to prevent the PAC from being criticized for not including
us. He made the offer at the eleventh hour, and we declined to participate.
On the morning of March 21, Sobukwe and his executive walked to the
Oriando police station to turn themselves in for arrest. The tens of thousands
of people going to work ignored the PAC men. In the magistrate's court, Sobukwe announced the PAC would not attempt to defend itself.
in accordance with their slogan "No bail, no defense, no fine." They
believed the defiers would receive sentences of a few weeks. But Sobukwe was sentenced not to three weeks' but to three years' imprisonment without
the option of a fine.
The response to the PAC's call in Johannesburg was minimal. N°
demonstrations at all took place in Durban, Port Elizabeth, or East Lon
don. But in Evaton, Z. B. Molete, ably assisted by Joe Molefi and vu^ sumuzi Make, mustered the support of the entire township as se\e
hundred men presented themselves for arrest without passes. Cape
saw one of the biggest antipass demonstrations in the history or the ^ In Langa township, outside Cape Town, some thirty thousand p10^ led by the young student Philip Kgosana, gathered and were ^"^ ,
rioting by a police baton-charge. Two people were killed. But the ^ the areas where demonstrations took place was the most calami
the one whose name still echoes with tragedy: Sharpeville. . ^
Sharpeville was a small township about thirty-five miles sou ^ hannesburg in the grim industrial complex around Vereemgi & ^ activists had done an excellent job of organizing the area. I"
TREASON 207
a crowd of several thousand surrounded the police station. lrrL1 monstrators were controlled and unarmed. The police force of ^ five was greatly outnumbered and panicky. No one heard warning 1 L nr an order to shoot, but suddenly, the police opened fire on the A and continued to shoot as the demonstrators turned and ran in rt When the area had cleared, sixty-nine Africans lay dead, most of \'.' shot in the back as they were fleeing. All told, more than seven Ired shots had been fired into the crowd, wounding more than four Ired people, including dozens of women and children. It was a masrc
and the next day press photos displayed the savagery on front pages
around the world.
The shootings at Sharpeville provoked national turmoil and a government
crisis. Outraged protests came in from across the globe, including
one from the American State Department. For the first time, the U.N.
Security Council intervened in South African affairs, blaming the government
for the shootings and urging it to initiate measures to bring
about racial equality. The Johannesburg stock exchange plunged and capital
started to flow out of country. South African whites began making
plans to emigrate. Liberals urged Verwoerd to offer concessions to Africans.
The government insisted Sharpeville was the result of a Communist
conspiracy.
The massacre at Sharpeville created a new situation in the country. In
spite of me amateurishness and opportunism of their leaders, the PAC
rank and file displayed great courage and fortitude in their demonstrations
at Sharpeville and Langa. In just one day, they had moved to the front
lines of the struggle, and Robert Sobukwe was being hailed inside ^d outside the country as the savior of the liberation movement. We in
e ANC had to make rapid adjustments to this new situation, and we
did so.
A small group of us -- Walter, Duma Nokwe, Joe Slovo, and myself-- 1 an all-night meeting in Johannesburg to plan a response. We knew a to acknowledge the events in some way and give the people an
and? for their anger and S1"1^ we ^nveyed our plans to Chief Luthuli, ^r' ^^[\\' ^^P^dthem- on March 26, in Pretoria, the chief publicly
tig . is P^ calling on others to do the same. He announced a naP'"ote'
^ ^'^'home on March 28, a national Day of Mourning and
then [ the a^ocities at Sharpeville. In Orlando, Duma Nokwe and I
Photo-, rne our P^^s before hundreds of people and dozens of press
b^phers.
'^ntiv a ays r' on tlle '^"ty-Gighth, the country responded magnifOnly'^
severa1 hundred thousand Africans observed the chief's call.
y niass organization could coordinate such activities, and the
208 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ANC did so. In Cape Town a crowd of fifty thousand met in T
township to protest the shootings. Rioting broke out in many area t^ government declared a State of Emergency, suspending habeas
and assuming sweeping powers to act against all forms of subve
South Africa was now under martial law. n
34
AT 1:30 IN THE MORNING, on March 30,1 was awakened by sharp
unfriendly knocks at my door, the unmistakable signature of the police
"The time has come," I said to myself as I opened the door to find halfa-dozen
armed security policemen. They turned the house upside down
taking virtually every piece of paper they could find, including the transcripts
I had recently been making of my mother's recollections of family history and tribal fables. I was never to see them again. I was then arrested
without a warrant, and given no opportunity to call my lawyer. They refused to inform my wife as to where I was to be taken. I simply nodded
at Winnie; it was no time for words of comfort.
Thirty minutes later we arrived at Newlands police station, which was
familiar to me from the many occasions when I had visited clients there.
The station was located in Sophiatown, or rather, what was left of it, for
the once bustling township was now a ruin of bulldozed buildings and
vacant lots. Inside I found a number of my colleagues who had been
similarly rousted out of bed, and over the course of the night, more
arrived; by morning we totaled forty in all. We were put in a cramped
yard with only the sky as a roof and a dim bulb for light, a space so small
and dank that we remained standing all night.
At 7:15, we were taken into a tiny cell with a single drainage hole m the floor which could be flushed only from the outside. We were given
no blankets, no food, no mats, and no toilet paper. The hole regul^ became blocked and the stench in the room was insufferable. We issui- numerous protests, among them the demand to be fed. These were
with surly rejoinders, and we resolved that the next time the door opt- 'we
would surge out into the adjacent courtyard and refuse to re
the cell until we had been fed. The young policeman on duty took ^ and left as we stampeded through the door. A few minutes later, a
no-nonsense sergeant entered the courtyard and commanded usto
to the cell. "Go inside!" he yelled. "If you don't, I'll bring in n"^^,
with batons and we'll break your skulls!" After the horrors of Sharp
the threat did not seem empty. ,  oh-
The station commander approached the gate of the courty ,
TREASON 209
and then came over and berated me for standing with my hands 'IT\L 'rkets. "Is that the way you act around an officer?" he yelled. "Take
'""^hinodv hands out of your pockets!" I kept my hands firmly rooted \our nockets as if I were taking a walk on a chilly day. I told him that in hr condescend to remove my hands if we were fed.
a i p M. more than twelve hours after most of us had arrived, we
delivered a container of thin mealie pap and no utensils. Normally,
ild have considered this unfit for consumption, but we reached in
., m. unwashed hands and ate as though we had been provided with
he most delicious delicacies under the sun. After our meal, we elected a
-omrnittee to represent us, which included Duma Nokwe and Z. B.
Molete the publicity secretary of the Pan Africanist Congress, and me.
I was elected spokesman. We immediately drew up a petition protesting the unfit conditions and demanding our immediate release on the grounds
that our detention was illegal.
At six o'clock we received sleeping mats and blankets. I do not think
words can do justice to a description of the foulness and filthiness of this
bedding. The blankets were encrusted with dried blood and vomit, ridden with lice, vermin, and cockroaches, and reeked with a stench that actually
competed with the odiousness of the drain.
Near midnight, we were told we were to be called out, but for what
we did not know. Some of the men smiled at the expectation of release.
Others knew better. I was the first to be called and I was ushered over to
the front gate of the prison where I was briefly released in front of a
group of police officers. But before I could move, an officer shouted.
"Name!"
"Mandela." I said.
"Nelson Mandela," the officer said, "I arrest you under the powers \ested in '"e by the Emergency Regulations." We were not to be released
a 1! but rearrested under the terms of what we only then discovered
s a State of Emergency. Each of us in turn was released for mere seconds, ^ "en rearrested. We had been arrested illegally before the State of ^ ergency; now we were being properly arrested under the State of
to ergency tnat came into force at midnight. We drafted a memorandum
p^ ^"^lander asking to know our rights.
^und next mol"ning' T was called to the commander's office, where I
interro y ^^S"0 Robert Resha, who had been arrested and was being ^eshaf^ by Ae ^tion commander. When I walked into the room,
His ^ the rommander why he had erupted at me the previous night.
^Pondedrwas that of the ^P"^ white baas: "Mandela was cheeky." I ^ ofv not ^ound to ta^e my hands out of my pockets for the 'tnen °i" now." The commander jumped out of his chair, but
210 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
was restrained by other officers. At this moment. Special Branch D
Sergeant Helberg entered the office and said, "Hello, Nelson!" in a ttlve
ant way. To which I shot back, "I am not Nelson to you I am\
Mandela." The room was on the brink of becoming a full-scale h r
when we were informed that we had to leave to attend the Treason T e
in Pretoria. I did not know whether to laugh or despair, but in the m ^
of this thirty-six hours of mistreatment and the declaration of a Star s^
Emergency, the government still saw fit to bring us back to Pretoria
continue their desperate and now seemingly outdated case against us W
were taken straight to Pretoria Local Prison, where we were detained
35
IN THE MEANTIME, court resumed, in our absence, on March ^i,
but the witness box was conspicuously empty. Those who did attend were
the accused whom the police had failed to pick up under the State of
Emergency. Chief Luthuli had been in the middle of his evidence, and
Judge Rumpff asked for an explanation for his absence. He was informed
that the chief had been taken into custody the night before. Judge Rumpff
expressed irritation with the explanation and said he did not see why the
State of Emergency should stand in the way of his trial. He demanded
that the police bring the chief to court so that he could resume his
testimony, and court was adjourned.
Later we discovered that after the chiefs arrest, he had been assaulted.
He had been walking up some stairs when he was jostled by a warder,
causing his hat to fall to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he was smacked
across the head and face. This was hard for us to take. A man of immense
dignity and achievement, a lifelong devout Christian, and a man with a
dangerous heart condition, was treated like a barnyard animal by men
who were not fit to tie his shoes. 
When we were called back into session that morning. Judge ^u^c}f
was informed that the police refused to bring the chief to court.
judge then adjourned court for the day, and we expected to go n° ^
But as they were leaving the court grounds to find transportation,
were all once again rearrested. ., j
But the police, with their usual disorganized overzealousness, m
comical mistake. Wilton Mkwayi, one of the accused and a longtime
leader and ANC man, had traveled to Pretoria for the trial tron^ ^
Elizabeth. Somehow he had gotten separated from his colleagu^-^
when he approached the gate and saw the commotion of his fellow' ^^,
being arrested, he asked a policeman what was going on. The p .
TREASON 211

, i,,m to leave. Wilton stood there. The policeman again ordered J leave whereupon Wilton informed the officer he was one of the ^ j T-^e officer called him a liar, and threatened to arrest him for accu ,o^ of justice. The officer then angrily ordered him to leave the 0 Wilton shrugged his shoulders, walked out of the gate, and that was aJ" , anyone saw of Wilton in court. He went underground for the
0	i^v whereupon Wilton informed the officer he was one
rwo months, successfully evading arrest, and then was smuggled out
frhe country, soon emerging as a foreign representative for the Congress if Trade Unions and later going for military training in China.
That night, we were joined by detainees from other parts of the Transaal
The countrywide police raid had led to the detention without trial
of more than two thousand people. These men and women belonged to
all races and all anti-apartheid parties. A call-up of soldiers had been
announced, and units of the army had been mobilized and stationed in
strategic areas around the country. On April 8, both the ANC and the
PAC were declared illegal organizations, under the Suppression of Communism
Act. Overnight, being a member of the ANC had become a
felony punishable by a term in jail and a fine. The penalty for furthering
the aims of the ANC was imprisonment for up to ten years. Now even
nonviolent law-abiding protests under the auspices of the ANC were
illegal. The struggle had entered a new phase. We were now, all of us,
outlaws.
For the duration of the State of Emergency we stayed at Pretoria Local,
where the conditions were as bad as those at Newlands. Groups of five
prisoners were pressed into cells measuring nine feet by seven feet; the
cells were filthy, with poor lighting and worse ventilation. We had a single
sanitary pail with a loose lid and vermin-infested blankets. We were al- owed outside for an hour a day.
Un our second day in Pretoria, we sent a deputation to complain about the conditions to the prison's commanding officer, Colonel Snyman. The 0 onel s response was rude and abrupt. He demanded that we produce * ^ce, calling our complaints lies. "You have brought the vermin into
'Prison from your filmy homes." he sneered.
"'uIrT' we a^0 '^l1111'^ a room that was quiet and well lit so that we ^nm ^^^ for ""r ^se. The colonel was again contemptuous: "Gov- ^ad ar i"^ tlons ^° riot require prisoners to read books, if you can
Painter] ^"PitG the colonel's disdainful attitude, the cells were soon
''anif-r, "., ""^g^dl and we were supplied with fresh blankets and ^V Da ilc \\t
dav' whif l were P^mitted to stay out in the yard for much of the a ^Re cV^0^ "^ ^^^d in the Treason Trial were provided with ^ boolc or consu^tatlons, in which we were also permitted to keep
212 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Pretoria Local would be our home for the foreseeable future We
leave for the trial in the morning and return to the prison in the afte
The prison, according to apartheid dictates, separated detainees by n We were of course already separated from our white colleagues h ^ separation from our Indian and Coloured comrades within the e non-White facility seemed like madness. We demanded to be accom e dated together, and were given all sorts of absurd explanations why if was impossible. When the proverbial inflexibility of red tape is comb with the petty small-mindedness of racism, the result can be minrl
boggling. But the authorities eventually yielded, allowing the Treasn
Trialists to be kept together.
Although we were kept together, our diet was fixed according to race
For breakfast, Africans, Indians, and Coloureds received the same quantities,
except that Indians and Coloureds received a half-teaspoonful of
sugar, which we did not. For supper, the diets were the same, except that
Indians and Coloureds received four ounces of bread while we received
none. This latter distinction was made on the curious premise that Af- ricans did not naturally like bread, which was a more sophisticated or
"Western" taste. The diet for white detainees was far superior to that for
Africans. So color-conscious were the authorities that even the type of
sugar and bread supplied to whites and nonwhites differed: white prisoners
received white sugar and white bread, while Coloured and Indian
prisoners were given brown sugar and brown bread.
We complained vociferously about the inferior quality of the food, and
as a result, our advocate Sydney Kentridge made a formal complamt in
court. I stated that the food was unfit for human consumption. Judge
Rumpff agreed to sample the food himself and that day went out to do
so. Samp and beans was the best meal that the prison prepared, and'"
this case, the authorities put in more beans and gravy than usual. Ju1 e1 RumpfF ate a few spoonfuls and pronounced the food well cooked i"
tasty. He did allow that it should be served warm. We laughed among
ourselves at the idea of "warm" jail food; it was a contradiction in te'"^ Eventually, the authorities supplied the detainees with what they ca ^ an Improved Diet: Africans received bread, while Indians and Coloured- received the same food provided to white prisoners.
I enjoyed one extraordinary privilege during our detention: weeke ^.
to Johannesburg. These were not a vacation from prison but a 1ll!^^ holiday. Shortly before the State of Emergency, Oliver left Soun ^^ on the instructions of the ANC. We had long suspected a danT^ (q was coming, and the Congress decided that certain members ne
P-rrj
TREASON 213
country to strengthen the organization abroad in anticipation ^ ome it would be banned entirely. nr r's departure was one of the most well-planned and fortunate
ever taken by the movement. At the time we hardly suspected how acu l relv vital the external wing would become. With his wisdom and J i^ pss his patience and organizational skills, his ability to lead and L e without stepping on toes, Oliver was the perfect choice for this
Jssignnient.
Before leaving, Oliver had retained a mutual friend of ours, Hymie Oavidoff a local attorney, to close up our office and wind up our practice. Davidoff made a special request to Colonel Prinsloo to permit me to
come to Johannesburg on weekends to help him put things in order. In
a fit of generosity. Colonel Prinsloo agreed, allowing me to be driven to Johannesburg on Friday afternoons to work in the office all weekend and
then be driven back to the trial on Monday morning. Sergeant Kruger
and I would leave after court adjourned at one o'clock on Friday, and
after arriving at my office, I would work with Davidoffand our accountant
Nathan Marcus. I would spend the nights in Marshall Square prison and
the days at the office.
Sergeant Kruger was a tall and imposing fellow who treated us with
fairness. On the way from Pretoria to Johannesburg, he would often stop
the car and leave me inside while he went into a shop to buy biltong,
oranges, and chocolate for both of us. I thought about jumping out of
the car, especially on Fridays, when the sidewalks and streets were busy
and one could get lost in a crowd.
While at the office, I could walk downstairs to the ground-floor cafe
to buy incidentals, and he turned his head aside on one or two occasions ^en Winnie came to visit me. We had a kind of gentleman's code between us: I would not escape and thereby get him into trouble, while he per- "rtted me a degree of freedom.
36
can , L ^i the day before the trial was to resume, Issy Maisels ^vin?1" to^etnel't0 discuss the grave effect the State of Emergency was ^nsult0"the conduct t^the trial. Because of the Emergency Regulations, '^Pos^ihi01^ tween Ae accused and our lawyers had become virtually ^K u ^; ^wyers, who were based in Johannesburg, had trouble ^en dr in ^nson and were unable to prepare our case. They would "P and be informed that we were not available. Even when
214 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
we were able to see them, consultations were harassed and cut sho
important, Maisels explained that under the Emergency Rea l
those already in detention would be exposing themselves to furrh ons'
tention merely by testifying, for they would inevitably make star e regarded as "subversive," thereby subjecting themselves to ereatp ts alties. Defense witnesses who were not imprisoned now risked detai
if they testified. cnt
The defense team proposed that they withdraw from the case in nrniMaisels
explained the serious implications of such a withdrawal and rh
consequences of our conducting our own defense in a capital case Und
the hostile atmosphere at the time, he said, the judges might see fit
give us longer terms of imprisonment. We discussed the proposal amone
ourselves, and each of the twenty-nine accused -- we were now minus
Wilton Mkwayi -- was able to express his opinion. The resolution was
unanimously endorsed, and it was agreed that Duma Nokwe and I would
help in preparing the case in the absence of our lawyers. I was in favor
of this dramatic gesture, for it highlighted the iniquities of the State of
Emergency.
On April 26, Duma Nokwe, the first African advocate in the Transvaal, rose in court and made the sensational announcement that the accused
were instructing defense counsel to withdraw from the case. Maisels then
said simply, "We have no further mandate and we will consequently not
trouble Your Lordships any further," after which the defense team silently
filed out of the synagogue. This shocked the three-judge panel, who
warned us in direst terms about the dangers of conducting our own
defense. But we were angry and eager to take on the state. For the next
five months, until the virtual end of the Emergency, we conducted our
own defense.
Our strategy was simple and defensive in nature: to drag out the ^ until the State of Emergency was lifted and our lawyers could return.
case had gone on so long already that it did not seem to matter i \\ stretched it out even further. In practice, this strategy became ra
comical. Under the law, each one of us was now entitled to condu
own defense and was able to call as a witness each of the other aca ^ and each of the accused was entitled to cross-examine each wltness'^:
were arranged in alphabetical order according to the docket and a
number one was Farid Adams, of the Transvaal Indian Youth conr^.
Farid would open his case by calling accused number two, "elen ,^p ft as his first witness. After being examined by Farid, Helen wou ,^ l<
cross-examined by the twenty-seven other co-accused. She wou ^ cross-examined by the Crown and reexamined by accused nu ^j
Adams would then proceed to call accused number three, an ^
I
TREASON 215
&.
i procedure would duplicate itself until every accused was called ^^ fashion. At that rate, we would be at trial until the millennium.
ever easy to prepare a case from prison, and in this instance we lr 1!> himpered by the customary apartheid barriers. All of the accused \c 1-1 to be able to meet together but prison regulations prohibited In nes between male and female prisoners, and oetween black and
i - en we were not permitted to consult with Helen Joseph, Leon white, ;>" " . , r> < iť i l
Lew, Lilian Ngoyi, and Bertha Mashaba.
Helen as the first witness to be called, needed to p-epare her evidence
the presence of Duma, myself, and Farid Adams, who would be examinins;
her. After protracted negotiations with the prison authorities, we were permitted to have consultations under very strict conditions.
Helen Joseph, Lilian, Leon, and Bertha were to be brought from their
various prisons and sections (separated by race and gerder) to the African
men's prison. The first stipulation was that there could be no physical
contact between white and black prisoners, and between male and female
prisoners. The authorities erected an iron grille to separate Helen and
Leon (as whites) from us and a second partition to separate them from
Lilian, who was also participating in the preparations. Even a master
architect would have had trouble designing such a structure. In prison
we were separated from each other by this elaborate metal contraption,
while in court we all mingled freely.
We first needed to coach Farid in the art of courtroom etiquette, and
rehearse Helen's testimony. To help Helen, I was playing the role that
rand would play in court. I assumed the proper courtroom manner and h<-'gan the examination.
"Name?" I said.
"Helen Joseph." she replied.
"Age?"
^ence. I repeated, "Age?"
^ slen pursed her lips and waited. Then, after some moments, she \e| w me and said ^^ply' "What has my age to do with this case,
"TiDer n was as ^^"^"g &s she was courageous, but she also had an ^ ttpla' us'Is ^e was a woman "fs certain age, and sensitive about it.
such , r lt was customary to note down the witness's particulars,
court t arne' bs^ ^dress, and place of birth. A witness's age helps the
I cr,-^1^11 llcr Alimony and influences sentencing.
He?en ed: KA^"
corne t^18^- "^son," she said, "I will cross that bridge when I lncourt' but not ""til then. Let us move on."
216 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I then asked her a series of questions that she might expect fro
Crown in a manner perhaps too realistic for her, because at one
Helen turned to me and said, "Are you Mandela or are vn,10"11 -w I u the prosecutor?
There were other light moments, some of which were mmr. couraging.
I was permitted to visit Helen Joseph on weekends and brine h
records of the proceedings. On these occasions I met other women d
tainees and consulted with them as possible witnesses. I was always ver
cordial with the white wardresses, and I noticed that my visits caused
considerable interest. The wardresses had never known there was even
such a species as an African lawyer or doctor, and regarded me as an
exotic creature. But as I became more familiar they became more friendly and at ease, and I joked with them that I would handle any of their legal
problems. Seeing prominent and educated white women discussing serious
matters with a black man on the basis of perfect equality could only lead to the weakening of the wardresses' apartheid assumptions.
Once during a long interview with Helen, I turned to the wardress
who was required to sit in on our conversation and said, "I'm sorry to
bore you with this endless consultation." "No," she said, "you are not
boring me at all, I am enjoying it." I could see she was following our
conversation, and once or twice she even offered small suggestions. I saw
this as one of the side benefits of the trial. Most of these wardresses had
no idea why we were in prison, and gradually began to discover what we
were fighting for and why we were willing to risk jail in the first place.
This is precisely why the National Party was violently opposed to all
forms of integration. Only a white electorate indoctrinated with the idea
of the black threat, ignorant of African ideas and policies, could support
the monstrous racist philosophy of the National Party. Familiarity, in this
case, would not breed contempt, but understanding, and even, eventual \harmony.
The light moments in prison could not make up for the low on
Winnie was allowed to visit on a number of occasions while I was Pretoria, and each time she brought Zenani, who was then beginning
walk and talk. I would hold her and kiss her if the guards P""^"- ^ and toward the end of the interview, hand her back to Winnie. As
was saying good-bye, and the guards were ushering them out, Zeni
often motion for me to come with them, and I could see on
puzzled face that she did not understand why I could not.
to
In court, Farid Adams deftly led Helen through her e^"""^^- He argued frequently and fairly competently with the judges.
TREASON 217
ized: no longer was anyone doing crossword puzzles to pass 1l)\\ en as the accused took turns cross-examining the witnesses, the ;u nlnt 1 the prosecution began to get a sense for the first time of the
1 Il)\\ "liber of the men and women on trial.
: K L dine to South African law, since we were in the Supreme Court, LL is an advocate, was the only one permitted to address the judges
11 -1 I as an attorney, could instruct him, but I was not technically
lrct rred' to address the court, and neither were any of the other de- lx ^ nrs We dismissed our advocates under the correct assumption that
ccused in the absence of representation, would be permitted to ad,
^e court. I addressed the court and Justice Rumpff, trying to
frustrate us, interrupted me. "You appreciate the fact, Mr. Mandela," he
said "that Mr. Nokwe, as an advocate, is the only lawyer who is permitted
to address the court." To which I replied, "Very well. My Lord, I believe
\\e are all prepared to abide by that as long as you are prepared to pay
Mr. Nokwe his fees." From then on no one objected to any of the accused addressing the court.
While Farid was questioning Helen and the subsequent witnesses,
Duma and I sat on either side of him, supplying him with questions,
helping him to deal with legal issues as they arose. In general, he did not
need much prompting. But one day, when we were under constant pres- -ure, we were whispering suggestions to him every few seconds. Farid wmed weary, and Duma and I were running out of material. Then, without consulting us, Farid suddenly asked the judges for a postponement,
saying he was fatigued. The judges refused his application, saying it was not sufficient reason for a postponement and reiterating the warning ^ey gave us the day our lawyers withdrew.
that afternoon there was no singing as we returned to prison, and "eryone sat with sullen faces. A crisis was brewing among the accused.
pon our arrival in prison, a handful of the accused demanded a meeting.
p'u ^ Ac men together, and J. Nkampeni, a businessman from Port
^beth who had helped out the families ofdefiers during the Defiance
Paign, led what turned out to be an attack. you '" nc ^d, using my clan name as a sign of respect, "I want
lawv us w^ you ^rwe ^^f our lawyers." I reminded him that the ^ecn were not ^^^d by any one individual; their withdrawal had ^ourr^0^ by au' deluding himself. "But what did we know about
A .,p!"ocedure' ^diba?" he said. "We relied on you lawyers." ^cm , ;>tantla1 number of men shared Nkampeni's misgivings. I warned ^m,, balnst the "dangers of being disheartened and insisted we were
kc ^q e we^- ^ ^id that today was a minor setback, and that we would Acuities. Our case was far more than a trial of legal issues
218 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
between the Crown and a group of people charged with break
law. It was a trial of strength, a test of the power of a moral ide
an immoral one, and I said we needed to worry about more than ersus legal technique of our advocates. The protest abated.
After Helen Joseph had been cross-examined and reexamined
number three, Ahmed Kathrada, opened his case. It was during th l timony of Kathy's second witness, accused number four, Stanley Loll
a member of the executive of the Coloured People's Congress that P
Minister Verwoerd announced that the State of Emergency would
be lifted. The Emergency had never been intended to be permanent a i the government believed that it had successfully stifled the liberatu
struggle. At this point, our defense lawyers returned, to the general relief
of all of us, though we remained in prison for another few weeks. We
had been kept in detention and had functioned without our lawyers for
more than five months.
My own testimony began on August 3. I felt well prepared through my
preparation of the others. After three years of silence, banning, and internal
exile, I looked forward to the chance to speak out before the people attempting to judge me. During my evidence-in-chief I preached moderation
and reaffirmed the ANC's commitment to nonviolent struggle.
In answer to a question as to whether democracy could be achieved
through gradual reforms, I suggested it could.
We demand universal adult franchise and we are prepared to exert
economic pressure to attain our demands. We will launch defiance campaigns,
stay-at-homes, either singly or together, until the Government
should say, "Gentlemen, we cannot have this state of affairs, laws being
defied, and this whole situation created by stay-at-homes. Let's taik.
In my own view I would say, "Yes, let us talk" and the Government
would say, "We think that the Europeans at present are not read}
for a type of government where they might be dominated by non
Europeans. We think we should give you 60 seats. The African pop
lation to elect 60 Africans to represent them in Parliament. We ^ leave the matter over for five years and we will review it at the en
five years." In my view, that would be a victory. My Lords; we w have taken a significant step toward the attainment of universal a
suffrage for Africans, and we would then for the five years say, Vve
suspend civil disobedience.
The state was determined to prove that I was a dangerous, v1 ^.^ spouting Communist. While I was not a Communist or a mem ^u- party, I did not want to be seen as distancing myself from my
TREASON 219
ll ps Although I could have been sent back to jail for voicing such l} lsr T did not hesitate to reaffirm the tremendous support the Com11 \ rs had given us. At one point, the bench posed the question as to nlu her or not I thought a one-party state was a viable option for South
Atrica-
mm My Lord, it is not a question of form, it is a question of democracy.
If democracy would be best expressed by a one-party system then I
would examine the proposition very carefully. But if a democracy
could best be expressed by a multiparty system then I would examine
that carefully. In this country, for example, we have a multiparty
system at present, but so far as the non-Europeans are concerned
this is the most vicious despotism that you could think of.
I became testy with Judge Rumpffwhen he fell into the same mistake
made by so many white South Africans about the idea of a universal
franchise. Their notion was that to exercise this responsibility, voters must
be "educated." To a narrow-thinking person, it is hard to explain that to
be "educated" does not only mean being literate and having a B.A., and
that an illiterate man can be a far more "educated" voter than someone
with an advanced degree.
justice rumpfp: What is the value of participation in the Government
of a state of people who know nothing?
NM: My Lord, what happens when illiterate whites vote . . .
justice rumpff: Are they not subject as much to the influence of election leaders as children would be?
NM: No, My Lord, this is what happens in practice. A man stands up
to contest a seat in a particular area; he draws up a manifesto, and
he says, "These are the ideas for which I stand"; it is a rural area wd he says, "I am against stock limitation"; then, listening to the
Policy of this person, you decide whether this man will advance your
interests if you return him to Parliament, and on that basis you vote tor a candidate. It has nothing to do with education. STICE rumpfp: He only looks to his own interests?
No, a man looks at a man who will be able to best present his
Point of view and votes for that man.
' 'oien cowt that we believed we could achieve our demands without cc' "'""ugh our numerical superiority.
to ,. in "^"d that in the foreseeable future it will be possible for us ^cm .^vc se ^^"ds, and we worked on the basis that Europeans ves in ^ite of the wall of prejudice and hostility which we
220 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
encountered, that they can never remain indifferent indefinitely to
demands, because we are hitting them in the stomach with our ool of economic pressure. The Europeans dare not look at it with ind 'if ference. They would have to respond to it and indeed. My Lord th
are responding to it.
The Emergency was lifted on the last day of August. We would ho going home for the first time in five months. When people in Johann
burg heard about the end of the Emergency, they drove up on the chanr
that we might be released; when we were let go, we were met with
jubilant reception from friends and family. Winnie had gotten a ride to
Pretoria and our reunion was joyous. I had not held my wife in five
months or seen her smile with joy. For the first time in five months I
slept in my own bed that night.
After one has been in prison, it is the small things that one appreciates:
being able to take a walk whenever one wants, going into a shop and
buying a newspaper, speaking or choosing to remain silent. The simple
act of being able to control one's person.
Even after the end of the Emergency, the trial continued for another nine
months until March 29, 1961. In many ways, these were the glory days
for the accused, for our own people were on the stand fearlessly enunciating
ANC policy. Robert Resha forcefully disputed the government's
absurd contention that the ANC wanted to induce the government to
use violence so we could use violence in return. Gert Sibande eloquently
told the court of the miseries of African farmworkers. Venerable Isaac
Behndy ofLadysmith, eighty-one years old, a lay preacher of the African
Native Mission Church, explained why we opted for stay-at-homes instead
of strikes.
In October, the redoubtable Professor Matthews was called as our final
witness. He was imperturbable on the witness stand and treated
prosecutors as though they were errant students who needed stern a
monishment. Often he would reply to the overmastered prosecutor w i
some version of the following: "What you really want me to say is[ the speech which you allege is violent represents the policy of my o &
nization. First, your contention is incorrect and second, I am no g
to say that." i^
He explained in beautiful language that the African people kne\\ ^,
a nonviolent struggle would entail suffering but had chosen it
they prized freedom above all else. People, he said, will willingly un ^ the severest suffering in order to free themselves from oppressio
^T|
TREASON 221
Matthews in the dock, the defense ended on a high note. After r0- hed testifying. Justice Kennedy shook his hand and expressed the that they would meet again under better circumstances.
^ 37
t.
after THE LIFTING of the Emergency, the National Executive
(nnunittee met secretly in September to discuss the future. We had had
tiscussions in jail during the trial, but this was our first formal session.
The state was arming itself not for an external threat but an internal one.
We would not disband but carry on from underground. We would have
to depart from the democratic procedures outlined in the ANC's constitution,
of holding conferences, branch meetings, and public gatherings.
New structures had to be created for communication with unbanned
Congress organizations. But all of these new structures were illegal and
would subject the participants to arrest and imprisonment. The executive
committee and its subordinate structures would have to be severely streamlined to adapt to illegal conditions. Of necessity, we dissolved the ANC
Youth League and Women's League. Some fiercely resisted these changes;
but the fact was that we were now an illegal organization. For those who
would continue to participate, politics went from being a risky occupation
to a truly perilous one.
Though Mandela and Tambo had closed its doors and settled its remaining
accounts, I continued to do whatever legal work I could. Numerous
colleagues readily made their offices, staff, and phone facilities
available to me, but most of the time I preferred to work from Ahmed
Kathrada's flat, number 13 Kholvad House. Although my practice had ""solved, my reputation as a lawyer was undimmed. Soon, the lounge 0 number 13 and the hallway outside were crammed with clients. Kathy ou d return home and discover to his dismay that the only room in lch he ^Id be alone was his kitchen.
^ uring this period, I hardly had time for meals and saw very little of
harle^ ^ \vou^ stay late in Pretoria preparing for our case, or rush ^'ith to dle ^"Aer case. When I could actually sit down to supper ^inn"^ ^ tfle ^ephone would ring and I would be called away.
hu^ was P^nant again and infinitely patient. She was hoping her ""t t^\. '"'S111 ^tually be at the hospital when she gave birth. But it was
<was ill i ^l (^nnstmas adjournment in 1960, I learned that Makgatho ; the Transkei where he was at school and I violated my banning
222 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
orders and went down to see him. I drove the entire night, stopoin
for petrol. Makgatho required surgery, and I decided to brine him h
with me to Johannesburg. I again drove all night, and took Makgaih
his mother's place while I went to arrange for his surgery. When T °
turned, I learned that Winnie had already gone into labor. I rushed e the non-European wing of Bridgman Memorial Hospital to find rh °
mother and daughter were already in residence. The Newborn girl w
fine, but Winnie was very weak.
We named our new daughter Zindziswa, after the daughter of the nopt
laureate of the Xhosa people, Samuel Mqhayi, who had inspired me sn
many years before at Healdtown. The poet returned home after a very
long trip to find that his wife had given birth to a daughter. He had not
known that she was pregnant and assumed that the child had been fathered
by another man. In our culture, when a woman gives birth, the husband
does not enter the house where she is confined for ten days. In this case
the poet was too enraged to observe this custom, and he stormed into
the house with an assegai, ready to stab both mother and daughter. But
when he looked at the baby girl and saw that she was the image of himself,
he stepped back, and said, "u zindzile," which means, "You are well established."
He named her Zindziswa, the feminine version of what he
had said.
38
THE CROWN took over a month to do its summing up, which was
often interrupted by interjections from the bench pointing out lapses in
the argument. In March, it was our turn. Issy Maisels categorically refuted
the charges of violence. "We admit that there is a question of noncooperation
and passive resistance," he said. "We shall say quite frankly that
ifnoncooperation and passive resistance constitute high treason, then ^u are guilty. But these are plainly not encompassed in the law of treason
Maisels's argument was continued by Bram Fischer, but on Marc.
the bench cut short Bram's concluding argument. We still had wee1^^ argument ahead, but the judges asked for a week's adjournment.TI11S,
irregular, but we regarded it as a hopeful sign, for it suggested the)" had already formed their opinion. We were to return to court ^ later for what we presumed would be the verdict. In the meantime
work to do. t ^.i- My bans were due to expire two days after the adjournment. ^
almost certain that the police would not be aware of this, as . ^ kept track of when bans ended. It would be the first time in "e1
TREASON 223
t ^yould be free to leave Johannesburg, free to attend a meeting. lr< -pkend was the long-planned All-in Conference in Pietermaritz- ^'} Jr i <; aim was to agitate for a national constitutional convention for
"r rh Africans. I was secretly scheduled to be the main speaker at the
^rr T would make the three-hundred-mile drive down to Pieter(iiiteri'nLc-  i i i j i
' . Vivse. the night before 1 was scheduled to speak.
1 Tl dav before I was to leave, the National Working Committee met
...Iv to discuss strategy. After many meetings in prison and out- if we had decided that we would work from underground, adopting
i-rateev along the lines of the M-Plan. The organization would survive
landestinely. It was decided that if we were not convicted I would go
underground to travel about the country organizing the proposed national
onvention. Only someone operating full-time from underground would
he free from the paralyzing restrictions imposed by the enemy. It was
decided that I would surface at certain events, hoping for a maximum of
publicity, to show that the ANC was still fighting. It was not a proposal
that came as a surprise to me, nor was it one I particularly relished, but
it was something I knew I had to do. This would be a hazardous life, and I would be apart from my family, but when a man is denied the right
to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.
When I returned home from the meeting it was as if Winnie could
read my thoughts. Seeing my face, she knew that I was about to embark
on a life that neither of us wanted. I explained what had transpired and
that I would be leaving the next day. She took this stoically, as if she had "pected it all along. She understood what I had to do, but that did not "lak it any easier for her. I asked her to pack a small suitcase for me. I torn ^er lhat friends and relatives would look after her while I was gone.
'- not tell her how long I would be gone and she did not ask. It was
l"st as well, because I did not know the answer. I would return to Pretoria
or what would probably be the verdict on Monday. No matter the result,
°uld not be returning home: if we were convicted, I would go directly 'prlson; it we were discharged, I would immediately go underground.
\ elder son, Thembi, was in school in the Transkei, so I could not
iaufh10'1 bye to him' but that afternoon 1 fetched Makgatho and my ^urster Makaziwe from their mother in Orlando East. We spent some
'aid o0^'11^ wcuki"g on the veld outside town, talking and playing. I
h]|rj,.p /e to them, not knowing when I would see them again. The ^esri^- 01 a freedom fighter also learn not to ask their father too many
"i and I could see in their eyes that they understood that someAt
^rlous was occurring.
": ^r w' ^' sed the two girls good-bye and they waved as I got in ith Wilson Conco and began the long drive to Natal.
ljr
224	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
* * *
Fourteen hundred delegates from all over the country represent hundred fifty different religious, social, cultural, and political bod' un^ verged on Pietermaritzburg for the All-in Conference. When I i^ out onstage on Saturday evening, March 25, in front of this low I enthusiastic audience, it had been nearly five years since I had been if to give a speech on a public platform. I was met with a joyous rear e I had almost forgotten the intensity of the experience of addressi
crowd.
In my speech I called for a national convention in which all South
Africans, black and white, Indian and Coloured, would sit down in brotherhood
and create a constitution that mirrored the aspirations of the country as a whole. I called for unity, and said we would be invincible if
we spoke with one voice.
The All-in Conference called for a national convention of elected representatives
of all adult men and women on an equal basis to determine
a new nonracial democratic constitution for South Africa. A National
Action Council was elected, with myself as honorary secretary, to communicate
this demand to the government. If the government failed to call
such a convention, we would call a countrywide three-day stay-away beginning
on May 29 to coincide with the declaration of South Africa as a
republic. I had no illusions that the state would agree to our proposal.
In October 1960, the government had held an all-white referendum on
whether South Africa should become a republic. This was one of the
long-cherished dreams of Afrikaner nationalism, to cast off ties to the
country they had fought against in the Anglo-Boer War. The pro-republic sentiment won with 52 percent of the vote, and the proclamation of the
republic was set for May 31, 1961. We set our stay-at-home on the date of
the proclamation to indicate that such a change for us was merely cosmetn.
Directly after the conference I sent Prime Minister Verwocrd a letter
in which I formally enjoined him to call a national constitutional co" vention. I warned him that if he failed to call the convention we vou^ stage the country's most massive three-day strike ever, beginning on i
29. "We have no illusions about the counter-measures your g0^""'^.
might take," I wrote. "During the last twelve months we have g^ through a period of grim dictatorship." I also issued press staM ^ affirming that the strike was a peaceful and nonviolent stay-athom^ woerd did not reply, except to describe my letter in Parliament " ^ rogant." The government instead began to mount one of t
intimidating displays of force ever assembled in the country s
TREASON 225
39
rvPN BEFORE the doors of the Old Synagogue opened on the mom-
nf March 29,1961, the day of the long-anticipated verdict in the Treason
t I a crowd of supporters and press people jostled to get inside.
Hundreds were turned away. When the judges brought the court to order,
the visitors' gallery and the press bench were packed. Moments after Justice Rumpff pounded his gavel, the Crown made an extraordinary
application to change the indictment. This was the fifty-ninth minute of
the eleventh hour, and it was two years too late. The court rebuffed the
prosecution and the gallery murmured its approval.
"Silence in the court!" the orderly yelled, and Judge Rumpff announced
that the three-judge panel had reached a verdict. Silence now reigned. In
his deep, even voice. Judge Rumpff reviewed the court's conclusions. Yes,
the African National Congress had been working to replace the government
with a "radically and fundamentally different form of state"; yes,
the African National Congress had used illegal means of protest during
the Defiance Campaign; yes, certain ANC leaders had made speeches
advocating violence; and yes, there was a strong left-wing tendency in
the ANC that was revealed in its anti-imperialist, anti-West, pro-Soviet
attitudes, but --
On all the evidence presented to mis court and on our finding of fact
it is impossible for this court to come to the conclusion that the African national Congress had acquired or adopted a policy to overthrow the
state by violence, that is, in the sense that the masses had to be prepared
or conditioned to commit direct acts of violence against the state.
The court said the prosecution had failed to prove that the ANC was -ornmunist organization or that the Freedom Charter envisioned a
_iTUTiunist state. After speaking for forty minutes, Justice Rumpff said,
^accused are accordingly found not guilty and are discharged."
oth t SPectators' gallery erupted in cheers. We stood and hugged each ^ r, and waved to the happy courtroom. All of us then paraded into ^ ,, ""^''"'d, smiling, laughing, crying. The crowd yelled and chanted ''hou]^"1^^' ^ ""^"ber of us hoisted our defense counsels on our ^ch ^rs' wnlc^ was n0 ^sy task in the case of Issy Maisels, for he was '"'"Und ^c man' ^^hbulbs were popping all around us. We looked her in or ""^"ds, wives, relatives. Winnie had come up and I hugged
°y, though I knew that while I might be free for this moment, I
226 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
would not be able to savor that freedom. When we were all
together, the Treason Trialists and the crowd all began to sine Ť\n, SikeW iAfrika." ° Nws1
After more than four years in court and dozens of prosecutors rh
sands of documents and tens of thousands of pages of testimony the
had failed in its mission. The verdict was an embarrassment to the
eminent, both at home and abroad. Yet the result only embittered h
state against us even further. The lesson they took away was not thar
had legitimate grievances but that they needed to be far more ruthles
I did not regard the verdict as a vindication of the legal system or evidenc
that a black man could get a fair trial in a white man's court. It was the
right verdict and a just one, but it was largely as a result of a superior
defense team and the fair-mindedness of the panel of these particular
judges.
The court system, however, was perhaps the only place in South Africa
where an African could possibly receive a fair hearing and where the rule
of law might still apply. This was particularly true in courts presided over
by enlightened judges who had been appointed by the United Party.
Many of these men still stood by the rule of law.
As a student, I had been taught that South Africa was a place where
the rule of law was paramount and applied to all persons, regardless of
their social status or official position. I sincerely believed this and planned
my life based on that assumption. But my career as a lawyer and activist
removed the scales from my eyes. I saw that there was a wide difference
between what I had been taught in the lecture room and what I learned
in the courtroom. I went from having an idealistic view of the law as a
sword of justice to a perception of the law as a tool used by the ruling
class to shape society in a way favorable to itself. I never expected )us' tice in court, however much I fought for it, and though I sometimes received
it.
In the case of the Treason Trial, the three judges rose above vsws prejudices, their education, and their background. There is a sere
goodness in men that can be buried or hidden and then emerge
pectedly. Justice Rumpff, with his aloof manner, gave the ^P'^g
throughout the proceedings that he shared the point of view of the
white minority. Yet in the end, an essential fairness dominated his) ^ ment. Kennedy was less conservative than his colleagues and see ^ tracted by the idea of equality. Once, for example, he and Dun13^ ^ flew on the same plane from Durban to Johannesburg, and w ^ji airline bus to town refused to take Duma, Kennedy refused to n ^^ as well. Judge Bekker always struck me as open-minded and seem
TREASON 227
, reused before him had suffered a great deal at the hands of the
T commended these three men as individuals, not as representatives <ta he court or of the state or even of their race, but as exemplars of ^man decency under adversity.
, Jpg Bekker's wife was a person sensitive to the needs of others.
ine the State of Emergency, she collected goods which she brought to the accused.
But the consequence of the government's humiliating defeat was that
rhe state decided never to let it happen again. From that day forth they acre not going to rely on judges whom they had not themselves appointed.
They were not going to observe what they considered the legal
niceties that protected terrorists or permitted convicted prisoners certain
riehts in jail. During the Treason Trial, there were no examples of individuals
being isolated, beaten, and tortured in order to elicit information.
All of those things became commonplace shortly thereafter.
Part Six
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL
40
niD NOT return home after the verdict. Although others were in a
- c mood, and eager to celebrate, I knew the authorities could strike moment, and I did not want to give them the opportunity. I was
ious to be off before I was banned or arrested, and I spent the night gfg house in Johannesburg. It was a restless night in a strange bed,
j j started at the sound of every car, thinking it might be the police.
Walter and Duma saw me off on the first leg of my journey, which was to take me to Port Elizabeth. In P.E., I met with Govan Mbeki and
Raymond Mhlaba to discuss the new underground structures of the organization.
We met at the house of Dr. Masia Father, who would later
be sentenced to two years in prison for allowing us to meet at his home.
At safe houses arranged by the organization, I met the editor of the liberal Port Elizabeth Morning Post to discuss the campaign for a national convention,
a goal several newspapers subsequently endorsed. I later visited
Patrick Duncan, the editor and publisher of the liberal weekly Contact, a
founding member of the Liberal Party, and one of the first white defiers
during the Defiance Campaign. His newspaper had repeatedly been decrying
ANC policy as being dictated by Communists, but when he saw me the first thing he said was that a close reading of the Treason Trial tcord had disabused him of that notion and he would correct it in his
paper.
lhat night I addressed a meeting of African township ministers in
pe Town. I mention this because the opening prayer of one of the
misters has stayed with me over these many years and was a source of ^'"gth at a difficult time. He thanked the Lord for His bounty and
:'><) ness' fo1" His mercy and His concern for all men. But then he took ^ ' crty of reminding the Lord that some of His subjects were more
Sodden than others, and that it sometimes seemed as though He ^'ot P-^g attention. The minister then said that if the Lord did not ^lack a ""ore initiative in leading the black man to salvation, the
0 man ^^d have to take matters into his own two hands. Amen. ^x^ my last "morning in Cape Town, I was leaving my hotel in the ^lop^i of ^"^ ^ake, a founding member of the South African
iianaee ^"P^'s Organization, and I stopped to thank the Coloured ^'curi ° hotel for looking after me so well. He was grateful, but
""^un0"'' Iie hlac*discoverec1 "V identity and told me that the Coloured
y reared that under an African government they would be just
232 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
as oppressed as under the present white government. He was a m a class businessman who probably had little contact with African
feared them in the same way as whites did. This was a frequent a ant^ on the part of the Coloured community, especially in the Can letv though I was running late, I explained the Freedom Charter to this if ^
and stressed our commitment to nonracialism. A freedom fi&hrp, 0\\ i ii- i . ^^'ii^cr must
take every opportunity to make his case to the people.
The following day I joined a secret meeting of the ANC Narin
Executive Committee and the joint executives of the Congress movem
in Durban to discuss whether the planned action should take the for
of a stay-at-home or a full-fledged strike with organized pickets and dem
onstrations. Those who argued for the strike said that the stay-at-home
strategy we had used since 1950 had outlasted its usefulness, that at a time
when the PAC was appealing to the masses, more militant forms of the
struggle were necessary. The alternative view, which I advocated, was that
stay-at-homes allowed us to strike at the enemy while preventing him from
striking back. I argued that the confidence of the people in our campaigns
had grown precisely because they realized that we were not reckless with
their lives. Sharpeville, I said, for all the heroism of the demonstrators,
allowed the enemy to shoot down our people. I argued for stay-at-homes
even though I was aware that our people around the country were becoming
impatient with passive forms of struggle, but I did not think we
should depart from our proven tactics without comprehensive planning.
and we had neither the time nor the resources to do so. The decision was
for a stay-at-home.
Living underground requires a seismic psychological shift. One has to
plan every action, however small and seemingly insignificant. Nothing is
innocent. Everything is questioned. You cannot be yourself; you must
fully inhabit whatever role you have assumed. In some ways, this is no
much of an adaptation for a black man in South Africa. Under aparthci
a black man lived a shadowy life between legality and illegality, betvee^ openness and concealment. To be a black man in South Africa mean
to trust anything, which was not unlike living underground tor
entire life. , ^g
I became a creature of the night. I would keep to my hideout
the day, and would emerge to do my work when it became dark. op ^ mainly from Johannesburg, but I would travel as necessary 1 st ^.
empty flats, in people's houses, wherever I could be alone and in ^ [
uous. Although I am a gregarious person, I love solitude even ^ welcomed the opportunity to be by myself, to plan, to think, to p
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 233
have too much of solitude. I was terribly lonesome for my wife
in rh kev to being underground is to be invisible. Just as there is a way . Ik in a room in order to make yourself stand out, there is a way of r0 ik'ne and behaving that makes you inconspicuous. As a leader, one
ť .n seeks prominence; as an outlaw, the opposite is true. When un0 --ound I did not walk as tall or stand as straight. I spoke more softly, 1 rh less clarity and distinction. I was more passive, more unobtrusive;
r did not ask for things, but instead let people tell me what to do. I did
of shave or cut my hair. My most frequent disguise was as a chauffeur,
a chef or a "garden boy." I would wear the blue overalls of the fieldworker
and often wore round, rimless glasses known as Mazzawati teaglasses.
I had a car and I wore a chauffeur's cap with my overalls. The
pose of chauffeur was convenient because I could travel under the pretext
of driving my master's car.
During those early months, when there was a warrant for my arrest
and I was being pursued by the police, my outlaw existence caught the
imagination of the press. Articles claiming that I had been here and there
were on the front pages. Roadblocks were instituted all over the country,
but the police repeatedly came up empty-handed. I was dubbed the Black
Pimpernel, a somewhat derogatory adaptation of Baroness Orczy's fictional
character the Scarlet Pimpernel, who daringly evaded capture during
the French Revolution.
I traveled secretly about the country; I was with Muslims in the Cape;
with sugar-workers in Natal; with factory workers in Port Elizabeth; I
moved through townships in different parts of the country attending ^cret meetings at night. I would even feed the mythology of the Black
impernel by taking a pocketful of "tickeys" 20 (threepenny pieces) and
P oning individual newspaper reporters from telephone boxes and relay-
"g to them stories of what we were planning or of the ineptitude of the
' ILe-l ^uld pop up here and there to the annoyance of the police and t() the delight of the people.
un^ re were "^"y wu(! an<^ inaccurate stories about my experiences ^rground. People love to embellish tales of daring. I did have a number
I wa. ^.^"P^i however, which no one knew about. On one occasion,
and ^ "^S in town and I stopped at a traffic light. I looked to my left
rand ^n ^i^ent car saw Colonel Spongier, the chief of the Witwaters^e
^ia -^ ^ nc^- ^ '^uld have been a great plum for him to catch
and ^-, . '"^psrnel. I was wearing a workman's cap, my blue overalls,
^tine if asses' He never lookeci my way, but even so the seconds I spent ^8 or the light to change seemed like hours.
234 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
One afternoon, when I was in Johannesburg posing as a chauff- wearing my long duster and cap, I was waiting on a corner to be ^ up and I saw an African policeman striding deliberate! v toward e(^ looked around to see if I had a place to run, but before I did he <; i
at me and surreptitiously gave me the thumbs-up ANC salute and
gone. Incidents like this happened many times, and I was reassured \ h
I saw that we had the loyalty of many African policemen. There \\
black sergeant who used to tip off Winnie as to what the police
doing. He would whisper to her, "Make sure Madiba is not in Alexand
on Wednesday night because there is going to be a raid." Black policemen
have often been severely criticized during the struggle, but many have
played covert roles that have been extremely valuable.
When I was underground, I remained as unkempt as possible. My
overalls looked as if they had been through a lifetime of hard toil. The
police had one picture of me with a beard, which they widely distributed
and my colleagues urged me to shave it off. But I had become attached
to my beard, and I resisted all efforts to get me to shave.
Not only was I not recognized, I was sometimes snubbed. Once, I was
planning to attend a meeting in a distant area of Johannesburg and a wellknown
priest arranged with friends of his to put me up for the night. I
arrived at the door, and before I could announce who I was, the elderly lady who answered exclaimed, "No, we don't want such a man as you
here!" and shut the door.
41
MY TIME UNDERGROUND was mainly taken up in planning the
May 29 stay-at-home. It was shaping up to be a virtual war between the
state and the liberation movement. Late in May, the government stage
countrywide raids on opposition leaders. Meetings were banned; prin presses
were seized; and legislation was rushed through Parliament y- mining the police to detain charged prisoners for twelve days wit
baiL wVerwoerd
declared that those supporting the strike, including s'
pathetic newspapers, were "playing with fire," an ominous dec ar ^ given the ruthlessness of the state. The government urged mdus ^ provide sleeping accommodations for workers so that they would'- n ^ to return home during the strike. Two days before the stay-at- ° .^r
government staged the greatest peacetime show offeree in Sout ^ history. The military exercised its largest call-up since the ^a ^ holidays were canceled. Military units were stationed at the entr-1
235
| THE BLACK PIMPERNEL
frwnships. While Saracen tanks rumbled through the dirt streets exlrs ° wnships, helicopters hovered above, swooping down to break up 0[ herine. At night, the helicopters trained searchlights on houses. ^T^ Fnelish-language press had widely publicized the campaign until
Aws before it was to begin. But on the eve of the stay-at-home the l Fnelish-language press crumbled and urged people to go to work. h PAC played the role of saboteur and released thousands of flyers
 people to oppose the stay-at-home, and denouncing the ANC
i1 ders as cowards. The PAC's actions shocked us. It is one thing to
- ricizc and that we can accept, but to attempt to break a strike by calling
non the people to go to work directly serves the interests of the enemy.
The night before the stay-at-home, I was scheduled to meet the Johannesburg
leadership of the ANC at a safe house in Soweto. To avoid police
roadblocks, I entered Soweto through Kliptown, which was normally not
patrolled. But as I went around a blind corner I drove straight into what
I had been trying to avoid: a roadblock. A white policeman motioned
for me to stop. I was dressed in my usual costume of overalls and chauffeur's
cap. He squinted through the window at me and then stepped
forward and searched the car on his own. Normally, this was the duty of
the African police. After he found nothing, he demanded my pass. I told
him that I had left it at home by mistake, and casually recited a fictitious
pass number. This seemed to satisfy him and he motioned for me to drive
through.
On Monday, May 29, the first day of the stay-at-home, hundreds of
thousands of people risked their jobs and livelihoods by not going to ftorK- ^n Durban, Indian workers walked out of factories while in the
ape thousands of Coloured workers stayed home. In Johannesburg, more 1an w °f employees stayed home and in Port Elizabeth the rate was ^ higher. I praised the response as "magnificent" to the press, lauding r people for "defying unprecedented intimidation by the state." The
,, '-"^ration of Republic Day was drowned out by our protest.
'raa ° reports on the first day of the stay-at-home suggested strong
,cs^ ,l in ^f^us parts of the country, the response as a whole appeared ^avs \\e ^ hoped. Communication was difficult, and bad news
^"ie inT1?8 to trave1 more ^"^y Aan good news. As more reports 'ccling. j let down and disappointed by the reaction. That evening,
^gru^d 10ra ^ and a ^>lt ^PY' ^ "ad a conversation with Benjamin "^'oler*^ Rand D0^ Mai1 in whid1 J suggested that the days of
On (h stru§gle ^re over.
^^cs second ^ of the stay-at-home, after consultations with my
' called it off. I met that morning in a safe flat in a white
236 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
suburb with various members of the local and foreign press and again called the stay-at-home "a tremendous success." But I did n on(:c the fact that I believed a new day was dawning. I said, "If the gove rnas^ reaction is to crush by naked force our nonviolent struggle, we w'll i^ to reconsider our tactics. In my mind we are closing a chapter n i^ question of a nonviolent policy." It was a grave declaration, and T Ic is it. I was criticized by our executive for making that remark before r discussed by the organization, but sometimes one must go public .' i, an idea to push a reluctant organization in the direction you want to go.
The debate on the use of violence had been going on among us sine
early 1960.1 had first discussed the armed struggle as far back as 1952 wnh
Walter. Now, I again conferred with him and we agreed that the organization
had to set out on a new course. The Communist Party had
secretly reconstituted itself underground and was now considering forming its own military wing. We decided that I should raise the issue of the
armed struggle within the Working Committee, and I did so in a meeting
in June of 1961.
I had barely commenced my proposal when Moses Kotane, the secretary
of the Communist Party and one of the most powerful figures in
the ANC executive, staged a counterassault, accusing me of not having
thought out the proposal carefully enough. He said that I had been
outmaneuvered and paralyzed by the government's actions, and now m
desperation I was resorting to revolutionary language. "There is still
room," he stressed, "for the old methods if we are imaginative and determined
enough. If we embark on the course Mandela is suggesting, we will be exposing innocent people to massacres by the enemy."
Moses spoke persuasively and I could see that he had defeated m\ proposal. Even Walter did not speak on my behalf, and I backed do\vi^ Afterward I spoke with Walter and voiced my frustration, chiding hi" for not coming to my aid. He laughed and said it would have been i foolish as attempting to fight a pride of angry lions. Walter is a dip o ^ and extremely resourceful. "Let me arrange for Moses to come an ^ you privately," he said, "and you can make your case that way- l ^ underground, but Walter managed to put the two of us togeth" house in the township and we spent the whole day talking. 
I was candid and explained why I believed we had no choice ^ ^ turn to violence. I used an old African expression: Sebatana ha." ^ ^ ka diatia (The attacks of the wild beast cannot be averted with 01 ^ , hands). Moses was an old-line Communist, and I told him t ^ position was like the Communist Party in Cuba under Batista. ^ ^ had insisted that the appropriate conditions had not y^ ar
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 237
, -ayse they were simply following the textbook definitions of \<alte d Stalin. Castro did not wait, he acted -- and he triumphed. If
L^"1" . r^ textbook conditions, they will never occur. I told Moses you hiank that his mind was stuck in the old mold of the ANC's being
P01 , -..-ganization. People were already forming military units on their ' l""' nd the only organization that had the muscle to lead them was the
'vr We have always maintained that the people were ahead of us, and
now they were.
We talked the entire day, and at the end, Moses said to me, "Nelson,
. , pQi promise you anything, but raise the issue again in committee,
j ^,g win see what happens." A meeting was scheduled in a week's time,
and once again I raised the issue. This time, Moses was silent, and the general consensus of the meeting was that I should make the proposal to
the National Executive Committee in Durban. Walter simply smiled.
The executive meeting in Durban, like all ANC meetings at the time,
was held in secret and at night in order to avoid the police. I suspected
I would encounter difficulties because Chief Luthuli was to be in attendance
and I knew of his moral commitment to nonviolence. I was also
wary because of the timing: I was raising the issue of violence so soon
after the Treason Trial, where we had contended that for the ANC nonviolence
was an inviolate principle, not a tactic to be changed as conditions
warranted. I myself believed precisely the opposite: that nonviolence was
a tactic that should be abandoned when it no longer worked.
At the meeting I argued that the state had given us no alternative to
violence. I said it was wrong and immoral to subject our people to armed attacks by the state without offering them some kind of alternative. I mentioned again that people on their own had taken up arms. Violence "'ould begin whether we initiated it or not. Would it not be better to
i^'de this violence ourselves, according to principles where we save lives
, ^^ing symbols of oppression, and not people? If we did not take
Md now, I said, we would soon be latecomers and followers to a -'^nient we did not control.
"or e ^"^t1'1^ resisted my arguments. For him, nonviolence was
'W "^ a tactlc- ^ut we worked on him the whole night; and I think
i " is heart he realized that we were right. He ultimately agreed that ^.rha ary^""P^gn was inevitable. When someone later insinuated that ^on i-^ ctllef was not prepared for such a course, he retorted, "If ^ow h pm a pacifist, let him try to take my chickens, and he will
The i? wrong he is!" ttle ^orlr tlona^ ^^utive formally endorsed the preliminary decision of
trcat this n^ rnmlttee- The chief and others suggested that we should new ^solution as if the ANC had not discussed it. He did not
240 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Over China I saw that it was Mao's determination and nonfrarl thinking that led him to victory. I read The Revolt by Menachem R10"^ and was encouraged by the fact that the Israeli leader had led a ei ^ force in a country with neither mountains nor forests, a situation ia to our own. I was eager to know more about the armed struggle r ^ people of Ethiopia against Mussolini, and of the guerrilla armies of K e Algeria, and the Cameroons. '
I went into the South African past. I studied our history both bef
and after the white man. I probed the wars of African against Afric
of African against white, of white against white. I made a survey of rh
country's chief industrial areas, the nation's transportation system ir communication network. I accumulated detailed maps and systematically analyzed the terrain of different regions of the country.
On June 2.6, 1961, our Freedom Day, I released a letter to South African
newspapers from underground, which commended the people for their
courage during the recent stay-at-home, once more calling for a national
constitutional convention. I again proclaimed that a countrywide campaign
of noncooperation would be launched if the state failed to hold
such a convention. My letter read in part:
I am informed that a warrant for my arrest has been issued, and that
the police arc looking for me. The National Action Council has given
full and serious consideration to this question . . . and they have advised
me not to surrender myself. I have accepted this advice, and will not
give myself up to a Government I do not recognize. Any serious politician
will realize that under present day conditions in the country, to
seek for cheap martyrdom by handing myself to the police is naive and
criminal. . . .
I have chosen this course which is more difficult and which entails
more risk and hardship than sitting in gaol. I have had to separate mysel
from my dear wife and children, from my mother and sisters to live as
an outlaw in my own land. I have had to close my business, to abandon
my profession, and live in poverty, as many of my people are doing.
shall fight the Government side by side with you, inch by inch, a" mile by mile, until victory is won. What are you going to do? Wi .
come along with us, or are you going to co-operate with the Oo\
ment in its efforts to suppress the claims and aspirations or V01"-,.^,
people? Are you going to remain silent and neutral in a matter
and death to my people, to our people? For my own part I have
my choice. I will not leave South Africa, nor will I surrender.
r^|
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 241
h hardship, sacrifice and militant action can freedom be won. rruegk is "V ^e' ^ w1^ continue fighting for freedom until the Jofmydws.
43
nl'RiNG THOSE FIRST few months underground I lived for a few
.ks with a family on Market Street, after which I shared a one-room ' iiind-floor bachelor flat with Wolfie Kodesh in Berea, a quiet white ^ihurb a short distance north of downtown. Wolfie was a member of the
(oneress of Democrats, a reporter forNewA^ge, and had fought in North
Vrica and Italy during World War II. His knowledge of warfare and his firsthand battle experience were extremely helpful to me. At his suggestion
I read the Prussian general Karl von Clausewitz's classic work On War. Clausewitz's central thesis, that war was a continuation of diplomacy by
other means, dovetailed with my own instincts. I relied on Wolfie to
procure reading material for me and I fear that I took over his life,
infringing on both his work and pleasure. But he was such an amiable,
modest fellow that he never complained.
I spent nearly two months in his flat, sleeping on a campaign stretcher, saying inside during the day with the blinds drawn reading and planning, having only for meetings or organizing sessions at night. I annoyed Wolfie
"cry morning, for I would wake up at five, change into my sweat clothes, W run in place for more than an hour. Wolfie eventually surrendered to [n\ regimen and began working out with me in the morning before he ^ft for town.
" was Aen practicing setting off explosions. One night, I accom-
- leu Wolfie to an old brickworks on the outskirts of town for a demation.
It was a security risk, but I wanted to attend MK's first test y ^plosive device. Explosions were common at the brickworks, for
-bin e!> wou^ use dynamite to loosen the clay before the great ma-,
s ^^ped it up to make bricks. Jack Hodgson had brought along a
) h tln ^ec^ wlt^ "^oglycerin; he had created a timing device that
; c '""de of a ball-point pen. It was dark and we had only a small
'ni h c!we sto0^ to fhe side as Jack worked. When it was ready, we 3nd ^ .I< w^ counted down to thirty seconds; there was a great roar ^ktv --P^cd earth. The explosion had been a success, and we all ^^^_turned to our cars and went off in different directions.
242	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
* * *
I felt sate in Berea. I did not go outside, and because it was a wh
the police would probably not think to look for me there. Wh'l ^rvi''
reading in the flat during the day, I would often place a pine of n^
the windowsill to allow it to ferment. I am very fond of rhi>; r,. ()p j * liua sour ni,n-
which is known as amasi among the Xhosa people and is ereariv
as a healthy and nourishing food. It is very simple to make and .
involves letting the milk stand in the open air and curdle. It then be
thick and sour, rather like yogurt. I even prevailed upon Wolfie to rr '
but he grimaced when he tasted it.
One evening, after Wolfie had returned, we were chatting in the fl
when I overheard a conversation going on near the window. I could hea
two young black men speaking in Zulu, but I could not see them as the
curtains were drawn. I motioned Wolfie to be quiet.
"What is 'our milk' doing on that window ledge?" one of the fellows
said.
"What are you talking about?" replied the other fellow.
"The sour milk -- amasi -- on the window ledge," he said. "What is
it doing there?" Then there was silence. The sharp-eyed fellow was suggesting
that only a black man would place milk on the ledge like that and
what was a black man doing living in a white area? I realized then that
I needed to move on. I left for a different hideout the next night.
I stayed at a doctor's house in Johannesburg, sleeping in the servants
quarters at night, and working in the doctor's study during the dav.
Whenever anyone came to the house during the day, I would dash out
to the backyard and pretend to be the gardener. I then spent about a
fortnight on a sugar plantation in Natal living with a group of Atricir
laborers and their families in a small community called Tongaat, just up the coast from Durban. I lived in a hostel and posed as an agriculture demonstrator who had come at the behest of the government to evalu j
the land. ^
I had been equipped by the organization with a demonstrators t
and I spent part of each day testing the soil and performing expert ^ I little understood what I was doing and I do not think I looe.^.
people of Tongaat. But these men and women, who were most) ^ workers, had a natural kind of discretion and did not question iw i ^
i - -> *-c SOI '
even when they began seeing people arriving at night in ^ ' ^ them well-known local politicians. Often I was at meetings all i"^ ^. j
would sleep all day -- not the normal schedule of an agricu"11 ^ '' onstrator. But even though I was involved in other matters I te ^o^ with the community. I would attend services on Sunday, an
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 243
, c,.hioiied, Bible-thumping style of these Zionist Christian min- :ne ° <1 n-tiv before I was planning to leave, I thanked one elderly fellow ^ ne looked after me. He said, "You are of course welcome, but, tor i if young man], please tell us, what does Chief Luthuli want?" I ken aback but I quickly responded. "Well, it would be better to ask \\1 urself and I cannot speak for him, but as I understand it, he wants
land returned, he wants our kings to have their power back, and he 0 rs us to be able to determine our own future and run our own lives
y we see fit."
"And how is he going to do that if he does not have an army?" the
old man said.
I wanted very much to tell the old man that I was busy attempting to
form that army, but I could not. While I was encouraged by the old man's
sentiments, I was nervous that others had discovered my mission as well.
Again I had stayed too long in one place, and the following night I left
as quietly as I had arrived.
44
MY NEXT ADDRESS was more of a sanctuary than a hideout: Liliesleaf
Farm, located in Rivonia, a bucolic northern suburb of Johannesburg,
ind I moved there in October. In those days Rivonia consisted mainly of
tarms and smallholdings. The farmhouse and property had been purAased
by the movement for the purpose of having a safe house for those
underground. It was an old house that needed work and no one lived
there.
moved in under the pretext that I was the houseboy or caretaker wh0 ^uld look after the place until my master took possession. I had on the alias David Motsamayi, the name of one of my former clients.
hi I6 ^ wore the ^P^ blue overalls that were the uniform of the
bi L e servant- During the day, the place was busy with workers,
the er!..' anc^ Peters who were repairing the main house and extending Ac° "'^"g5- We wanted to have a number of small rooms added to
^ex "^ s0 more P00?10 could ^ay- The workers were all Africans from ^ther T ^"^P and ^y called me "waiter" or "boy" (they never ^a in fk to as^ "V name). I prepared breakfast for them and made them ^e if,,-, ate ^lomlng and afternoon. They also sent me on errands about
°ne fr01^ ordered me to sweep the floor or pick up trash. ^V cam ernoon' J "Formed them that I had prepared tea in the kitchen. Each ^ in and I passed around a tray with cups, tea, milk and sugar.
_ -- OOK a "ip, and helped himself. As I was carrying the tray I
244 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
came to one fellow who was in the middle of telling a story. He took: a
cup of tea, but he was concentrating more on his story than on me, and
he simply held his teaspoon in the air while he was talking, using it to
gesture and tell his tale rather than help himself to some sugar. I stood
there for what seemed like several minutes and finally, in mild exasperation
I started to move away. At that point he noticed me, and said sharply
"Waiter, come back here, I didn't say you could leave."
Many people have painted an idealistic picture of the egalitarian nature
of African society, and while in general I agree with this portrait, the fact
is that Africans do not always treat each other as equals. Industrialization
has played a large role in introducing the urban African to the perceptions
of status common to white society. To those men, I was an inferior a
servant, a person without a trade, and therefore to be treated with disdain.
I played the role so well that none of them suspected I was anything other
than what I seemed.
Every day, at sunset, the workers would return to their homes and I
would be alone until the next morning. I relished these hours of quiet,
but on most evenings I would leave the property to attend meetings,
returning in the middle of the night. I often felt uneasy coming back at
such hours to a place I did not know well and where I was living illegally
under an assumed name. I recall being frightened one night when I
thought I saw someone lurking in the bushes; although I investigated, I
found nothing. An underground freedom fighter sleeps very lightly.
After a number of weeks I was joined at the farm by Raymond Mhlaba,
who had journeyed up from Port Elizabeth. Ray was a staunch trade
unionist, a member of the Cape executive and the Communist Party, and
the first ANC leader to be arrested in the Defiance Campaign. He had
been chosen by the ANC to be one of the first recruits for Umkhonto
we Sizwe. He had come to prepare for his departure, with three others,
for military training in the People's Republic of China; we had renewed
the contacts that Walter had made back in 1952. Ray stayed with me for
a fortnight and provided me with a clearer picture of the problems the
ANC was having in the eastern Cape. I also enlisted his assistance in
writing the MK constitution. We were joined by Joe Slovo as well as
Rusty Bernstein, who both had hands in drafting it.
After Raymond left, I was joined for a brief time by Michael Harrneli
a key figure in the underground Communist Party, a founding member
of the Congress of Democrats, and an editor of the magazine Liberawn'
Michael was a brilliant theorist and was working on policy matters to
the Communist Party and needed a quiet and safe place to work on th15
full-time.
During the day, I kept my distance from Michael as it would h^
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 245
ggpicd exceedingly curious if a white professional man and an African
houseboy were having regular conversations. But at night, after the workers
left, we had long conversations about the relationship between the
(communist Party and the ANC. One night I returned to the farm late
after a meeting. When I was there alone, I made sure that all the gates
were locked and the lights were out. I took quite a few precautions because
a black i"^ driving a car into a smallholding in Rivonia in the middle
of the night would attract unwanted questions. But I saw that the house
lights were on, and as I approached the house I heard a radio blaring.
The front door was open and I walked in and found Michael in bed fast
asleep. I was furious at this breach of security, and I woke him up and
said, "Man, how can you leave the lights on and the radio playing!" He
was groggv but angry. "Nel, must you disturb my sleep? Can't this wait
until tomorrow?" I said it couldn't, it was a matter of security, and I
reprimanded him for his lax conduct.
Soon after this Arthur Goldreich and his family moved into the main
house as official tenants and I took over the newly built domestic workers'
cottage. Arthur's presence provided a safe cover for our activities. Arthur
was an artist and designer by profession, a member of the Congress of
Democrats and one of the first members of MK. His politics were unknown
to the police and he had never before been questioned or raided.
In the i94os, Arthur had fought with the Palmach, the military wing of
the Jewish National Movement in Palestine. He was knowledgeable about
guerrilla warfare and helped fill many gaps in my knowledge. Arthur was
a flamboyant person and he gave the farm a buoyant atmosphere.
The final addition to the regular group at the farm was Mr. Jelliman,
an amiable white pensioner and old friend of the movement who became
the farm foreman. Mr. Jelliman brought in several young workers from
Sekhukhuneland, and the place soon appeared to be like any other smallholding
in the country. Jelliman was not a member of the ANC, but he ^as loyal, discreet, and hardworking. I used to prepare breakfast for him 2s well as supper, and he was unfailingly gracious. Much later, Jelliman
risked his own life and livelihood in a courageous attempt to help me.
j^he loveliest times at the farm were when I was visited by my wife and ^ily. Once the Goldreichs were in residence, Winnie would visit me on ^kends. We were careful about her movements, and she would be picked
P by one driver, dropped off at another place, and then picked up by a ^ond driver before finally being delivered to the farm. Later, she would ^e herself and the children, taking the most circuitous route possible. e police were not yet following her every move.
^n these weekends time would sometimes seem to stop as we pretended
246 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
that these stolen moments together were the rule not the excenr our lives. Ironically, we had more privacy at Liliesleaf than we ev i, of at home. The children could run about and play, and we were
however briefly, in this idyllic bubble. re'
Winnie brought me an old air rifle that I had in Orlando and A h
and I would use it for target practice or hunting doves on the farm n
day, I was on the front lawn of the property and aimed the gun
sparrow perched high in a tree. Hazel Goldreich, Arthur's wife
watching me and jokingly remarked that I would never hit my target R
she had hardly finished the sentence when the sparrow fell to the ground
I turned to her and was about to boast, when the Goldreich's son Paul
then about five years old, turned to me with tears in his eyes and said
"David, why did you kill that bird? Its mother will be sad." My mood
immediately shifted from one of pride to shame; I felt that this small bov
had far more humanity than I did. It was an odd sensation for a man
who was the leader of a nascent guerrilla army.
45
IN PLANNING the direction and form that MK would take, we considered
four types of violent activities: sabotage, guerrilla warfare, terrorism,
and open revolution. For a small and fledgling army, open
revolution was inconceivable. Terrorism inevitably reflected poorly on
those who used it, undermining any public support it might otherwise
garner. Guerrilla warfare was a possibility, but since the ANC had been
reluctant to embrace violence at all, it made sense to start with the form
of violence that inflicted the least harm against individuals: sabotage.
Because it did not involve loss of life it offered the best hope for
reconciliation among the races afterward. We did not want to start
blood feud between white and black. Animosity between Afrikaner an
Englishman was still sharp fifty years after the Anglo-Boer War; ^ a would race relations be like between white and black if we provo - ^ civil war? Sabotage had the added virtue of requiring the least "^"P0^
Our strategy was to make selective forays against military instaUao ^ power plants, telephone lines, and transportation links; targets that ^ not only hamper the military effectiveness of the state, but fnghte
tional Party supporters, scare away foreign capital, and weaken omy. This we hoped would bring the government to the I^^^^J^un- Strict instructions were given to members of MK that we we ^ tenance no loss of life. But if sabotage did not produce the res
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 247
j ^ were prepared to move on to the next stage: guerrilla warfare ^'antw1' ind terrorism. The structure of MK mirrored that of the parent organization. The
-inal High Command was at the top; below it were Regional Com'
^ in each of the provinces, and below that there were local commands
, jig Regional Commands were set up around the country, and an
like the eastern Cape had over fifty cells. The High Command de-
nnined tactics and general targets and was in charge of training and
ance. Within the framework laid down by the High Command, the
Regional Commands had authority to select local targets to be attacked.
All MK members were forbidden to go armed into an operation and were
not to endanger life in any way
One problem we encountered early on was the question of divided
loyalties between MK and the ANC. Most of our recruits were ANC
members who were active in the local branches, but we found that once
they were working for MK, they stopped doing the local work they had
been performing before. The secretary of the local branch would find that
certain men were no longer attending meetings. He might approach one
and say, "Man, why were you not at the meeting last night?" and the
fellow would say, "Ah, well, I was at another meeting."
"What kind of meeting?" the secretary would say.
"Oh, I cannot say."
"You cannot tell me, your own secretary?" But the secretary would
soon discover the member's other loyalty. After some initial misunderstandings,
we decided that if we recruited members from a branch, the ^cretary must be informed that one of his members was now with MK.
^"e warm December afternoon, while I sat in the kitchen at Liliesleaf ^m, I listened on the radio to the announcement that Chief Luthuli bcen awarded the Nobel Peace Prize at a ceremony in Oslo. The
J^ernment had issued him a ten-day visa to leave the country and accept
- awar^- J w^ -- we all were -- enormously pleased. It was, first of all,
as a(:MlowledSment of our struggle, and of the achievements of the chief
'" rh^ ^a °^ ^t ^^SS^ and as a man. It represented a recognition
the o est ^lat our ^"^S^ was a i^oral one, one too long ignored by
Prop P0^"- The award was an affront to the Nationalists, whose ^nisf1"'1'1 P.01"^'^ Luthuli as a dangerous agitator at the head of a Com- ^oche '""'"P1"^- Afrikaners were dumbfounded; to them the award was
Miite ^ ^^P^ of the perversity of Western liberals and their bias against
the thiM" Africans. When the award was announced, the chief was in
year of a five-year ban restricting him to the district of Stanger
248 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in Natal. He was also unwell; his heart was strained and his mem
poor. But the award cheered him and all of us as well. " was
The honor came at an awkward time for it was juxtaposed a? '
announcement that seemed to call the award itself into question Th ^an after Luthuli returned from Oslo, MK dramatically announced its av gencc. On the orders of the MK High Command, in the early mom" hours of December 16 -- the day white South Africans used to celeh
as Dingane's Day -- homemade bombs were exploded at electric on
stations and government offices in Johannesburg, Port Elizabeth a d Durban. One of our men, Petrus Molife, was inadvertendy killed rh
first death of an MK soldier. Death in war is unfortunate, but unavoidable
Every man who joined MK knew that he might be called on to pay the
ultimate sacrifice.
At the time of the explosions, thousands of leaflets with the new MK
Manifesto were circulated all over the country announcing the birth of
Umkhonto we Sizwe.
Units of Umkhonto we Sizwe today carried out planned attacks against
government installations, particularly those connected with the policy
of apartheid and race discrimination. Umkhonto we Sizwe is a new, independent
body, formed by Africans. It includes in its ranks South Africans
of all races. . . . Umkhonto we Sizwe will carry on the struggle for
freedom and democracy by new methods, which are necessary to complement
the actions of the established national liberation movement....
The time comes in the life of any nation when there remain only two
choices: submit or fight. That time has now come to South Africa. We
shall not submit and we have no choice but to hit back by all means within
our power in defence of our people, our future and our freedom...
We of Umkhonto have always sought -- as the liberation movement
has sought -- to achieve liberation without bloodshed and civil clash.
We hope, even at this late hour, that our first actions will awaken everyone
to a realization of the disastrous situation to which the Nationalis
policy is leading. We hope that we will bring the government and its supporters to their senses before it is too late, so that both the go\er
ment and its policies can be changed before matters reach the despera
stage of civil war. . . .
We chose December 16, Dingane's Day, for a reason. On char l,,^,
white South Africans celebrate the defeat of the great Zulu leader u\1^ at the Battle of Blood River in 1838. Dingane, the half brother o ^^ then ruled the most powerful African state that ever existed sou ^ Limpopo River. That day, the bullets of the Boers were too muc ^ ^ assegais of the Zulu impis and the water of the nearby river ran
R | THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 249
hinod. Afrikaners celebrate December 16 as the triumph of the t*1cl,r over the African and the demonstration that God was on their vr\ ,i jig Africans mourned this day of the massacre of their people. ^ hnsc December 16 to show that the African had only begun to fight,
, , ^ ^yg had righteousness -- and dynamite -- on our side.
The explosions took the government by surprise. They condemned the
. g 3s heinous crimes while at the same time deriding it as the work if foolish amateurs. The explosions also shocked white South Africans to the realization that they were sitting on top of a volcano. Black South Africans realized that the ANC was no longer an organization of passive
resistance but a powerful spear that would take the struggle to the heart
of white power. We planned and executed another set of explosions two weeks later on New Year's Eve. The combined sound of bells tolling and
sirens wailing seemed not just a cacophonous way to ring in the new year,
but a sound that symbolized a new era in our freedom struggle.
The announcement of Umkhonto spurred a vicious and unrelenting
government counteroffensive on a scale that we had never before seen.
The Special Branch of the police now made it their number one mission
to capture members ofMK, and they would spare no effort to do so. We
had shown them we were not going to sit back any longer; they would
show us that nothing would stop them from rooting out what they saw
as the greatest threat to their own survival.
" 46
^'HEN WINNIE VISITED, I had the illusion, however briefly, that "ic family was still intact. Her visits were becoming less frequent, as the
police were becoming more vigilant. Winnie would bring Zindzi and -^nani to Rivonia, but they were too young to know that I was in hiding. a gatho, then eleven, was old enough to know and he had been in- dieted never to reveal my real name in front of anyone. I could tell that
as determined, in his own small way, to keep my identity a secret.
^ith11^01^ day' towarc* the enc^ of that year, he was at the farm playing
bro , Idlo^as Goldreich, Arthur's cleven-year-old son. Winnie had
stu0 t rne a ^Py of the magazine Drum, and Makgatho and Nicholas
:; ^,l "P0" lt while they were playing. They began paging through had go" ^^"ty Makgatho stopped at a picture of me taken before I
not be)^ "".^^ound. "That's my father." he exclaimed. Nicholas did !t ^s e anc* ^ls ^epticism made Makgatho even keener to prove '^ndel ^ b^s^o then told his friend that my real name was Nelson
No, your father's name is David," Nicholas replied. The boy
250 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
then ran to his mother and asked her whether or not my name was n
She replied that yes, it was David. Nicholas then explained to his m
that Makgatho had told him that his father's real name was Nelson -n^ alarmed Hazel and I soon learned of this lapse. Once again I h rl i1'' feeling that I had remained too long in one place. But I stayed di r c e in a little over a week I was to leave on a mission that would take m r places that I had only ever dreamed of. Now, the struggle would fo h
first time take me outside the borders of my country.
In December, the ANC received an invitation from the Pan African Fre
dom Movement for East, Central, and Southern Africa (PAFMECSA^ rr>
attend its conference in Addis Ababa in February 1962. PAFMECSA
which later became the Organization of African Unity, aimed to draw
together the independent states of Africa and promote the liberation
movements on the continent. The conference would furnish important
connections for the ANC and be the first and best chance for us to enlist
support, money, and training for MK.
The underground executive asked me to lead the ANC delegation to
the conference. Although I was eager to see the rest of Africa and meet
freedom fighters from my own continent, I was greatly concerned that I
would be violating the promise I had made not to leave the country but
to operate from underground. My colleagues, including Chief Luthuli, insisted
that I go, but were adamant that I return immediately afterward.
I decided to make the trip.
My mission in Africa was broader than simply attending the conference;
I was to arrange political and economic support for our new military
force and, more important, military training for our men in as many
places on the continent as possible. I was also determined to boost our
reputation in the rest of Africa where we were still relatively unknown The PAC had launched its own propaganda campaign and I was delegate
to make our case wherever possible. . .
Before leaving, I secretly drove to GroutviUe to confer with the chie
Our meeting -- at a safe house in town -- was disconcerting. As ^ related, the chief was present at the creation ofMK, and was aslnfornlt, as any member of the National Executive Committee about its deve IF
ment. But the chief was not well and his memory was not what it
once been. He chastised me for not consulting with him about e mation of MK. I attempted to remind the chief of the discusslon,^.
we had in Durban about taking up violence, but he did not rec ^ This is in large part why the story has gained currency that Chie ^ was not informed about the creation of MK and was deeply opP ^ the ANC taking up violence. Nothing could be further from the
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 251
* * *

, pc the night before my departure with Winnie at the house of
friends in the northern suburbs and she brought me a new suitcase
- he had packed. She was anxious about my leaving the country, but
' " i . m l i j.i n ir .._/friends
in the northern suburbs and she brought me a new suitcase \\ he had packed. She was anxious about my leaving the country, but r 1J aeain remained stoic. She behaved as much like a soldier as a wife.
j -k.T^"' 1-/./4 <-/-* '-ťi-t-i n rr/ť ^r\v rv^f* ty\ f-t-iiw*! f-/~ť T^if />c ^-ťl-T^rvť in 'T^nrrin-
The ANC had to arrange for me to travel to Dar es Salaam in Tangan.,
-J-hg flight to Addis Ababa would originate in Dar es Salaam. The
, ^ for Walter, Kathrada, and Duma Nokwe to meet me at a secret
idezvous in Soweto and bring me my credentials for the trip. It would
, ^ a moment for last-minute consultations before I left the country.
^hmed Kathrada arrived at the appointed hour, but Walter and Duma
were extremely late. I finally had to make alternative arrangements and
Kathv managed to locate someone to drive me to Bechuanaland, where
I would charter a plane. I later learned that Walter and Duma had been
arrested on their way.
The drive to Bechuanaland was trying, as I was nervous both about
the police and the fact that I had never crossed the boundaries of my
country before. Our destination was Lobatse, near the South African
border. We passed through the border without a problem and arrived in
Lobatse in the late afternoon, where there was a telegram for me from
Dar es Salaam postponing my trip for a fortnight. I put up with my fellow
Treason Trialist Fish Keitsing, who had since moved to Lobatse.
That afternoon I met with Professor K. T. Motsete, the president of
the Bechuanaland People's Party, which had been formed mainly by exANC
members. I now had unexpected spare time, which I used for
reading, preparing my speech for the conference, and hiking the wild and
beautiful hills above the town. Although I was not far outside my own
country's borders, I felt as though I were in an exotic land. I was often
'rcompanied by Max Mionyeni, the son of a friend from the Transkei and a ^ung member of the PAC. It was as though we were on safari, for we "countered all manner of animals, including a battalion of sprightly a oons, which I followed for some time, admiring their military-like ^ganizadon and movements.
and t^ soon ^oinec* ^Y J00 Matthews, who had come from Basutoland,
in L^^ we should make haste for Dar es Salaam. An ANC colleague
I th atse ^a<^ ^^riv been kidnapped by the South African police and
and ^ ^""er we could leave, the better. A plane was arranged,
" OllT" fi -1
i_ nrst destination was a town in northern Bechuanaland called
M "up
co^ .' ^tegically situated near a point where the borders of four
soh..l les met ~ Bechuanaland, Northern and Southern Rhodesia, and < ^- est Africa, as these colonies were then known. The landing strip e was waterlogged and we came in at a drier strip several miles
252 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
away in the middle of the bush. The manager of a local hotel ca
fetch us armed with rifles and reported that he had been delayed k to herd of rogue elephants. He was in an open van and Joe and I sat '^ back, and I watched a lioness lazily emerge from the bush. I felt far fr e my home streets of Johannesburg; I was in the Africa of myth and Ie
for the first time.
Early the next morning we left for Mbeya, a Tanganyikan town n
the Northern Rhodesian border. We flew near Victoria Falls and rh
headed north through a mountain range. While over the mountains rh
pilot tried to contact Mbeya, but there was no answer. "Mbeya Mbeva'"
he kept saying into the microphone. The weather had changed and the
mountains were full of air pockets that made the plane bounce up and
down like a cork on a rough sea. We were now flying through clouds and
mists and in desperation the pilot descended and followed a twisting road
through the mountains. By this time the mist had become so thick we
could not see the road and when the pilot abruptly turned the plane I
realized that we narrowly missed a mountain that seemed to rear up out
of nowhere. The emergency alarm went off, and I remember saying to
myself, "That's the end of us." Even the ever-loquacious Joe was stone
silent. But then just as we could see no farther in the clouds and I imagined
we were about to crash into a mountain, we emerged from the bad weather
into a gloriously clear sky. I have never enjoyed flying much, and while
this was the most frightening episode I have ever had on a plane, I
am sometimes adept at appearing brave and I pretended that I was
unconcerned.
We booked in a local hotel and found a crowd of blacks and whites
sitting on the veranda making polite conversation. Never before had I
been in a public place or hotel where there was no color bar. We were
waiting for Mr. Mwakangale of the Tanganyika African National Union.
a member of Parliament, and unbeknown to us he had already call^ looking for us. An African guest approached the white receptioiw1 "Madam, did a Mr. Mwakangale inquire after these two gentlemen?
asked, pointing to us. "I'm sorry, sir." she replied. "He did but I forgo
to tell them." , ,^,
"Please be careful, madam," he said in a polite but firm tone. i^..
men are our guests and we would like them to receive proper attcn
I then truly realized that I was in a country ruled by Africans. ^ first time in my life, I was a free man. Though I was a fugitive and w^ in my own land, I felt the burden of oppression lifting from my s ° j Everywhere I went in Tanganyika my skin color was automatically a ^.
rather than instantly reviled. I was being judged for the first tirn
J
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 253
lor of my skin but by the measure of my mind and character.
iffh I was often homesick during my travels, I nevertheless felt as ^li I were truly home for the first time.
1 }\\y arrived in Dar es Salaam the next day and I met with Julius Nyerere,
\vlv independent country's first president. We talked at his house, ^h -h was not at all grand, and I recall that he drove himself in a simple
\vm>l^tle
Austin. This impressed me, for it suggested that he was a man
\'rhe people. Class, Nyerere always insisted, was alien to Africa; socialism
indigenous.
I reviewed our situation for him, ending with an appeal for help. He
was a shrewd, soft-spoken man who was well-disposed to our mission,
but his perception of the situation surprised and dismayed me. He suggested
we postpone the armed struggle until Sobukwe came out of prison.
This was the first of many occasions when I learned of the PAC's appeal
in the rest of Africa. I described the weakness of the PAC, and argued
that a postponement would be a setback for the struggle as a whole. He
suggested I seek the favor of Emperor Haile Selassie and promised to
arrange an introduction.
I was meant to meet Oliver in Dar, but because of my delay he was
unable to wait and left a message for me to follow him to Lagos, where
he was to attend the Lagos Conference of Independent States. On the
flight to Accra I ran into Hymie Basner and his wife. Basner, who had
once been my employer, had been offered a position in Accra. His radical
politics and left-wing activities in South Africa had made him persona
non grata there and he was seeking political asylum in Ghana.
The plane stopped in Khartoum and we lined up to go through customs.
Joe Matthews was first, then myself, followed by Basner and his
"e- Because I did not have a passport, I carried with me a rudimentary 'document from Tanganyika that merely said, "This is Nelson Mandela, a ^izen of the Republic of South Africa. He has permission to leave Tan- ^"yika and return here." I handed this paper to the old Sudanese man
 the irnmigration counter and he looked up with a smile and said,
 yson- welcome to the Sudan." He then shook my hand and stamped ^ "curnent. Basner was behind me and handed the old man the same ^ ° document. The old man looked at it for a moment, and then said
i,:. ratht:r agitated manner: "What is this? What is this piece of paper?
.""t official!"
'i n\,i,,Y ^'""Y explained it was a document he had been given in Tan-
niur l)ccause he did not have a passport. "Not have a passport?" the
p^^ition official said with disdain. "How can you not have a pass- you are a white man!" Basner replied that he was persecuted in
254 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
his own country because he fought for the rights of blacks. The Slid
looked skeptical: "But you are a white man!" Joe looked at me and lr ese what I was thinking: he whispered to me not to intervene as \v e\v guests in the Sudan and did not want to offend our host's hosnit i^ But apart from being my employer, Basner was one of those whites h had truly taken risks on the behalf of black emancipation, and I
not desert him. Instead of leaving with Joe, I remained and stood d
to the official and every time Basner said something, I simply bowed
nodded to the official as if to verify what he was saying. The old m
realized what I was doing, softened his manner, and finally stamped h
document and said quietly, "Welcome to the Sudan."
I had not seen Oliver in nearly two years, and when he met me at the
airport in Accra I barely recognized him. Once clean shaven and conservatively
groomed, he now had a beard and longish hair and affected
the military-style clothing characteristic of freedom fighters around the
continent. (He probably had exactly the same reaction to me.) It was a
happy reunion, and I complimented him on the tremendous work he had
done abroad. He had already established ANC offices in Ghana, England, Egypt, and Tanganyika, and had made valuable contacts for us in many
other countries. Everywhere I subsequently traveled, I discovered the
positive impression Oliver had made on diplomats and statesmen. He was
the best possible ambassador for the organization.
The goal of the Lagos Conference of Independent States was to unite
all African states, but it eventually disintegrated into bickering about
which states to include or exclude. I kept a low profile and avoided the
conference, for we did not want the South African government to know
that I was abroad until I appeared at the PAFMECSA conference in Addis.
On the plane from Accra to Addis, we found Gaur Radebe, Peter Molorsi.
and other members of the PAC who were also on their way to PA ,
MECSA. They were all surprised to see me, and we immediately plu"^'
into discussions concerning South Africa. The atmosphere was enjoya^ and relaxed. Though I had been dismayed to learn of Gaur's leaving ANC,
that did not diminish my pleasure in seeing him. High above,
ground and far from home, we had much more that united u
separated us. Frhior'^ We put down briefly in Khartoum, where we changed to an ^ ^
Airways flight to Addis. Here I experienced a rather strange sei^ ^ As I was boarding the plane I saw that the pilot was black. I ac seen a black pilot before, and the instant I did I had to quell "1\ ^
d
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 255
iiuld a black man fly an airplane? But a moment later I caught
it I had fallen into the apartheid mind-set, thinking Africans were "1\s and that flying was a white man's job. I sat back in my seat, and n \ 1 mvself for such thoughts. Once we were in the air, I lost my 111 nsncss and studied the geography of Ethiopia, thinking how guer- 111. i.-^.ces hid in these very forests to fight the Italian imperialists.
IF'	47
FORMERLY KNOWN as Abyssinia, Ethiopia, according to tradition,
uis founded long before the birth of Christ, supposedly by the son of
Solomon and the queen ofSheba. Although it had been conquered dozens
of rimes, Ethiopia was the birthplace of African nationalism. Unlike so
manv other African states, it had fought colonialism at every rum. Menelik
had rebuffed the Italians in the last century, though Ethiopia failed to
halt them in this one. In 1930, Haile Selassie became emperor and the
shaping force of contemporary Ethiopian history. I was seventeen when
Mussolini attacked Ethiopia, an invasion that spurred not only my hatred
of that despot but of fascism in general. Although Selassie was forced to
flee when the Italians conquered Ethiopia in 1936, he returned after Allied
forces drove the Italians out in 1941.
Ethiopia has always held a special place in my own imagination and rile prospect of visiting Ethiopia attracted me more strongly than a trip
to France, England, and America combined. I felt I would be visiting my own genesis, unearthing the roots of what made me an African. Meeting
the emperor himself would be like shaking hands with history.
Our first stop was Addis Ababa, the Imperial City, which did not live "P to its title, for it was the opposite of grand, with only a few tarred ^eets, and more goats and sheep than cars. Apart from the Imperial ^ ^e, the university, and the Ras Hotel, where we stayed, there were 'f}struct:ures trlat could compare with even the least impressive buildings ;o rl anrles*:)urg Contemporary Ethiopia was not a model when it came
r,f ^^cy, either. There were no political parties, no popular organs
>UDr errlrnent' n0 separation of powers; only the emperor, who was
D _p
r,,,,1"0 "Psmng of the conference, the delegates assembled at the
;arc - . ^bra Zaid. A grandstand had been erected in the central
^drni ' er an<^ I S3it off to the side, away from the main podium. " a bra \v^ ^ ^ distant music of a lone bugle and then the strains ss band accompanied by the steady beating of African drums.
256 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
As the music came closer, I could hear--and feel--the rumhl
hundreds of marching feet. From behind a building at the edse if °^ square, an officer appeared brandishing a gleaming sword- at h i, marched five hundred black soldiers in rows four across, each carr s polished rifle against his uniformed shoulder. When the troon ^a marched directly in front of the grandstand, an order rang out in Amh
and the five hundred soldiers halted as one man, spun around and c cuted a precise salute to an elderly man in a dazzling uniform His Hi h ness the Emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie, the Lion of Judah.
Here, for the first time in my life, I was witnessing black soldier
commanded by black generals applauded by black leaders who were all
guests of a black head of state. It was a heady moment. I only hoped it
was a vision of what lay in the future for my own country.
On the morning after the parade, Oliver and I attended a meeting where each organization had to apply for accreditation. We were unpleasantly
surprised to find that our application was blocked by a delegate
from Uganda who complained that we were a tribal organization of
Xhosas. My impulse was to dismiss this claim contemptuously, but Oliver's
notion was that we should simply explain that our organization was
formed to unite Africans and our membership was drawn from all sections
of the people. This I did, adding that the president of our organization, Chief Luthuli, was a Zulu. Our application was accepted. I realized that
many people on the continent only knew about the ANC from the PACs
description of us.
The conference was officially opened by our host. His Imperial Majesiv,
who was dressed in an elaborate brocaded army uniform. I was surprised
by how small the emperor appeared, but his dignity and confidence made
him seem like the African giant that he was. It was the first time I hai.
witnessed a head of state go through the formalities of his office, and
was fascinated. He stood perfectly straight, and inclined his head on.
slightly to indicate that he was listening. Dignity was the hallmark o
his actions. ,
I was scheduled to speak after the emperor, the only other speaker^ ^ morning. For the first time in many months, I flung aside the lden!'1 '^.
David Motsamayi and became Nelson Mandela. In my speech, I r^ ^ the history of the freedom struggle in South Africa and listed the ^ massacres that had been committed against our people, from Bu ^ 1921, when the army and police killed one hundred eighty-three ui ^ ^ peasants, to Sharpeville forty years later. I thanked the assemble ^.,1
for exerting pressure on South Africa, citing in particular Ghana,. ^ ^ and Tanganyika, who spearheaded the successful drive to ous ^^,
Africa from the British Commonwealth. I retraced the birth of
r^|
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 257
we explaining Aat all opportunities for peaceful struggle had been \\i -I to us. "A leadership commits a crime against its own people if it res to sharpen its political weapons where they have become less T.-rve 0" ^ "iS^1 °^16 December last year, the whole of South 1 -i vibrated under the heavy blows of Umkhonto we Sizwe." I had -loner said this than the chief minister of Uganda cried out: "Give it
to them again!"
I then related my own experience:
I have just come out of South Africa, having for the last ten months
lived in my own country as an outlaw, away from family and friends.
When I was compelled to lead this sort of life, I made a public statement
in which I announced that I would not leave the country but
would continue working underground. I meant it and I will honor that
undertaking.
The announcement that I would return to South Africa was met with
loud cheers. We had been encouraged to speak first so PAFMECSA could
evaluate our cause and decide how much support to give it. There was a
natural reluctance among many African states to support violent struggles
elsewhere; but the speech convinced people that freedom fighters in South
Africa had no alternative but to take up arms.
Oliver and I had a private discussion with Kenneth Kaunda, the leader
of the United National Independence Party of Northern Rhodesia and
Ac future president of Zambia. Like Julius Nyerere, Kaunda was worried
about the lack of unity among South African freedom fighters and suggested
that when Sobukwe emerged from jail, we might all join forces.
Among Africans, the PAC had captured the spotlight at Sharpeville in a \^ that far exceeded their influence as an organization. Kaunda, who ad once been a member of the ANC, told us he was concerned about our ^'ance with white Communists and indicated that this reflected
v on us in Africa. Communism was suspect not only in the West lr' Africa. This came as something of a revelation to me, and it was
, \ tnat I was to hear over and over during my trip.
^ hen I attempted to make the case that UNIP's support of the PAC sp ^"^"'dsd, Kaunda put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Nelson,
'^ur "^ to rne on '^ ^J"^ is like carrying coals to Newcastle. I am
.r^^PP01"^1" and a follower of Chief Luthuli. But I am not the sole
hii^  ^- You must speak to Simon Kapwepwe. If you persuade f)t UMrp "^ke my job easier." Kapwepwe was the second in command
0|iy '.^ I made arrangements to see him the following day. I asked
lou ca \}ol^l me ^ut ^e sal<^ "Nel, you must see him on your own. Then " be completely frank."
Bl
258 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I spent the entire day with Kapwepwe and heard from him rh
astonishing tale. "We were mightily impressed by your speech " h rnost "and indeed by your entire ANC delegation. If we were to iudp organization by these two things, we would certainly be in your our But we have heard disturbing reports from the PAC to the effecr J1 Umkhonto we Sizwe is the brainchild of the Communist Party and i^ Liberal Party, and that the idea of the organization is merely to c Africans as cannon fodder."
I was nonplussed, and I blurted out that I was astounded that he coi id not see himself how damnably false this story was. "First of all" I said "it is well known that the Liberal Party and the Communist Party ar
archenemies and could not come together to form a game of cards Second,
I am here to tell you at the risk of immodesty that I myself was the
prime mover behind MK's formation." Finally, I said I was greatly disappointed
in the PAC for spreading such lies.
By the end of the day, I had converted Kapwepwe, and he said he would
call a meeting and make our case himself-- and he did so. But it was
another example of both the lack of knowledge about South Africa in
the rest of Africa and the extraordinary lengths the PAC would go to besmirch
the ANC. Kapwepwe bade me good luck, for the conference was
now over. It had been successful, but we had our work cut out for us.
As a student, I had fantasized about visiting Egypt, the cradle of African
civilization, the treasure chest of so much beauty in art and design, about
seeing the pyramids and the sphinx, and crossing the Nile, the greatest
of African rivers. From Addis, Oliver, Robert Resha -- who was to accompany
me on the rest of my travels -- and I flew to Cairo. I spent the
whole morning of my first day in Cairo at the museum, looking at art.
examining artifacts, making notes, learning about the type of men who
founded the ancient civilization of the Nile Valley. This was not amateur
archaeological interest; it is important for African nationalists to be arme
with evidence to dispute the fictitious claims of whites that African'' without a civilized past that compares with that of the West. In a si . morning, I discovered that Egyptians were creating great works o.
and architecture when whites were still living in caves. j
Egypt was an important model for us, for we could witness r
the program of socialist economic reforms being launched by ^ Nasser. He had reduced private ownership of land, nationalize^ ^ sectors of the economy, pioneered rapid industrialization, demo .^ education, and built a modern army. Many of these reforms were p^ ^ the sort of things that we in the ANC someday hoped to enact.^^r
time, however, it was more important to us that Egypt was the o
^" THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 259
fh an army, navy, and air force that could in any way compare
;;^ those of South Africa.
dav Oliver left for London, promising to join Robbie and me in
Before Robbie and I left on our tour, we discussed the presentation
uld make in each country. My inclination was to explain the political rion as truthfully and objectively as possible and not omit the ac' molishinents of the PAC. In each new country, I would initially seal
self away in our hotel familiarizing myself with information about the luntrv's policies, history, and leadership. Robbie did the opposite. A
natural extrovert, he would leave the hotel as soon as we arrived and hit
the streets, learning by seeing and talking to people. We were an odd
couple, for I affected the informal dress I had gotten used to underground and wore khakis and fatigues, while Robbie was always smartly turned
out in a suit.
In Tunis, our first stop, we met with the minister of defense, who bore
a striking resemblance to Chief Luthuli. But I'm afraid that is where the
similarity ended, for when I was explaining to him the situation in our
country with PAC leaders such as Robert Sobukwe in jail, he interrupted
me and said, "When that chap returns, he will finish you!" Robbie raised
his eyebrows at this (later he said, "Man, you were putting the case for
the PAC better than they could!"), but I insisted on giving the minister
the full picture. When we met the following day with President Habib
Bourguiba, his response was utterly positive and immediate: he offered
training for our soldiers and five thousand pounds for weapons.
Rabat in Morocco, our next stop, with its ancient and mysterious walls, lt1' fashionable shops, and its medieval mosques, seemed a charming mixture of Africa, Europe, and the Middle East. Apparently freedom fighters 1 ought so as well, for Rabat was the crossroads of virtually every libation
movement on the continent. While there, we met with free- from fighters from Mozambique, Angola, Algeria, and Cape Verde. It
5 ° ^ headquarters of the Algerian revolutionary army, and we TO several days with Dr. Mustafa. head of the Algerian mission in tr T^' w^0 ^rle^ us on Ae history of the Algerian resistance to the
Th
cU ^stion in Algeria was the closest model to our own in that the
Tig, acca a Isrge white settler community that ruled the indigenous
of ^ '.Iie related how the FLN had begun their struggle with a handful
French ' "I ^^ks in 1954, having been heartened by the defeat of the coi^^ Dle" Bien Phu in Vietnam. At first, the FLN believed they pure^06^ the French militarily. Dr. Mustafa said, then realized that a
----tary ^tory was impossible.
260 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Instead, they resorted to guerrilla warfare. Guerrilla warfare h
plained, was not designed to win a military victory so much as to i i ex political and economic forces that would bring down the enem ^ Mustafa counseled us not to neglect the political side of war while r
ning the military effort. International public opinion, he said issom t worth more than a fleet of jet fighters. s
At the end of three days, he sent us to Oujda, a dusty little town r h
across the border from Algeria and the headquarters of the Algerian arm in Morocco. We visited an army unit at the front, and at one point I tool
a pair of field glasses and could actually see French troops across rh
border. I confess I imagined that I was looking at the uniforms of the
South African Defense Force.
A day or two later I was a guest at a military parade in honor ofAhmed
Ben Bella, who was to become the first prime minister of independent
Algeria and who had recently emerged from a French prison. A far cry from the military parade I had witnessed in Addis Ababa, this parade
was not the crisp, well-drilled, handsomely uniformed force of Ethiopia
but a kind of walking history of the guerrilla movement in Algeria.
At its head sauntered proud, battle-hardened veterans in turbans, long
tunics, and sandals, who had started the struggle many years before. They
carried the weapons they had used: sabers, old flintlock rifles, battle-axes,
and assegais. They were followed in turn by younger soldiers, all carrying
modern arms and equally proud. Some held heavy antitank and antiaircraft
guns. But even these soldiers did not march with the smartness
and precision of the Ethiopians. This was a guerrilla force, and they were
soldiers who had won their stripes in the fire of battle, who cared more
about fighting and tactics than dress uniforms and parades. As inspired
as I was by the troops in Addis, I knew that our own force would be
more like these troops here in Oujda, and I could only hope they would
fight as valiantly.
At the rear was a rather ragtag military band that was led by a nu1 called Sudani. Tall, well built, and confident, he was as black as the mgh^ He was swinging a ceremonial mace, and when we saw him, our
party stood up and started clapping and cheering. I looked aroun>. noticed others staring at us, and I realized that we were only c"^ ^ because this fellow was a black man and black faces were quite ^ Morocco. Once again I was struck by the great power of nations, i
ethnicity. We reacted instantly, for we felt as though we were ^ ^ brother African. Later, our hosts informed us that Sudani hac ^ ^ legendary soldier, and had even reputedly captured an entire rreni- ,
single-handedly. But we were cheering him because of his co o ,
exploits.
not h"
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 261
m Morocco, I flew across the Sahara to Bamako, the capital of
i nd then on to Guinea. The flight from Mali to Guinea was more ' ' local bus than an airplane. Chickens wandered the aisles; women 'il- ri back and forth carrying packages on their heads and selling bags l\. panuts a-nd dried vegetables. It was flying democratic-style and I
a^ired it very much.
\lv next stop was Sierra Leone, and when I arrived, I discovered that
 -i.anient was in session and decided to attend the proceedings. I entered
wv tourist would and was given a seat not far from the Speaker. The clerk of the House approached me and asked me to identify myself. I
whispered to him, "I am the representative of Chief Luthuli of South
Africa." He shook my hand warmly and proceeded to report to the
Speaker. The clerk then explained that I had inadvertently been given a
seat not normally allowed to visitors, but in this case it was an honor for
them to make an exception.
Within an hour there was an adjournment, and as I stood among the
members and dignitaries drinking tea, a queue formed in front of me and
I saw to my amazement that the entire Parliament had lined up to shake
hands with me. I was very gratified, until the third or fourth person in
line mumbled something to the effect of, "It is a great honor to shake
the hand of the revered Chief Luthuli, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize."
I was an impostor! The clerk had misunderstood. The prime minister. Sir
Milton Margai, was then brought over to meet me, and the clerk introduced
me as the chief. I immediately attempted to inform the clerk that
I was not Chief Luthuli, but the fellow would have none of it, and I
decided that in the interests of hospitality I would continue the charade.
later met with the president, explained the case of mistaken identity, ^d he offered generous material assistance.
in Liberia, I met with President Tubman, who not only gave me five
.ousan^ dollars for weapons and training, but said in a quiet voice, ave you any pocket money?" I confessed that I was a bit low, and antly an aide came back with an envelope containing four hundred ars in ^sh. From Liberia, I went to Ghana, where I was met by Oliver
I entertalnc^ by Guinea's resident minister, Abdoulaye Diallo. When
nun thar I had not seen Sekou Toure when I was in Guinea, he
n^ ^ ^or us to return immediately to that arid land. Oliver and I were
|,,^ wlt^ Toure. He lived in a modest bungalow, and wore an old ^ -lt: tnar could have used a visit to the dry cleaners. We made our He ^ llin^ explained the history of the ANC and MK, and asked for ťnd ou&anc! dollars for the support of MK. He listened very carefully, ^' m a rather formal way. "The government and the people of
' he said, as though giving a speech, "fully support the struggle
262 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
of our brothers in South Africa, and we have made statements at th
to that effect." He went to the bookcase where he removed twn K
of his, which he autographed to Oliver and me. He then said thanir
and we were dismissed. u
Oliver and I were annoyed: we had been called back from an
country, and all he gave us were signed copies of his book? We had \vi ^ our time. A short while later, we were in our hotel room, when an offi
from the Foreign Affairs Department knocked on our door and present ri
us with a suitcase. We opened it and it was filled with banknotes- Oli
and I looked at each other in glee. But then Oliver's expression changed
"Nelson, this is Guinean currency," he said. "It is worthless outside of
here; it is just paper." But Oliver had an idea: we took the money to the
Czech embassy, where he had a friend who exchanged it for a convertible
currency.
The gracefulness of the slender fishing boats that glided into the harbor
in Dakar was equaled only by the elegance of the Senegalese women who
sailed through the city in flowing robes and turbaned heads. I wandered
through the nearby marketplace, intoxicated by the exotic spices and
perfumes. The Senegalese are a handsome people and I enjoyed the brief
time that Oliver and I spent in their country. Their society showed how
disparate elements -- French, Islamic, and African -- can mingle to create
a unique and distinctive culture.
On our way to a meeting with President Leopold Senghor, Oliver
suffered a severe attack of asthma. He refused to return to the hotel, and
I carried him on my back up the stairs to the president's office. Senghor
was greatly concerned by Oliver's condition and insisted that he be attended
to by his personal physician.
I had been told to be wary of Senghor, for there were reports that
Senegalese soldiers were serving with the French in Algeria, and t a
President Senghor was a bit too taken with the customs and charms o
the ancien regime. There will always be, in emerging nations, an enduring
attraction to the ways of the colonizer -- I myself was not immune to^ President Senghor was a scholar and a poet, and he told us "' \^ collecting research material on Shaka, nattering us by asking n1"1"1- ^ questions about that great South African warrior. We sumrnarizt1 ^ situation in South Africa and made our request for military trainin^ money. Senghor replied that his hands were tied until Parliame"1 '
'"-] "'."0"^ ^j.^ ^^ -- .----- ..--- -- nflUSt11-
i.ce.
.-cdl^'
t^'
In the meantime, he wanted us to talk with the minister 011 ^ Mr. Daboussier, about military training, and the president intro ^,
to a beautiful white French girl who, he explained, would in^ ^ ^ me in my meeting with him. I said nothing, but was distur
-iS^U
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 263
if A comfortable discussing the very sensitive issues of military train" c front of a young woman I did not know and was not sure I lnr \A rrust. Senghor sensed my uneasiness, for he said, "Mandela, do not L01 ' the French here identify themselves completely with our African
aspirations."
When we reached the minister's office, we found some African sec-
aries in the reception area. One of the black secretaries asked the French
man what she was doing here. She said she had been sent by the
esident to interpret. An argument ensued and in the middle of it, one
fthe African secretaries turned to me and said, "Sir, can you speak
English?" I sa1^ I could, and she replied, "The minister speaks English
and you can talk with him directly. You don't need an interpreter." The
French girl, now quite miffed, stood aside as I went in to speak to the
minister, who promised to fulfill our requests. In the end, although Senghor
did not then provide us with what we asked for, he furnished me
with a diplomatic passport and paid for our plane fares from Dakar to
our next destination: London.
48
I CONFESS TO being something of an Anglophile. When I thought
ofWestem democracy and freedom, I thought of the British parliamentary
system. In so many ways, the very model of the gentleman for me was in Englishman. Despite Britain being the home of parliamentary democracy,
it was that democracy that had helped inflict a pernicious system
°f iniquity on my people. While I abhorred the notion of British impe"alism,
I never rejected the trappings of British style and manners.
had several reasons for wanting to go to England, apart from my
esire to see the country I had so long read and heard about. I was "rcerned about Oliver's health and wanted to persuade him to receive trnent-1 Yery much wanted to see Adelaide, his wife, and their children, ^ as Yusuf Dadoo, who was now living there and representing the
, gfess movement. I also knew that in London I would be able to
iterature on guerrilla warfare that I had been unable to acquire
''"where.
y, i , ulTle" my old underground ways in London, not wanting word
Vrir- 1< to ^"th Africa that I was there. The tentacles of South ^Use- ^^"y forces reached all the way to London. But I was not a
'^nd '1T1^tcn ^Y3 tnere were divided among ANC business, seeing old ^ a r^ ^casional jaunts as a conventional tourist. With Mary Ben^^^__h friend who had written about our struggle, Oliver and I
^n
me. We drove to Lobatse, where I met foe M^ 7111" De waltlng tor named Jonas Matiou. who was theTlS^ an ANC "PP01^ Aat the South African police were S th' T maglstrate told me rested that I leave tomorrow IthXi^ Iwasretum^ ^ he
,.^. ... ^^ _,.-.-.. butwhen Arrived at Matiou'shn, them for hls ^P and advice,
elegant veranda, where several dozen whites were sitting and drinking. | I was to drive back to S h Ar s t T wo\lld leave tonight
This was long before metal detectors and security checks, and 1 was director and member of°MK P" with ceci1 williams' a white theater
carrying my pistol in a holster inside my jacket and the two hundred wheel and we left that h if ng as his ^auffeur, I got behind the
rounds wrapped around my waist inside my trousers. I also had several ^ ^ "^t for Johannesburg.
thousand pounds in cash. I had the feeling that all of these well-dressed L. ^ whites had X-ray vision and that I was going to be arrested at any moment.
But I was escorted safely to my room, where I ordered room service,
even the footsteps of the waiters put me on edge.
From Khartoum I went directly to Dar es Salaam, where I greeted c
first group of twenty-one Umkhonto recruits who were headed to E
pia to train as soldiers. It was a proud moment, for these men ha
unteered for duty in an army I was then attempting to create. They
risking their lives in a battle that was only just beginning, a ba e
would be most dangerous for those who were its first soldiers, l ^ ^ young men, mainly from the cities, and they were proud and e^^ } had a dinner in Addis: the men slaughtered a goat in my honor^ addressed them about my trip and told them of the necessity o ^^ behavior and discipline abroad, because they were representatives^ ^ South African freedom struggle. Military training, I said, must g
LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
266
me, a sergeant came into the hall and asked the colonel where he cr>
find a certain lieutenant. The colonel regarded him with ill-conce I ri contempt and said, "Can't you see that I am talking to an import
individual here? Don't you know not to interrupt me when I am earin ť Now, get out of my sight!" Then he continued with his discussion in rh
same didactic tone as before.
The training course was meant to be six months, but after eight week
I received a telegram from the ANC urgently requesting that I return
home. The internal armed struggle was escalating and they wanted the
commander of MK on the scene.
Colonel Tadesse rapidly arranged for me to take an Ethiopian flight
to Khartoum. Before I left, he presented me with a gift: an automatic
pistol and two hundred rounds of ammunition. I was grateful, both for
the gun and his instruction. Despite my fatigue marches, I found it wearying
to carry around all that ammunition. A single bullet is surprisingly heavy: hauling around two hundred is like carrying a small child on one's
back.
In Khartoum, I was met by a British Airways official who told me
that my connecting flight to Dar es Salaam would not leave until the
following day and they had taken the liberty of booking me into a posh
hotel in town. I was dismayed, for I would have preferred to stay in a less
conspicuous third-class hotel.
When I was dropped off, I had to walk across the hotel's long and
' ' -'^:--_ ^^A ^..inlrino
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL
267
hand with political training, for a revolution is not just a question of u1 Ilins a trigger; its purpose is to create a fair and just society. It was P. r^c time that I was ever saluted by my own soldiers.
president Nyerere gave me a private plane to Mbeya, and I then flew erectly to Lobatse. The pilot informed me that we would be landing in
Kanve. This concerned me: why was the plan altered? In Kanye, I was
met by the local magistrate and a security man, both of whom were white.
The magistrate approached me and asked me my name. David Motsamayi,
I replied- No, he said, please tell me your real name. Again, I said David
Motsamayi. The magistrate said, "Please tell me your real name because
I was given instructions to meet Mr. Mandela here and provide him with
help and transportation. If you are not Mr. Nelson Mandela, I am afraid
I will have to arrest you for you have no permit to enter the country. Are you Nelson Mandela?"
This was a quandary; I might be arrested either way. "If you insist that
I am Nelson Mandela and not David Motsamayi," I said, "I will not
challenge you." He smiled and said simply, "We expected you yesterday."
He then offered me a lift to where my comrades would be waiting for
me. We drove to Lobatse. where- if ri-ipi- t^ť \/i-^j'--- ' - --
266 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
me, a sergeant came into the hall and asked the colonel where he c
find a certain lieutenant. The colonel regarded him with ill-conce l a contempt and said, "Can't you see that I am talking to an import individual here? Don't you know not to interrupt me when I am eari
Now, get out of my sight!" Then he continued with his discussion in rh
same didactic tone as before.
The training course was meant to be six months, but after eight week
I received a telegram from the ANC urgently requesting that I return
home. The internal armed struggle was escalating and they wanted the
commander ofMK on the scene.
Colonel Tadesse rapidly arranged for me to take an Ethiopian flight
to Khartoum. Before I left, he presented me with a gift: an automatic
pistol and two hundred rounds of ammunition. I was grateful, both for
the gun and his instruction. Despite my fatigue marches, I found it wearying
to carry around all that ammunition. A single bullet is surprisingly heavy: hauling around two hundred is like carrying a small child on one's
back.
In Khartoum, I was met by a British Airways official who told me
that my connecting flight to Dar es Salaam would not leave until the
following day and they had taken the liberty of booking me into a posh
hotel in town. I was dismayed, for I would have preferred to stay in a less
conspicuous third-class hotel.
When I was dropped off, I had to walk across the hotel's long and
elegant veranda, where several dozen whites were sitting and drinking.
This was long before metal detectors and security checks, and 1 was
carrying my pistol in a holster inside my jacket and the two hundred
rounds wrapped around my waist inside my trousers. I also had several
thousand pounds in cash. I had the feeling that all of these well-dressed
whites had X-ray vision and that I was going to be arrested at any moment
But I was escorted safely to my room, where I ordered room service,
even the footsteps of the waiters put me on edge.
From Khartoum I went directly to Dar es Salaam, where I greeted the
first group of twenty-one Umkhonto recruits who were headed to bttu
pia to train as soldiers. It was a proud moment, for these men ha
They Wd*
unteered for duty in an army I was then attempting to create. inc\ risking their lives in a battle that was only just beginning, a batt e
would be most dangerous for those who were its first soldiers. The\ ^ young men, mainly from the cities, and they were proud and cage ^ had a dinner in Addis: the men slaughtered a goat in my honor,
addressed them about my trip and told them of the necessity o 8^ behavior and discipline abroad, because they were representatives ^ South African freedom struggle. Military training, I said, must g
THE BLACK PIMPERNEL 267
, j ^yith political training, for a revolution is not just a question of in 11' -ie a trigger; lts purpose is to create a fair and just society. It was P r,<t time that I was ever saluted by my own soldiers.
President Nyerere gave me a private plane to Mbeya, and I then flew
.. Jy co Lobatse. The pilot informed me that we would be landing in , g This concerned me: why was the plan altered? In Kanye, I was
pt by the local magistrate and a security man, both of whom were white.
The magistrate approached me and asked me my name. David Motsamayi,
I replied. No, he said, please tell me your real name. Again, I said David
Viotsamavi. The magistrate said, "Please tell me your real name because
I was given instructions to meet Mr. Mandela here and provide him with
help and transportation. If you are not Mr. Nelson Mandela, I am afraid
I will have to arrest you for you have no permit to enter the country. Are
you Nelson Mandela?"
This was a quandary; I might be arrested either way. "If you insist that
I am Nelson Mandela and not David Motsamayi," I said, "I will not
challenge you." He smiled and said simply, "We expected you yesterday."
He then offered me a lift to where my comrades would be waiting for
me. We drove to Lobatse, where I met Joe Modise and an ANC supporter
named Jonas Matlou, who was then living there. The magistrate told me
that the South African police were aware that I was returning, and he
suggested that I leave tomorrow. I thanked him for his help and advice,
but when I arrived at Matlou's house, I said that I would leave tonight.
1 was to drive back to South Africa with Cecil Williams, a white theater
director and member of MK. Posing as his chauffeur, I got behind the
wheel and we left that night for Johannesburg.
Part Seven
RIVONIA
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272 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I was newly returned and ready to push ahead with MK. Tins \\ ise ^ ,
was overruled by everyone, including myself. e
I left the next night from Rivonia in the company of Cecil, again
as his chauffeur. I had planned a series of secret meetings in Durban ih
first of which was with Monty Naicker and Ismail Meer to brief the
about my trip and to discuss the new proposal. Monty and Ismail we
extremely close to the chief, and the chief trusted their views. I wanted to be able to tell Luthuli I had spoken to his friends and convey their
reaction. Ismail and Monty, however, were disturbed by my belief that
the ANC needed to take the lead among the Congress Alliance and make
statements on its own concerning affairs that affected Africans. They were
against anything that unraveled the alliance.
I was taken to Groutville, where the chief lived, and we met in the
house of an Indian lady in town. I explained the situation to the chief at
some length, and he listened without speaking. When I was done, he said
he did not like the idea of foreign politicians dictating policy to the ANC.
He said we had evolved the policy of nonracialism for good reasons and
he did not think that we should alter our policy because it did not suit
a few foreign leaders.
I told the chief that these foreign politicians were not dictating our
policy, but merely saying that they did not understand it. My plan, I told
him, was simply to effect essentially cosmetic changes in order to make the ANC more intelligible -- and more palatable -- to our allies. I saw
this as a defensive maneuver, for if African states decided to support the
PAC, a small and weak organization could suddenly become a large and
potent one.
The chief did not make decisions on the spur of the moment. I could
see he wanted to think about what I had said and talk to some of his
friends about it. I said farewell, and he advised me to be careful. I still
had a number of clandestine meetings in the city and townships that
evening. My last meeting that evening was with the MK Regional Corn
mand in Durban.
The Durban Command was led by a sabotage expert named Bruiw
Mtolo, whom I had never met before, but would meet again under r2 matically different circumstances. I briefed them on my trip to A "c^ about the support we had received and the offers of training. I ^P a1 ^ that for the moment MK was limited to sabotage, but that if sabot ^ did not have the desired effect we would probably move on to gue
warfare. .  ^.
Later that same evening, at the home of the photojournalist ^ Naidoo, where I was staying, I was joined by Ismail and Fatim
RIVONIA 273
nrv Naicker, and J. N. Singh for what was a combination welcomee
party and going-away party, for I was leaving the next day for
, nnesburg. It was a pleasant evening and my first night of relaxation
long while. I slept well and I met Cecil on Sunday afternoon -- the
fifrh of August -- for the long drive back to Johannesburg in his trusty
Austin.
I wore my chauffeur's white dust-coat and sat next to Cecil as he drove.
We often took turns spelling each other behind the wheel. It was a clear, cool day and I reveled in the beauty of the Natal countryside; even in
winter Natal remains green. Now that I was returning to Johannesburg
I would have some time to see Winnie and the children. I had often
wished that Winnie could share with me the wonders of Africa, but the
best I could do was to tell her what I had seen and done.
Once we left the industrial precincts of Durban, we moved through
hills that offered majestic views of the surrounding valleys and the blueblack
waters of the Indian Ocean. Durban is the principal port for the
country's main industrial area, and the highway that leads to Johannesburg
runs parallel to the railway line for a great distance. I went from contemplating
the natural beauty to ruminating on the fact that the railway line,
being so close to the highway, offered a convenient place for sabotage. I
made a note of this in the small notebook I always carried with me.
Cecil and I were engrossed in discussions of sabotage plans as we
passed through Howick, twenty miles northwest ofPietermaritzburg. At
Cedara, a small town just past Howick, I noticed a Ford V-8 filled with
white men shoot past us on the right. I instinctively turned round to look
behind and I saw two more cars filled with white men. Suddenly, in front
°ius, the Ford was signaling us to stop. I knew in that instant that my
"re on the run was over; my seventeen months of "freedom" were about
to end.
As Cecil slowed down he turned to me and said, "Who are these men?" ^d not answer because we both knew full well who they were. They
, Aosen their hiding-spot well; to the left of us was a steep wooded ^ank they could have forced us into had we tried to elude them. I was in
left-hand passenger seat, and for a moment I thought about jumping ^ ^d making an escape into the woods, but I would have been shot
.latter of seconds.
>,,  en our ^r stopped, a tall slender man with a stern expression on un h^ came ^^^y c)ver to Ac window on the passenger side. He was
"W^" and lt W^"^ mat he had not ^P1 in q^^ a while. I imvqj
telv assumed he had been waiting for us for several days. In a calm
p^ ' "e introduced himself as Sergeant Vorster of the Pietermaritzburg ^d produced an arrest warrant. He asked me to identify myself.
274 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I told him my name was David Motsamayi. He nodded, and then
very proper way, he asked me a few questions about where I hadh a and where I was going. I parried these questions without eivine h-^ much information. He seemed a bit irritated and then, he said "a^ you're Nelson Mandela, and this is Cecil Williams, and you areunri arrest!"
He informed us that a police major from the other car would accn
pany us back to Pietermaritzburg. The police were not yet so vigilant'
those days, and Sergeant Vorster did not bother searching me. I had m
loaded revolver with me, and again, I thought of escape, but I would have
been greatly outnumbered. I secretly put the revolver -- and my notebook
-- in the upholstery between my seat and Cecil's. For some reason
the police never found the gun or the small notebook, which was fortunate,
for many more people would have been arrested if they had.
At the police station I was led into Sergeant Vorster's office, where I
saw a number of officers, one of whom was Warrant Officer Truter, who
had testified in the Treason Trial. Truter had made a favorable impression
on the accused because he had accurately explained the policy of the ANC,
and had not exaggerated or lied. We greeted each other in a friendly way.
I had still not admitted to anything other than the name David Motsamayi,
and Truter said to me, "Nelson, why do you keep up this farce?
You know I know who you are. We all know who you are." I told him
simply that I had given a name and that is the name I was standing by.
I asked for a lawyer and was curtly refused. I then declined to make a
statement.
Cecil and I were locked in separate cells. I now had time to ruminate
on my situation. I had always known that arrest was a possibility, but
even freedom fighters practice denial, and in my cell that night I realized
I was not prepared for the reality of capture and confinement. I was upset
and agitated. Someone had tipped off the police about my whereabouts;
they had known I was in Durban and that I would be returning to
Johannesburg. For weeks before my return the police believed that I was
already back in the country. In June, newspaper headlines blared ^Ł TURN OF THE BLACK PIMPERNEL" while I was still in Addis
Ababa. Perhaps that had been a bluffi u
The authorities had been harassing Winnie in the belief that she wou^ know whether or not I was back. I knew that they had followed her
searched the house on a number of occasions. I guessed they had "^ I would visit Chief Lutuli directly upon my return, and they were co
But I also suspected they had information that I was in Durban a
time. The movement had been infiltrated with informers, and even ^ intentioned people were generally not as tight-lipped as they shou
RIVONIA 275
T had also been lax. Too many people had known I was in Durban. h i even had a party the night before I left, and I chastised myself for p down my guard. My mind ricocheted among the possibilities. Was
informer in Durban? Someone from Johannesburg? Someone from ' movement? Or even a friend or member of the family? But such
riilation about unknowns is futile, and with the combination of mental
nd physical exhaustion, I soon fell deeply asleep. At least on this night --
August 5 1962 -- I did not have to worry about whether the police would
find me. They already had.
In the morning, I felt restored and I braced myself for the new ordeal
that lay ahead of me. I would not, under any circumstances, seem despairing
or even disappointed to my captors. At 8:30 I appeared before
the local magistrate and was formally remanded to Johannesburg. It was
low-key, and the magistrate seemed no more concerned than if he were
handling a traffic summons. The police had not taken elaborate precautions
for the trip back to Johannesburg or for my security, and I merely
sat in the backseat of a sedan, un-handcuffed, with two officers riding in
front. My arrest had been discovered by my friends; Fatima Meer brought
some food to the jail for me and I shared it with the two officers in the
car. We even stopped at Volksrust, a town along the way, and they allowed
me to take a brief walk to stretch my legs. I did not contemplate escape
when people were kind to me; I did not want to take advantage of the
trust they placed in me.
But as we approached Johannesburg, the atmosphere changed. I heard a" announcement over the police radio of my capture and the order to
fold up me roadblocks to and from Natal. At sunset, on the outskirts of
Johannesburg, we were met by a sizable police escort. I was abruptly "andcuffed, taken from the car, and placed in a sealed police van with
small opaque windows reinforced with wire netting. The motorcade then
°ok a circuitous and unfamiliar route to Marshall Square as if they were ^ncemed we might be ambushed.
1 was locked in a cell by myself. In the quiet of the cell I was planning ^, ^^gy for the next day, when I heard a cough from a nearby cell. I "of realize a prisoner was close by, but more than that, there was
ething about this cough, something that struck me as curiously fa^
I sat "P in sudden recognition and called out, "Walter?"
mbtt- c Is that you?" he said' and we ^ghcd with an indescribable ^arn^ ^f ^^ surprise, disappointment, and happiness. Walter, I
thai ^' been ""lasted shortly after my own arrest. We did not think
Place if arrests were unrelated. While this was not the most auspicious r a meeting of the National Working Committee, it was certainly
276	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
convenient and the night sped by as I gave him a full account ofmv a
as well as my meetings in Durban. '
The next day I appeared in court before a senior magistrate for for
remand. Harold Wolpe and Joe Slovo had come to court after hea
of my arrest, and we conferred in the basement. I had appeared bef
this magistrate on numerous occasions in my professional capacity a d we had grown to respect one another. A number of attorneys were al
present, some of whom I knew quite well. It is curious how one ca
be easily flattered in certain situations by otherwise insignificant incidents.
I am by no means immune to flattery in normal circumstances but
there I was, a fugitive, number one on the state's Most Wanted list, a handcuffed
outlaw who had been underground for more than a year and
yet the judge, the other attorneys, and the spectators all greeted me
with deference and professional courtesy. They knew me as Nelson Mandela
attorney-at-law, not Nelson Mandela, outlaw. It lifted my spirits
immensely.
During the proceedings, the magistrate was diffident and uneasy, and
would not look at me directly. The other attorneys also seemed embarrassed,
and at that moment, I had something of a revelation. These men
were not only uncomfortable because I was a colleague brought low, but
because I was an ordinary man being punished for his beliefs. In a way
I had never quite comprehended before, I realized the role I could play
in court and the possibilities before me as a defendant. I was the symbol
of justice in the court of the oppressor, the representative of the great
ideals of freedom, fairness, and democracy in a society that dishonored
those virtues. I realized then and there that I could carry on the fight
even within the fortress of the enemy.
When I was asked the name of my counsel, I announced that I would
represent myself, with Joe Slovo as legal adviser. By representing myselt
I would enhance the symbolism of my role. I would use my trial as a
showcase for the ANCs moral opposition to racism. I would not attempt
to defend myself so much as put the state itself on trial. That day.
answered only the questions as to my name and choice of counse.
listened silently to the charges: inciting African workers to strike i'^ leaving the country without valid travel documents. In apartheid °
Africa, the penalties for these "crimes" could be as much as ten year5.
prison. Yet the charges were something of a relief: the state clear y ^ not have enough evidence to link me with Umkhonto we Sizwe ^ would have been charged with the far more serious crimes of treas ^
sabotage. ^ Only as I was leaving the courtroom, did I see Winnie in the spec
Above, left:
A private exchange
between old
comrades. (Peter
Magubane)
Above:
In December of 1990
Oliver Tambo
returned home to
South Africa after
more than thirty
years in exile.
{Aswiaud Press)
Left:
Oliver's welcome
home rally in
Johannesburg.
(Assocwud Press)
r^!
RIVONIA 277
it rv She looked distressed and gloomy; she was undoubtedly consid- ^ the difficult months and years ahead, of life on her own, raising e mall children, in an often hard and forbidding city. It is one thing 1 he told of possible hardships ahead, it is entirely another to actually
h p to confront them. All I could do, as I descended the steps to the
ement was to give her a wide smile, as if to show her that I was not
nrried and that she should not be either. I cannot imagine that it helped
very much.
From the court, I was taken to the Johannesburg Fort. When I emerged
from the courthouse to enter the sealed van, there was a crowd of hundreds
of people cheering and shouting "Amandia!" followed by "Ngawethu," a
popular ANC call-and-response meaning "Power!" and "The power is
ours!" People yelled and sang and pounded their fists on the sides of the
van as the vehicle crawled out of the courthouse exit. My capture and
case had made headlines in every paper: "POLICE SWOOP ENDS TWO
YEARS ON THE RUN" was one; "NELSON MANDELA UNDER
ARREST" was another. The so-called Black Pimpernel was no longer at
large.
A few days later Winnie was granted permission to visit me. She had
gotten dressed up and now, at least on the face of it, appeared less
glum than before. She brought me a new pair of expensive pajamas and
a lovely silk gown more appropriate to a salon than a prison. I did not
have the heart to tell her it was wholly inappropriate for me to wear
such things in jail. I knew, however, that the parcel was a way of expressing
her love and a pledge of solidarity. I thanked her, and although
we did not have much time we quickly discussed family matters, especially
how she would support herself and the children. I mentioned "ie names of friends who would help her and also clients of mine who 51111 owed me money. I told her to tell the children the truth of my
pture, and how I would be away for a long time. I said we were not
e nrst family in this situation, and that those who underwent such whips came out the stronger. I assured her of the strength of our
i the loyalty of our friends, and how it would be her love and devoy0" tnat ^uld see me through whatever transpired. The officer super,
" e ^it turned a blind eye, and we embraced and clung to each
if ^ wlt^ ^ ^ ^''^glh an(^ pent-up emotion inside each of us, as
were to be the final parting. In a way, it was, for we were to be
The . "^ch longer than either of us could then have imagined.
the .arrant officer allowed me to accompany Winnie part of the way to
^oun^^^ wllere \ was 3ib^ to watch her, alone and proud, disappear UIla the corner.
278	LONG WALK TO FREED'
50
AT THE FORT I was being supervised by Colonel Minnaar, a couirl
Afrikaner considered something of a liberal by his more verkrampte (ha rl
line) colleagues. He explained that he was placing me in the prison hosoital
because it was the most comfortable area and I would be able to have
chair and table on which I could prepare my case. While the hospital was
indeed comfortable -- I was able to sleep in a proper bed, somemine I
had never done before in prison -- the real reason for his generosity was
that the hospital was the safest place to keep me. To reach it one had to
pass through two impregnable walls, each with armed guards; and once
inside, four massive gates had to be unlocked before one even reached
the area where I was kept. There was speculation in the press that the
movement was going to attempt to rescue me, and the authorities were
doing their utmost to prevent it.
There had also been wild speculations, in the press and within the
ANC, that I had been betrayed by someone in the movement. I knew
that some people blamed G. R. Naidoo, my Durban host, a suggestion
I believe was unfounded. The press trumpeted the notion that I had been
betrayed by white and Indian Communists who were unsettled by my
suggestions that the ANC must become more Africanist-oriented. But I
believed these stories were planted by the government to divide the Congress
movement, and I regarded it as malicious mischief. I later discussed
the matter not only with Walter, Duma, Joe Slovo, and Ahmed Kathrada,
but with Winnie, and I was gratified to see that they shared my feelings.
Winnie had been invited to open the annual conference of the Transvaal
Indian Youth Congress, and at my instigation she repudiated these rumors
in no uncertain terms. The newspapers were filled with stones of her
beauty and eloquence. "We shall not waste time looking for evidence as
to who betrayed Mandela," she told the audience. "Such propaganda 's
calculated to keep us fighting one another instead of uniting to corn
Nationalist oppression." l
The most oft-cited story was that an American consular official ^ connections to the CIA had tipped off the authorities. This stor\ ^ never been confirmed and I have never seen any reliable evidence
the truth of it. Although the CIA has been responsible for many ^ ^ temptible activities in its support of American imperialism, I ca ^.
my capture at their door. In truth, I had been imprudent al^out ^ taining the secrecy of my movements. In retrospect, I realized
RIVONIA 279

i nrities could have had a myriad of ways of locating me on my trip 111 Durban. It was a wonder in fact that I wasn't captured sooner.
(. only a few days in the Fort's hospital before being transferred to
Isf
r roria. There had been no restrictions on visits in Johannesburg, and
L -- . . r- l xt''-I
I id had a continuous stream of people coming to see me. Visitors keep
c's spirits up in prison, and the absence of them can be disheartening. In insferrine me to Pretoria, the authorities wanted to get me away from
one
home turf to a place where I would have fewer friends dropping by.
I was handcuffed and taken to Pretoria in an old van in the company of another prisoner. The inside of the van was filthy and we sat on a
ereasy spare tire, which slid from side to side as the van rumbled its way
to Pretoria. The choice of companion was curious: his name was Nkadimeng
and he was a member of one ofSoweto's fiercest gangs. Normally,
officials would not permit a political prisoner to share the same vehicle with
a common-law criminal, but I suspect they were hoping I would be intimidated
by Nkadimeng, who I assumed was a police informer. I was dirty
and annoyed by the time I reached prison, and my irritation was aggravated by the fact that I was put in a single cell with this fellow. I demanded
and eventually received separate space so that I could prepare my case.
I was now permitted visitors only twice a week. Despite the distance,
Winnie came regularly and always brought clean clothes and delicious
food. This was another way of showing her support, and every time I
put on a fresh shirt I felt her love and devotion. I was aware of how
difficult it must have been to get to Pretoria in the middle of the day in
the middle of the week with two small children at home. I was visited by many others who brought food, including the ever-faithful Mrs. Pillay ^o supplied me with a spicy lunch every day.
Because of the generosity of my visitors I had an embarrassment of
riches and wanted to share my food with the other prisoners on my floor. was was strictly forbidden. In order to circumvent the restrictions, I
sred food to the warders, who might then relent. With this in mind I Iresented a shiny red apple to an African warder who looked at it and ^°mly rebuffed me with the phrase "Angiyifum" (I don't want it). African
ers tend to be either much more sympathetic than white warders, or
more severe, as though to outdo their masters. But, a short while "^Cr t"h l i i
ind h c ^rder saw a white warder take the apple he had rejected,
toy. ^^d his mind. Soon I was supplying all my fellow prisoners with
to p,.ro\1^ Ac prison grapevme, I learned that Walter had been brought tlnj ^ orla as we^, and although we were isolated from each other we
_ge to communicate. Walter had applied for bail -- a decision I
Im^M
280 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
fully supported. Bail has long been a sensitive issue within the am<- There are those who believed we should always reject bail, as it could k
interpreted that we were fainthearted rebels who accepted the racist st e tures of the legal system. I did not think this view should be univers 11
applied and believed we should examine the issue on a case-by-case ba '
Ever since Walter had become secretary-general of the ANC I had if l
that every effort should be made to bail him out of prison. He was simni
too vital to the organization to allow him to languish in jail. In his ca<;
bail was a practical not a theoretical issue. It was different in my own
case. I had been underground; Walter had not. I had become a public
symbol of rebellion and struggle; Walter operated behind the scenes He
agreed that no application for bail should be made in my case. For one
thing, it would not have been granted and I did not want to do anything that might suggest that I was not prepared for the consequences of the
underground life I had chosen.
Not long after Walter and I reached this decision I was again transferred
back to the hospital at the Fort. A hearing had been set for October.
Little can be said in favor of prison, but enforced isolation is conducive
to study. I had begun correspondence studies for my LL.B., a bachelor
of laws degree allowing one to practice as an advocate. One of the first
things I had done after arriving at Pretoria Local was to send a letter to
the authorities notifying them of my intention to study and requesting
permission to purchase a copy of the Law of Torts, part of my syllabus.
A few days later. Colonel Aucamp, commanding officer of Pretoria
Local and one of the more notorious of prison officials, marched into
my cell and in a gloating manner said, "Mandela, we have got you now!"
Then he said, "Why do you want a book about torches, man, unless you
plan to use it for your damn sabotage?" I had no idea what he was talking
about, until he produced my letter requesting a book about what he called
"the Law of Torches." I smiled at this and he became angry that I was
not taking him seriously. The Afrikaans word for "torch" is toort, very
similar to tort, and I explained to him that in English tort was a branch
of law not a burning stick of wood that could be used to set off a born
He went away in a huff.
One day I was in the prison courtyard at the Fort doing my daily exerclsewhich
consisted of jogging, running in place, push-ups, and sit-ups,
I was approached by a tall, handsome Indian fellow named Moosa L" whom I had known slightly as a prosperous, even flamboyant bu
man. He was serving a two-year sentence for fraud. On the outsi
would have remained acquaintances, but prison is an incubator o
ship. Dinath would often accompany me on my jogs around the cour y
RIVONIA 281
j , ^g asked whether I had any objection if he obtained permission
the commanding officer to be near me in the prison hospital. I told that I would welcome it, but I thought to myself that the authorities ^ould never permit it. I was wrong.
It was exceedingly odd that a convicted prisoner like Dinath was perrted
to stay together with a political prisoner awaiting trial. But I said
nthing as I was glad to have company. Dinath was wealthy and had a
rivate payroll for the prison authorities. In return for his money, he
eceived many privileges: he wore clothes meant for white prisoners, ate
their diet, and did no jail work at all.
One night, to my astonishment, I observed Colonel Minnaar, who was
the head of prison, and a well-known Afrikaner advocate come to fetch
him. Dinath then left prison for the night and did not come back again
until the morning. If I had not seen it with my own eyes I would not
have believed it.
Dinath regaled me with tales of financial shenanigans and corruption
among cabinet ministers, which I found fascinating. It confirmed to me
how apartheid was a poison that bred moral decay in all areas. I scrupulously
avoided discussing with him any matters of a political or sensitive
nature on the grounds that he might also have been an informer. He once
asked me to tell him about my African trip and I simply glossed over it.
In the end, Dinath pulled enough strings to speed up his release and left
after serving only four months of his two-year sentence.
Escape serves a double purpose: it liberates a freedom fighter from jail
so that he can continue to fight, but offers a tremendous psychological "oost to the struggle and a great publicity blow against the enemy. As a
prisoner, I always contemplated escape, and during my various trips to ^d from me commanding officer's office, I carefully surveyed the walls, ule "dements of the guards, the types of keys and locks used in the oors- I made a detailed sketch of the prison grounds with particular "^hasis on the exact location of the prison hospital and the gates leading
lt- This map was smuggled out to the movement with instructions 0 ^stloy k """^lately after it was perused. ^ here were two plans, one hatched by Moosa Dinath, which I ignored;
Sk second was conceived by the ANC and communicated to me by Joe
to k t ^"Ived bribes, copies of keys, and even a false beard that was
priso- se^n mt0 dle ^""Ider pad of one of my jackets brought to me in vsc'a." The idea w^ that I would don the beard after I had made my
P^m carefully considered the escape plan and concluded that it was
a tail,, re' and the likelihood of its failure was unacceptably high. Such ^^^^^ould be fatal to the organization. During a meeting with Joe,
282 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I passed him a note communicating my views. I wrote that MK \\
ready for such an operation; even an elite and trained force would oroh hi)t
not be able to accomplish such a mission. I suggested that such a ? i^
be postponed until I was a convicted prisoner and the authorities \ lt
less cautious. At the end, I wrote, "Please destroy this after you I
finished reading it." Joe and the others took my advice about not
tempting the escape, but he decided the note should be saved as a histor ' i
document, and it later turned up at a very unfortunate time.
51
THE INITIAL HEARING was set for Monday, October 15,1952. The
organization had set up a Free Mandela Committee and launched a lively
campaign with the slogan "Free Mandela." Protests were held throughout
the country and the slogan began to appear scrawled on the sides of
buildings. The government retaliated by banning all gatherings relating
to my imprisonment, but this restriction was ignored by the liberation
movement.
In preparation for Monday's hearing, the Free Mandela Committee
had organized a mass demonstration at the courthouse. The plan was to
have people line both sides of the road along the route my van would take.
From press reports, conversations with visitors, and even the remarks of
prison guards, I learned that a large and vociferous turnout was expected.
On Saturday, while I was preparing myself for the Monday hearing, I
was ordered to pack my things immediately: the hearing had been shifted
to Pretoria. The authorities had made no announcement, and had I not
managed to get word out through a sympathetic jailer, no one would
have known that I had left Johannesburg.
But the movement reacted quickly, and by the time my case began on
Monday morning, the Old Synagogue was packed with supporters. The
synagogue was like a second home to me after four years of the Treason
Trial. My legal adviser, Joe Slovo, could not be present as he was confine
to Johannesburg by bans and I was ably assisted instead by Bob Hepp <
I entered the court that Monday morning wearing a traditional An ^
leopard-skin kaross instead of a suit and tie. The crowd of ^PP"
rose as one and with raised, clenched fists shouted "Amandia!" an0 - ^
ethu!" The kaross electrified the spectators, many of whom were i1
and family, some of whom had come all the way from the Transkci
also wore a traditional beaded headdress and an ankle-length Xhos - ^
I had chosen traditional dress to emphasize the symbolism tha
RIVONIA 283
, ^ African walking into a white man's court. I was literally carrying 1 my back the history, culture, and heritage of my people. That day, I
.1 mvself to be the embodiment of African nationalism, the inheritor
,- Africa's difficult but noble past and her uncertain future. The kaross
^5Q a sign of contempt for the niceties of white justice. I well knew
, authorities would feel threatened by my kaross as so many whites feel
threatened by the true culture of Africa.
When the crowd had quieted down and the case was called, I formally
areeted the prosecutor, Mr. Bosch, whom I had known from my attorney
davs and the magistrate, Mr. Von Heerden, who was also familiar to me.
I then immediately applied for a two-week remand on the grounds that
I had been transferred to Pretoria without being given the opportunity
of notifying my attorneys. I was granted a week's postponement.
When I was on my way back to my cell, a very nervous white warder
said that the commanding officer. Colonel Jacobs, had ordered me to
hand over the kaross. I said, "You can tell him that he is not going to
have it." This warder was a weak fellow, and he started trembling. He
practically begged me for it and said he would be fired if he did not bring
it back. I felt sorry for him and I said, "Look, here, just tell your commanding
officer that it is Mandela speaking, not you." A short while later
Colonel Jacobs himself appeared and ordered me to turn over what he
referred to as my "blanket." I told him that he had no jurisdiction over
the attire I chose to wear in court and if he tried to confiscate my kaross
I would take the matter all the way to the Supreme Court. The colonel
never again tried to take my "blanket," but the authorities would permit me to wear it only in court, not on my way to or from court for fear it
would "incite" other prisoners.
"hen the case resumed a week later I was given permission to address Ae court before I was asked to plead. "I hope to be able to indicate," I ^plained, "that this case is a trial of the aspirations of the African people,
because of that I thought it proper to conduct my own defense." I
. ^d to make it clear to the bench, the gallery, and the press that I snded to put the state on trial. I then made application for the recusal . e "^gistrate on the grounds that I did not consider myself morally
tar to "^ ^aws "^^ by a Parliament in which I had no represenn- Nor was it possible to receive a fair trial from a white judge:
r-i .
\ 's it that in this courtroom I am facing a white magistrate, con- "tcd by a white prosecutor, escorted by white orderlies? Can anybody
t-stly and seriously suggest that in this type of atmosphere the scales ce are evenly balanced? Why is it that no African in the history
284 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
of this country has ever had the honor of being tried by his own \r' k
and kin, by his own flesh and blood? I will tell Your Worship \vhv rh
real purpose of this rigid color bar is to ensure that the justice dispens d
by the courts should conform to the policy of the country, howev
much that policy might be in conflict with the norms of justice accepted
in judiciaries throughout the civilized world. . . . Your Worship I har
racial discrimination most intensely and in all its manifestations. I have
fought it all my life. I fight it now, and I will do so until the end of
my days. I detest most intensely the set-up that surrounds me here It
makes me feel that I am a black man in a white man's court. This should
not be.
During the trial the prosecutor called more than one hundred witnesses
from all over the country, including the Transkei and South West Africa.
They were policemen, journalists, township superintendents, printers.
Most of them gave technical evidence to show that I left the country
illegally and that I had incited African workers to strike during the threeday
stay-at-home in May 1961. It was indisputable  and in fact I did not
dispute  that I was technically guilty of both charges.
The prosecutor had called Mr. Barnard, the private secretary to the
prime minister, to testify to the letter I had sent the prime minister
demanding that he call a national convention and informing him that if
he did not, we would organize a three-day strike. In my cross-examination
of Mr. Barnard I first read the court the letter I sent requesting that the
prime minister call a national convention for all South Africans to write
a new nonracial constitution.
NM: Did you place this letter before your prime minister?
witness: Yes.
NM: Now was any reply given to this letter by the prime minister?
witness: He did not reply to the writer.
NM: He did not reply to the letter. Now, will you agree that this letter
raises matters of vital concern to the vast majority of the citizens o
this country?
witness: I do not agree.
NM: You don't agree? You don't agree that the question of human
rights, of civil liberties, is a matter of vital importance to the Africa"
people?
witness: Yes, that is so, indeed.
NM: Are these things mentioned here?
witness: Yes, I think so. ... ,
NM: . . . You have already agreed that this letter raises questions
the rights of freedom, civil liberties, and so on?
RIVONIA 285
witness: Yes, the letter raises it.
mm- Now you know of course that Africans don't enjoy the rights
demanded in this letter? They arc denied these rights of government.
witness: Some rights.
NM: No African is a member of Parliament?
witness: That is right.
NM: No African can be a member of the provincial council, of the
municipal councils.
witness: Yes.
NM: Africans have no vote in this country?
witness: They have got no vote as far as Parliament is concerned.
NM: Yes, that is what I am talking about, I am talking about Parliament
and other government bodies of the country, the provincial councils,
the municipal councils. They have no vote?
witness: That is right.
NM: Would you agree with me that in any civilized country in the
world it would be scandalous for a prime minister to fail to reply to
a letter raising vital issues affecting the majority of the citizens of
that country. Would you agree with that?
witness: I don't agree with that.
NM: You don't agree that it would be irregular for a prime minister
to ignore a letter raising vital issues affecting the vast majority of the
citizens of that country?
witness: This letter has not been ignored by the prime minister.
NM: Just answer the question. Do you regard it proper for a prime
minister not to respond to pleas made in regard to vital issues by the
vast majority of the citizens of the country? You say that is wrong?
witness: The prime minister did respond to the letter.
nm: Mr. Barnard, I don't want to be rude to you. Will you confine
yourself to answering my questions. The question I am putting to
you is, do you agree that it is most improper on the part of a prime
minister not to reply to a communication raising vital issues affecting
^e vast majority of the country?
r- Barnard and I never did agree. In the end, he simply said that the
or the letter was aggressive and discourteous and for that reason the
"ne minister did not answer it.
i^ .^"out the proceedings the prosecutor and the magistrate repeatedly
rcpj e ^"m the number of witnesses I intended to call. I would always
^e <ir an to ca^ as manv witnesses as the state, if not more." When
 "nally concluded its case, there was a stillness in the courtroom
286 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in anticipation of the beginning of my defense. I rose and inste r) calling my first witness, I declared quite matter-of-factly that I was calling any witnesses at all, at which point I abruptly closed my case Th of was a murmur in the courtroom and the prosecutor could not hein re claiming, "Lord!" p ex'
I had misled the court from the beginning because I knew the char
was accurate and the state's case was solid, and I saw no point in attemoti
to call witnesses and defend myself. Through my cross-examination and
attempts to force the judge to recuse himself, I had made the statements I wanted about the unfairness of the court. I saw no advantage in callinp
witnesses to try to disprove something that was incontrovertible.
The magistrate was taken by surprise by my action and asked me with
some incredulity, "Have you anything more to say?"
"Your Worship, I submit that I am guilty of no crime."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Your Worship, with respect, if I had something more to say I would
have said it."
The prosecutor then shuffled through his papers attempting to get
ready for an address he did not expect to have to make. He briefly addressed
the court and asked the magistrate to find me guilty on both
counts. The court was then adjourned until the following day, when I
would have a chance to address the court in what is known as the plea
in mitigation before the magistrate gave his sentence.
The following morning, before court was called into session, 1 was in an
office off the courtroom talking with Bob Hepple, who had been advising
me on the case, and we were praising the fact that the day before, the
General Assembly of the U.N. had voted in favor of sanctions against
South Africa for the first time. Bob also told me that acts of sabotage in
Port Elizabeth and Durban had occurred, both celebrating the U.N. vote
and protesting my trial. We were in the midst of this discussion when
the prosecutor, Mr. Bosch, entered the room and then asked Bob to excuse
himself.
"Mandela," he said, after Bob had left, "I did not want to come to
court today. For the first time in my career, I despise what I am doing^ It hurts me that I should be asking the court to send you to prison.
then reached out and shook my hand, and expressed the hope that e\e
thing would turn out well for me. I thanked him for his sentiments,
assured him that I would never forget what he had said. ^
The authorities were on alert that day. The crowd inside the cou
seemed even larger than on the first day of the case. All one hun ^ "non-European" seats were filled. Winnie was present, in Xhosa
RIVONIA 287
.11 as a number of my relatives from the Transkei. Hundreds ofdemrrators
stood a block from the courthouse, and there seemed to be as ^lany policemen as spectators.
When I walked in the courtroom, I raised my right fist and called out rAniandW" which was met by a mighty 'V^awethu!" The magistrate
inded his gavel and cried for order. When the court was quiet, he
urnmcd up the charges, after which I had my opportunity to speak. My
nlea in mitigation lasted over an hour. It was not a judicial appeal at all
but a political testament. I wanted to explain to the court how and why
I had become the man I was, why I had done what I had done, and why,
if given the chance, I would do it again.
Many years ago, when I was a boy brought up in my village in the
Transkei, I listened to the elders of the tribe telling stories about the
good old days before the arrival of the white man. Then our people
lived peacefully, under the democratic rule of their kings and their amapakati [literally "insiders," but meaning those closest in rank to the
king], and moved freely and confidently up and down the country
without let or hindrance. The country was our own, in name and right.
We occupied the land, the forests, the rivers; we extracted the mineral
wealth beneath the soil and all the riches of this beautiful country. We
set up and operated our own government, we controlled our own arms
and we organized our trade and commerce. The elders would tell tales
of the wars fought by our ancestors in defense of the Fatherland, as
well as the acts of valor by generals and soldiers during these epic
days. . . .
The structure and organization of early African societies in this
country fascinated me very much and greatly influenced the evolution
°fmy political outlook. The land, then the main means of production,
belonged to the whole tribe and there was no individual ownership ^atsoever. There were no classes, no rich or poor and no exploitation man by man. All men were free and equal and this was the foundation
government. Recognition of this general principle found expression m Ac constitution of the council, variously called "Imbizo" or "Pitso" ^gotia," which governs the affairs of the tribe. The council was so ^inplctely democratic that all members of the tribe could participate lts ^"bcrations. Chief and subject, warrior and medicine man, all
pw and endeavored to influence its decisions. It was so weighty ^ influential a body that no step of any importance could ever be cn by the tribe without reference to it.
and ere was muc^ m sucn a society that was primitive and insecure ^rtamly could never measure up to the demands of the present
288 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
epoch. But in such a society are contained the seeds of revolutio
democracy in which none will be held in slavery or servitude and which poverty, want and insecurity shall be no more. This is the hisr which, even today, inspires me and my colleagues in our polici i
struggle.
I told the court how I had joined the African National Congress a a how its policy of democracy and nonracialism reflected my own deen
convictions. I explained how as a lawyer I was often forced to choo
between compliance with the law and accommodating my conscience
I would say that the whole life of any thinking African in this country drives him continuously to a conflict between his conscience on the
one hand and the law on the other. This is not a conflict peculiar to
this country. The conflict arises for men of conscience, for men who
think and who feel deeply in every country. Recently in Britain, a peer
of the realm. Earl [Bertrand] Russell, probably the most respected
philosopher of the Western world, was sentenced and convicted for
precisely the type of activities for which I stand before you today --
for following his conscience in defiance of the law, as a protest against
the nuclear weapons policy being pursued by his own government. He
could do no other than to oppose the law and to suffer the consequences
for it. Nor can I. Nor can many Africans in this country. The law as it
is applied, the law as it has been developed over a long period of history,
and especially the law as it is written and designed by the Nationalist
government is a law which, in our views, is immoral, unjust, and intolerable.
Our consciences dictate that we must protest against it, that
we must oppose it and that we must attempt to alter it. ... Men, I
think, are not capable of doing nothing, of saying nothing, of not
reacting to injustice, of not protesting against oppression, of not striving
for the good society and the good life in the ways they see it.
I recounted in detail the numerous times the government had used
law to hamper my life, career, and political work, through banmngsrestrictions,
and trials.
I was made, by the law, a criminal, not because of what I had don , but because of what I stood for, because of what I thought, because o
my conscience. Can it be any wonder to anybody that such condi i
make a man an outlaw of society? Can it be wondered that such a ", having been outlawed by the government, should be prepared to
the life of an outlaw, as I have led for some months, according
evidence before this court?
RIVONIA 289
It has not been easy for me during the past period to separate myself
,- ^ my wife and children, to say good-bye to the good old days when,
^g end of a strenuous day at an office I could look forward to joining my family at the dinnertable, and instead to take up the life of a man
hunted continuously by the police, living separated from those who are
closest to me, in my own country, facing continually the hazards of
detection and of arrest. This has been a life infinitely more difficult than
serving a prison sentence. No man in his right senses would voluntarily
choose such a life in preference to the one of normal, family, social life
which exists in every civilized community.
But there comes a time, as it came in my life, when a man is denied
the right to live a normal life, when he can only live the life of an outlaw
because the government has so decreed to use the law to impose a state
of outlawry upon him. I was driven to this situation, and I do not
regret having taken the decisions that I did take. Other people will be
driven in the same way in this country, by this very same force of police
persecution and of administrative action by the government, to follow
my course, of that I am certain.
I enumerated the many times that we had brought our grievances before
the government and the equal number of times that we were ignored or
shunted aside. I described our stay-away of 1961 as a last resort after the
government showed no signs of taking any steps to either talk with us or
meet our demands. It was the government that provoked violence by
employing violence to meet our nonviolent demands. I explained that
because of the government's actions we had taken a more militant stance.
I said that I had been privileged throughout my political life to fight alongside colleagues whose abilities and contributions were far greater "an my own. Many others had paid the price of their beliefs before me, ^d many more would do so after me.
Before sentencing, I informed the court that whatever sentence the
s Me imposed, it would do nothing to change my devotion to the
struggle, D b -
o not believe. Your Worship, that this court, in inflicting penalties on me for the crimes for which I am convicted should be moved by
. e chef that penalties will deter men from the course that they believe '''ght. History shows that penalties do not deter men when their ^"science is aroused, nor will they deter my people or the colleagues
lt" whom I have worked before.
and J"11 P'^P'11"^ to P^Y me penalty even though I know how bitter ^ Operate is the situation of an African in the prisons of this country.
9K'
290 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I have been in these prisons and I know how gross is the discriminatin
even behind the prison wall, against Africans. . . . Nevertheless th
considerations do not sway me from the path that I have taken nor w '11
they sway others like me. For to men, freedom in their own land is th
pinnacle of their ambitions, from which nothing can turn men of conviction
aside. More powerful than my fear of the dreadful conditions
to which I might be subjected in prison is my hatred for the dreadful
conditions to which my people are subjected outside prison throughout
this country. . . .
Whatever sentence Your Worship sees fit to impose upon me for the
crime for which I have been convicted before this court, may it rest
assured that when my sentence has been completed I will still be moved
as men are always moved, by their conscience; I will still be moved by
my dislike of the race discrimination against my people when I come
out from serving my sentence, to take up again, as best I can, the struggle
for the removal of those injustices until they are finally abolished once
and for all. ...
I have done my duty to my people and to South Africa. I have no
doubt that posterity will pronounce that I was innocent and that the
criminals that should have been brought before this court are the members
of the government.
When I had finished, the magistrate ordered a ten-minute recess to
consider the sentence. I turned and looked out at the crowd before exiting
the courtroom. I had no illusions about the sentence I would receive.
Exactly ten minutes later, in a courtroom heavy with tension, the magistrate
pronounced sentence: three years for inciting people to strike and
two years for leaving the country without a passport; five years in all,
with no possibility of parole. It was a stern sentence and there was wailing
among the spectators. As the court rose, I turned to the gallery and again made a clenched fist, shouting "Amandia!" three times. Then, on its cw n.
the crowd began to sing our beautiful anthem, "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika^ People sang and danced and the women ululated as I was led away. T_ uproar among the gallery made me forget for a moment that I would
going to prison to serve what was then the stiffest sentence yet impose
in South Africa for a political offense. ,.
Downstairs, I was permitted a brief good-bye to Winnie, and on
occasion she was not at all grim: she was in high spirits and she
tears. She seemed confident, as much a comrade as a wife. She was
termined to brace me. As I was driven away in the police van I cou
hear the people outside singing "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika."
RIVONIA 291
52
prison NOT ONLY robs you of your freedom, it attempts to take way your identity. Everyone wears the same uniform, eats the same food,
follows the same schedule. It is by definition a purely authoritarian state that tolerates no independence or individuality. As a freedom fighter and
as a man, one must fight against the prison's attempt to rob one of these
qualities.
From the courthouse, I was taken directly to Pretoria Local, the gloomy
red-brick monstrosity that I knew so well. But I was now a convicted
prisoner, not an awaiting-trial prisoner, and was treated without even that
little deference that is afforded to the latter. I was stripped of my clothes
and Colonel Jacobs was finally able to confiscate my kaross. I was issued
the standard prison uniform for Africans: a pair of short trousers, a rough
khaki shirt, a canvas jacket, socks, sandals, and a cloth cap. Only Africans
are given short trousers, for only African men are deemed "boys" by the
authorities.
I informed the authorities that I would under no circumstances wear
shorts and told them I was prepared to go to court to protest. Later,
when I was brought dinner, stiff cold porridge with a half teaspoonful
of sugar, I refused to eat it. Colonel Jacobs pondered this and came up
with a solution: I could wear long trousers and have my own food, if I
agreed to be put in isolation. "We were going to put you with the other
politicals," he said, "but now you will be alone, man. I hope you enjoy it- I assured him that solitary confinement would be fine as long as I could wear and eat what I chose.
or the next few weeks, I was completely and utterly isolated. I did not e the face or hear the voice of another prisoner. I was locked up for '-"ty-three hours a day, with thirty minutes of exercise in the morning ''gain in the afternoon. I had never been in isolation before, and every ur seemed like a year. There was no natural light in my cell; a single ^ , ""^d overhead twenty-four hours a day. I did not have a wristwatch
often thought it was the middle of the night when it was only late
to i"00"' ^ ^ad "^ing to read, nothing to write on or with, no one ^m J" "rmd begins to turn in on itself, and one desperately wants ^en ^rls outslde of oneself on which to fix one's attention. I have known
After ° t00^ h^f-a-dozen lashes in preference to being locked up alone.
"tic in solitary, I relished the company even of the insects in my
I
292 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
cell, and found myself on the verge of initiating conversations w' h cockroach. a
I had one middle-aged African warder whom I occasionally was Ki
to see, and one day I tried to bribe him with an apple to get him to r 11. to me. "Baba," I said, which means Father, and is a term of respect "
I give you an apple?" He turned away, and met all my subsequent overtur
with siler.ce. Finally, he said, "Man, you wanted long trousers and bett
food, and now you have them and you are still not happy." He was rieht
Nothing is more dehumanizing than the absence of human companionship.
After a few weeks, I was ready to swallow my pride and tell Colonel
Jacobs that I would trade my long trousers for some company.
During those weeks I had plenty of time to ponder my fate. The place
of a freedom fighter is beside his people, not behind bars. The knowledge
and contacts I had recently made in Africa were going to be locked away
rather than used in the struggle. I cursed the fact that my expertise would
not be pJt to use in creating a freedom army.
I soon began to protest vigorously against my circumstances and demanded
to be put with the other political prisoners at Pretoria Local.
Among them was Robert Sobukwe. My request was ultimately granted,
accompanied by a stern warning from Colonel Jacobs that serious consequences
would result if I returned to my impudent ways. I don't think
I ever looked forward to eating cold mealie pap so much in my life.
Apart from my desire for company, I was keen to talk with Sobukwe and
the others, most of whom were PAC, because I thought that in prison
we might forge a unity that we could not on the outside. Prison conditions
have a way of tempering polemics, and making individuals see more what
unites them than what divides them.
When I was taken to the courtyard with the others, we greeted each
other warmly. Besides Sobukwe, there was also John Gaetsewe, a leading
member of the South African Congress of Trade Unions; Aaron Molete,
an ANC member who worked for New Age; and Stephen Tefu, a pron^ inent Communist, trade unionist, and PAC member. Robert asked me
give them an account of my African tour, which I did gladly. I was can
about how both the PAC and the ANC were perceived in the rest^ Africa. At the end of my narrative I said there were issues that I wan^ us to examine. But after initially allowing Sobukwe and me a c
proximity, the authorities took pains to keep us apart. We lived in
cells along a corridor and he and I were given cells at opposite
Occasionally, we did have a chance to talk as we sat next to eac ^ ^ on the ground of the prison courtyard sewing and patching "P^cii old mailbags. I have always respected Sobukwe, and found him a
FR1;RIVONIA 293
reasonable man. But we differed markedly about the principal subject
t _-;^/^Ť-> /~*^n/-1it-ir*nc .^nhnlrixw l-w^ltMwrl 1-h-af' t-n ^lo-hf- rv~w-ir /vťnrlltlr*n<:
1111-1 re"3'-- - ^ ' '
i nd prison conditions. Sobukwe believed that to fight poor conditions
,11111
Id be to acknowledge the state's right to have him in prison in the
. place. I responded that it was always unacceptable to live in degrading litions and that political prisoners throughout history had considered
nart of their duty to fight to improve prison conditions. Sobukwe
'snonded that prison conditions would not change until the country changed. I completely agreed with this, but I did not see why that ought
to prevent us from fighting in the only realm in which we now could
fieht. We never resolved this issue, but we did make some progress when
we submitted a joint letter to the commanding officer setting out our
complaints about prison conditions.
It
respo:
Sobukwe never broke in prison. But in Pretoria he was a bit sensitive
and testy, and I attribute this to Stephen Tefu. Tefu had become a kind
of goad to Sobukwe, teasing, taunting, and challenging him. Even at the
best of times, Tefu was a difficult fellow: dyspeptic, argumentative, overbearing.
He was also articulate, knowledgeable, and an expert in Russian
history. Above all, he was a fighter, but he would fight everyone, even his
friends. Tefu and Sobukwe quarreled every day.
I was keen to discuss policy issues with Sobukwe, and one of the matters
I took up with him was the PAC slogan "Freedom in 1963." It was already
1963 and freedom was nowhere to be seen. "My brother," I said to Sobukwe,
"there is nothing so dangerous as a leader making a demand that
he knows cannot be achieved. It creates false hopes among the people."
I said this in a most respectful manner, but Tefu jumped in and started
to berate Sobukwe. "Bob," he said, "you have met your match with
Mandela. You know he is right." Tefu continued in this vein, annoying
Sobukwe to the point where he would tell Tefu, "Leave me alone." But
Tefu would not stop. "Bob, the people are waiting for you. They are
going to kill you because you have deceived them. You are just an amateur,
ťob. You are not a real politician."
wu did his best to alienate me as well. Every morning, when we were ^ited by the warders, he would complain to them about something --
e rood, the conditions, the heat or the cold. One day, an officer said to
l(*fn ŤT i
i^ook, man, why do you complain every morning?"
complain because it is my duty to complain," Steve said.
day " ut'look at Mandela." the officer said, "he does not complain every
the wh'" sald Tefu with ^S^^ "Mandela is a little boy who is afraid of ^d if lte man" ^ don't even know who he is. One morning, I woke up
said t01"1'1 cvcry ^^Pap" saying, 'Mandela, Mandela, Mandela,' and I 0 myself, 'Who is this Mandela?' I will tell you who Mandela is. He
294 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
is a chap built up by you people for some reason that I don't under
That is who Mandela is!" and
We were joined for two weeks by Walter, who had been on tri 1
Johannesburg for incitement to strike while I had been in Pretoria m
was sentenced to six years. We had a number of opportunities to tallc
jail and we discussed Walter's application for bail while his appeal w
pending, a move I wholeheartedly supported. After two weeks he w
released on bail, and he was instructed by the movement to eo unde
ground, from where he was to continue to lead the struggle, which he
ably did.
Not long after Walter left, I was walking to the prison hospital with
Sobukwe when I spotted Nana Sita in the courtyard about twenty-five
yards away. Sita, the distinguished Indian campaigner who had led our
defiance at Boksburg in 1952, had just been convicted by a Pretoria magistrate
for refusing to vacate his house -- the house he had lived in for
more than forty years -- which was in a precinct that had been proclaimed
"white" in terms of the Group Areas Act. He was hunched over, and the
fact that he was barefoot despite an acute arthritic condition made me
uncomfortable in my own sandals. I wanted to go over to greet him, but
we were marching under the eyes of a half-dozen warders.
Suddenly and without warning, I suffered a blackout. I crumpled to
the concrete and sustained a deep gash above my left eye, which required
three stitches. I had been diagnosed back in the Fort with high blood
pressure and had been given certain pills. The cause of the blackout was
evidently an overdose of these pills; I was taken off them, and put on a
low-salt diet, which solved the problem.
That afternoon was my first scheduled visit from Winnie since I had
been sentenced. Stitches or no stitches, I was not going to miss it. She
was extremely concerned when she saw me but I assured her I was tine
and explained what happened. Even so, rumors circulated that my heal
had broken down.
53
IN OCTOBER 1962, during my trial, the ANC held its fil">tan^. conference since 1959. Because the organization was illegal, the conn
took place in Lobatse, just over the border in Bechuanaland. e ^ ference was a milestone, for it explicitly linked the ANC and ^ though the National Executive Committee stated, "Our ^'P^^^- remains mass political action," Umkhonto was referred to as the
RIVONIA 295
of our struggle." This was done in part to try to quell the more "' "nsible acts of terrorism then being committed by Poqo. Poqo, lr1' ^,r "independent" or "standing alone," was loosely linked to the
nV and their acts of terrorism targeted both African collaborators and
h res The ANC wanted the people to see its new militancy, but also
see that it was controlled and responsible.
The government had decided to accelerate the program of "separate development" to show the world that apartheid allowed races their individual
"freedom." The prototype would be the Transkei. In January
[o62 Verwoerd had announced that South Africa intended to grant the
Transkei "self-government." In 1963, the Transkei became a "self-governing"
homeland. In November 1963, an election was held for the Transkei
legislative assembly. But by a margin of more than three to one, Transkei
voters elected members opposed to the homeland policy.
The bantustan system was nevertheless instituted; the voters had opposed
it, but participated in it simply by voting. Though I abhorred the bantustan system, I felt the ANC should use both the system and those
within it as a platform for our policies, particularly as so many of our
leaders were now voiceless through imprisonment, banning, or exile.
Terrorism against the Bantu Authorities increased. As acts of sabotage
mounted, so did the government's vigilance. John Vorster, the new minister
of justice, who had himself been detained during World War II for
opposing the government's support of the Allies, was a man unsentimental
in the extreme. For him, the iron fist was the best and only answer to
subversion.
On May i, 1963, the government enacted legislation designed "to break
Ae back" ofUmkhonto, as Vorster put it. The General Law Amendment
Act, better known as the Ninety-Day Detention Law, waived the right
"sbeas corpus and empowered any police officer to detain any person
'thout a warrant on grounds of suspicion of a political crime. Those
resteu rould be detained without trial, charge, access to a lawyer, or
P^tection against self-incrimination for up to ninety days. The ninety.
detention could be extended, as Vorster ominously explained, until
"is side of eternity." The law helped transform the country into a police
la ,' n0 ^lctator eould covet more power than the Ninety-Day Detention
Prk ^ave to ^ a^orities. As a result, the police became more savage:
^ , ers were routinely beaten and we soon heard reports of electric ^an 'suffocation. and other forms of torture. In Parliament, Helen Suz- ''Rain e '^P1"^"131"1^ of the liberal Progressive Party, cast the lone vote
(^ ased penalties were ordered for membership in illegal organizak Fences from five years to the death penalty were instituted for
296 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
"furthering the aims" of communism or of other banned oreani
Political prisoners were redetained as I found out in May 1063 i^ Sobukwe's three-year sentence was up; instead of releasing him th en eminent simply redetained him without charging him, and then semi- to Robben Island. m
Vorster also championed the Sabotage Act of June 1962, which alln
for house arrests and more stringent bannings not subject to chall
in the court, restricting the liberties of citizens to those in the most extrem
fascist dictatorships. Sabotage itself now carried a minimum penalty if
five years without parole and a maximum of death. Because the wording of the act was so broad, even activities such as trespassing or illeeal
possession of weapons could constitute sabotage. Another act of Parliament
prohibited the reproduction of any statement made by a banned
person. Nothing I said or had ever said could be reported in the newspapers.
New Age was banned at the end of 1962, and possession of a
banned publication became a criminal offense, punishable by up to two
years in prison. Provision was also made for house arrest, the most wellknown
use of which was imposed on the white political activist Helen
Joseph.
54
ONE NIGHT, toward the end of May, a warder came to my cell and
ordered me to pack my things. I asked him why, but he did not answer.
In less than ten minutes, I was escorted down to the reception office
where I found three other political prisoners: Tefu, John Gaetsewe, and
Aaron Molete. Colonel Aucamp curdy informed us that we were being
transferred. Where? Tefu asked. Someplace very beautiful, Aucamp said.
Where? said Tefu. "Die Eiland" said Aucamp. The island. There was only
one. Robben Island.
The four of us were shackled together and put in a windowless van
that contained only a sanitary bucket. We drove all night to Cape o" and arrived at the city's docks in the late afternoon. It is not an eas\ ^ pleasant task for men shackled together to use a sanitary bucket i
moving van. ^
The docks at Cape Town were swarming with armed police andner ^ plainclothes officials. We had to stand, still chained, in the hold o^^ old wooden ferry, which was difficult as the ship rocked in the sw ^ the coast. A small porthole above was the only source of lig"1 ^.
The porthole served another purpose as well: the warders en) ^ ^i nating on us from above. It was still light when we were led on
RIVONIA 297
saw the island for the first time. Green and beautiful, it looked at first ^re lite a resort than a prison.
fsiaitithini. At the island. That is how the Xhosa people describe the
fov, , windswept outcrop of rock that lies eighteen miles off the coast
,- r-.^ Town. Everyone knows which island you are referring to. I first
i ird about the island as a child. Robben Island was well known among
, , xhosas after Makanna (also known as Nxele), the six foot six inch
nmrnander of the Xhosa army in the Fourth Xhosa War, was banished
rhere by the British after leading ten thousand warriors against Grahamstown
in 1819. He tried to escape from Robben Island by boat, but
drowned before reaching shore. The memory of that loss is woven into
the language of my people who speak of a "forlorn hope" by the phrase "Ukuza kuka Nxele."
Makanna was not the first African hero confined on the island. In 1658,
Autshumao, known to European historians as Harry the Strandloper, was
banished by Jan Van Riebeeck during a war between the Khoi Khoi and
the Dutch. I took solace in the memory of Autshumao, for he is reputed
to be the first and only man to ever escape from Robben Island, and he
did so by rowing to the mainland in a small boat.
The island takes its name from the Dutch word for seal, hundreds of
which once cavorted in the icy Benguela currents that wash the shores.
Later the island was turned into a leper colony, a lunatic asylum, and a
naval base. The government had only recently turned the island back into
a prison.
We were met by a group of burly white warders shouting: "Dis dieEiland! HierJulle gaan vrek!" (This is the island. Here you will die.) Ahead of us "'as a compound flanked by a number of guardhouses. Armed guards ""ed the path to the compound. It was extremely tense. A tall, red-faced \varder yelled at us: "Hier ek is you baas!" (Here I am your boss!) He was c)ne of the notorious Kleynhans brothers, known for their brutality to
Prisoners. The warders always spoke in Afrikaans. If you replied in English
cv would say, "Ek verstaan me daardie kaffirboetie se tool me." (I don't ""derstand that kaffir-lover's language.)
tw^ walked toward the prison, the guards shouted "Two-two! Two1,^ . ~~ ""'caning we should walk in pairs, two in front, two behind. I
Thec up with Tefu- The g"^^ started screaming, "Haak! . . . Haak!"
v-in.1 haak means "move" in Afrikaans, but it is customarily reserved
" ^tcic / pl
unde e warders were demanding that we jog, and I turned to Tefu and ^uld \^ at^ sal(^ that we must set an example; if we gave in now we e at their mercy. Tefu nodded his head in agreement. We had to
300 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
over to the window and looked at him. He must have realized thought he was white, because the first thing he whispered was "T'31 ^ Coloured warder from Bloemfontein." He then gave me news ofm "'a There had been a report in the Johannesburg newspapers that m' e had come to see me at Pretoria Local, but that they had not infn 'e her that I had been taken to Robben Island. I thanked him fn ^ information.
"Do you smoke?" he said. I told him that I did not and he seem ^ disappointed. I then got the idea: "Yes, but my comrades do." He brioh
ened at this and said he would return in a few minutes with tobacco and
sandwiches. Everyone was now awake. Tefu and John Gaetsewe smoked
and I split the pouch of tobacco between them, and we all divided the
sandwiches.
For the next few weeks the Coloured warder came almost every night
with tobacco and sandwiches. And each night I would divide up the
tobacco evenly between Tefu and Gaetsewe. The warder was taking great
risks, and he warned me that he was only prepared to deal directly with
me, or the arrangement was off.
When we arrived on the island we had no idea how many other prisoners
were there. Within a few days we learned there were about a thousand
men, all Africans, all recent arrivals. Most of these men were commonlaw
prisoners, but I knew there would be some political prisoners among
them. I wanted to contact them, but we were completely isolated. For
the first few days we were kept locked in our cell and not even permitted
outside. We demanded to be taken to work like the other prisoners, and
this was soon granted, but we were taken out alone, supervised by KIcvnhans.
Our first job was covering up some newly laid pipe and we ^'i1 on a small hill and could see some of the island, which was wild and
lovely.
We worked hard that first day, but on each succeeding day Kleynhaiv pushed us harder. He did this crudely, as one would urge on a horse or
cow. "Ncc, man. Kom aan! Gaan nan!" (No, man. Come on. Go on.) ^ one point, Steve, who was older than the rest of us, put down his sho" and was immediately threatened by Kleynhans. But Steve, in Afril"'"^ responded: "You ignoramus who cannot even speak your own lang^ e
properly -- you cannot tell me what to do. I will work at my own ^ that is what I am prepared to do, and that is all I can do." Th(-n. .^.p great dignity, he picked up his shovel and resumed work. Steve ^ a teacher of Afrikaans, and he not only spoke perfect Afrikaans
antecedent. High Dutch. Steve would speak to the warders in -' L
RIVONIA 301
, y^d grandiloquent style that they probably did not understand. i rhev knew better than to engage him in a verbal battle.
There were two Kleynhans brothers on the island, both reputed to
viciously assaulted prisoners. We were looked after by the older
rher who must have been warned to restrain himself, for he never
ched us. The younger one was under no such constraints. One day,
were walking back from work along a road and passed a workspan of
veral hundred prisoners carting sand in wheelbarrows. They were nonnolitical
prisoners and both of our groups were ordered to halt while the rwo brothers had a chat; the younger brother ordered one of his men to polish his boots while he talked. I recognized some of the men in the
other workspan as those who had been sentenced to death in the Sekhukhuneland
peasant revolt of 1958, and I turned around to get a better
look at them. The younger brother rudely ordered me to look the other way . I do not know how I would have reacted had I not been standing
in full view of the other prisoners, but my pride was now at stake. I
refused to turn around. The younger Kleynhans advanced with the obvious
intent of assaulting me, but when he was a few steps away, his
brother ran over, grabbed him, whispered a few words, and the incident
passed.
One day we were visited by the head of prison, who was responsible
for running all of Robben Island and had come to hear our complaints.
Theron was a sour fellow who did not like to deal with prisoners face
to face. I did not want to alienate him but I was not going to cringe.
"We are grateful that you have come to see us," I said, speaking for the
group, "because we have a number of problems which I am certain you ^'ill be able to sort out." I enumerated the problems and when I finished,
he said, "I will see what I can do."
^haps he thought he had given in too easily because as he was walking ""t he turned to Tefu, who had a large belly, and said, "Jou groot pens sal tn tliepiek verbruin," Afrikaans for "That great stomach of yours is going 0 "appear here in prison." Pens means stomach, but is used to refer to
, l ^"i^ach of animals like sheep or cattle. The word for the stomach of
"un1an being is maag.
(-1teve dld not take kindly to the prison head's jab, and he was incapable ^"g an insult go unanswered. "You know, Captain," he said, "there
, ^ '"S V011 c^ do to me that can truly affect me for I am a member
h||]|,, "lost ^^"tionary political organization in the world, the Com- 'inl lart^ ^^h has a distinguished record of service to oppressed
the ^ """und the globe. You and your poor National Party will be on PA ? of history while we are ruling the world. I am better known
304 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
can be in extraordinarily intimate circumstances with soineon
months, and then never see the person again. It is dehumanizine if or forces one to adapt by becoming more self-contained and insulated \t
Now that I was alone, I was also somewhat anxious. There is somer
safety in numbers; when you are alone, there are no witnesses. I real'
I had not been served any food, and banged on the door: "Warder I h
not received my supper."
"You must call me baas," he yelled. I went hungry that nisht.
Very early the next morning I was taken back to Pretoria. The De
partment of Prisons released a statement to the press that I had been
removed from the island for my own safety because PAC prisoners were
planning to assault me. This was patently false; they had brought me back
me to Pretoria for their own motives, which soon became clear.
I was kept in solitary confinement at Pretoria Local. But prisoners are
resourceful and I was soon receiving secret notes and other communications
from some of the ANC people there. I had a communication from
Henry Fazzie, one of the MK cadres who had undergone military training
in Ethiopia and been arrested while attempting to return to South Africa.
They were among the first ANC members to be tried under the Sabotage
Act.
Through the prison grapevine, I attempted to help them with their
defense and suggested they contact Harold Wolpe. I later heard that Wolpe
was in police detention. This was my first intimation that something had
gone seriously wrong. One day, as I was being led away from the courtyard
after exercise, I saw Andrew Miangeni. I had last seen him in September
of 1961 when he was leaving the country for military training. Wolpe,
Miangeni -- who else was under arrest?
Early in 1961, Winnie had been banned for two years. I heard from
another prisoner that Winnie had recently been charged with violating
her bans, which could lead to imprisonment or house arrest. Winnie wa5 headstrong; a banning order was just the type of thing that would ma e
her angry. I had no doubt that she violated her orders, and I would iwer
counsel her not to do so, but it concerned me greatly that she mig
spend time in prison.
One morning in July 1963, as I was walking along the passage .
cell, I saw Thomas Mashifane, who had been the foreman at Llhes.^ Farm. I greeted him warmly, though I realized that the authorities ^ undoubtedly led him to my passage to see if I recognized or ac
edged him. I could not help but do otherwise. His presence there c
mean only one thing: the authorities had discovered Rivonia. \
A day or two later I was summoned to the prison office where
Walter; Govan Mbeki; Ahmed Kathrada; Andrew Miangeni; Bob W
FR1;RIVONIA 305
nnd Mhlaba, a member of the MK High Command who had re
, -turned from training in China; Elias Motsoaledi, also a member ^-UK- Dennis Goldberg, an engineer and a member of the Congress of 0 ncrats' Rusty Bernstein, an architect and also a member of the COD;
, T,,nniy Kantor, an attorney who was Harold Wolpe's brother-in-law. n/ were all charged with sabotage, and scheduled to appear in court the jgy I had served just nine months of my five-year sentence.
In bits and pieces, I learned what had happened. On the afternoon of
Inly ii a drv cleaner's van entered the long driveway of the farm. No one
at Liliesleaf had ordered a delivery. The vehicle was stopped by a young
African guard, but he was overwhelmed when dozens of armed policemen
and several police dogs sprang from the vehicle. They surrounded the
property and a handful of officers entered the main building and the
principal outbuilding. In the latter they found a dozen men around a
table discussing a document. Walter jumped out a window but was cut
off by a snarling police dog. The arrests also included Arthur Goldreich,
who had driven into the farm as the police raid was in progress.
The police searched the entire farm and confiscated hundreds of documents
and papers, though they found no weapons. One of the most
important documents remained right on the table: Operation Mayibuye,
a plan for guerrilla warfare in South Africa. In one fell swoop, the police
had captured the entire High Command ofUmkhonto we Sizwe. Everyone
was detained under the new Ninety-Day Detention Law.
Joe Slovo and Bram Fischer were fortunately not there at the time of
the raid. But Joe and Bram often went to the farm two or three times a
day- In hindsight, it is extraordinary that Liliesleaf was not discovered ^ner. The regime had become stricter and more sophisticated. Wiretaps "ad become common, as was twenty-four-hour surveillance. The raid was
a coup for the state.
" our nrst day in court we were not given the opportunity to instruct "nsel. \Ve were brought before a magistrate and charged with sabotage. i ew davs ^ter we were allowed to meet with Bram, Vernon Berrange,
for ' ^^S0 fiizos, and Arthur Chaskalson, all of whom were acting
the-, was st1^ ^"S ^P1 separately as I was a convicted prisoner, and g ^"""s were my first opportunity to talk with my colleagues.
'icin was very ^""^er. In his quiet voice, he told us that we were hi"! th'"1 """'"^y "^rious trial and that the state had formally advised ^nten ^ wou^ as^ fot Ac supreme penalty permitted by law, the death
rea1 D^ k11^" dle climate ot^the times, Bram said, this result was a very s1 mty. From that moment on we lived in the shadow of the
L&L^i
306 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
gallows. The mere possibility of a death sentence changes ever h
From the start, we considered it the most likely outcome of the r ' iln^ lesser crimes than ours had recently been punished by life senten ar
Prison officials never let you forget that you might hane- Thar k
a warder rapped on my cell door at bedtime. "Mandela, you don't h l to worry about sleep," he said. "You are going to sleep for a lone 1 \e time." I waited a moment and said, "All of us, you included are p to sleep for a long, long time." It was small consolation.
55
ON OCTOBER 9, 1963, we were picked up in a heavily fortified police
van. It had a steel divider running along the center, segregating the white
prisoners from the Africans. We were driven to the Palace of Justice in
Pretoria, where the Supreme Court sits, for the opening of The State
versus the National High Command and others, what later became known
as The State versus Nelson Mandela and others, and is still better known as
the Rivonia Trial. Near the court stands a statue of Paul Kruger, the
president of the Republic of the Transvaal who fought against British
imperialism in the nineteenth century. Underneath this Afrikaner hero is
a quotation from one of his speeches. The inscription reads, "In confidence
we lay our cause before the whole world. Whether we win or whether
we die, freedom will rise in Africa like the sun from the morning clouds."
Our van was in the center of a convoy of police trucks. At the front
of this motorcade were limousines carrying high police officials. The Palace of Justice was teeming with armed policemen. To avoid the enormous
crowd of our supporters, who had grouped in front of the building, we were driven into the rear of the building and taken in through great
iron gates. All around the building police officers with machine gui^ stood at attention. As we descended from the van, we could hear the grea
crowd singing and chanting. Once inside, we were held in cells below
courtroom before the opening of what was depicted in the newspaps at home and around the world as the most significant political trial in
history of South Africa.
As we emerged from the cells, each of the accused was accompan^ ^ two armed warders. When we entered the ornate, high-ceilinge
room, we each turned to the crowd and made a clenched-fist AN ^ ^ In the visitors' gallery our supporters shouted "AmandlaN^cW^^ ^ "Mayibuye Afrika!" This was inspiring, but dangerous: the pou0 the names and addresses of all the spectators in the galleries,
^T
RIVONIA 307

lied them as they left the court. The courtroom was filled with r11" .^ ^nd international journalists, and dozens of representatives of
^reign governments.
Afrer'we filed in, a group of police officers formed a tight cordon yen us and the spectators. I was disgusted to have to appear in court
, p. nrv prison clothes of khaki shorts and flimsy sandals. As a con-
m.
,j prisoner, I did not have the choice of wearing proper clothes. Many
ink later commented on how poorly I looked, and not just because
fmv wardrobe. I had been in and out of solitary confinement for months
nd I had lost more than twenty-five pounds. I took pains to smile at the nailery when I walked into the courtroom, and seeing our supporters was
the best medicine I could have had.
Security was particularly tight as only a few weeks before Arthur Goldreich
Harold Wolpe, Mosie Moola, and Abdulhay Jassat had bribed a
young guard and escaped from jail. Arthur and Harold made their way
to Swaziland disguised as priests, then flew to Tanganyika. Their escape
came at a time of hysteria about the underground and was greeted with
blaring newspaper headlines. It was an embarrassment to the government
and a boost to our morale.
Our judge in the Rivonia Trial was Mr. Quartus de Wet, judgepresident
of the Transvaal, who sat in his flowing red robes beneath a
wooden canopy. De Wet was one of the last judges appointed by the
United Party before the Nationalists came to power and was not considered
a government lackey. He was a poker-faced judge who did not suffer
fools gladly. The prosecutor was Dr. Percy Yutar, deputy attorney general
of the Transvaal, whose ambition was to become attorney general of South
Africa. He was a small, bald, dapper fellow, whose voice squeaked when he became angry or emotional. He had a flair for the dramatic and for
"gh-flown if imprecise language.
Yutar rose and addressed the court: "My Lord, I call the case of the state against the National High Command and others." I was accused wn' er one- Yutar handed in the indictment and authorized that we be
i^d immediately and tried summarily. This was the first time we were "a copy of the indictment. The prosecution had kept it from us, ^ugh they gave it to the Rand Daily Mail, which had splashed it all
^ith at ^a\ s e^ltlon of the paper. The indictment charged eleven of us
, °mplicity m over two hundred acts of sabotage aimed at facilitating ^nd 'I re\o^utlon ^d an armed invasion of the country. The state con-* mat we were actors in a conspiracy to overthrow the government. ^cai erc ^^g^ with sabotage and conspiracy rather than high treason
(w,i ^aw ^oes "of require a long preparatory examination (which ^eful to the defense) for sabotage and conspiracy as it does for
308 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
treason. Yet the supreme penalty -- death by hanging -- is the sam
high treason, the state must prove its case beyond a reasonable doi K
needs two witnesses to testify to each charge. Under the Sabota?r t
the onus was on the defense to prove the accused innocent. w'
Bram Fischer stood up and asked the court for a remand on the ern
that the defense had not had time to prepare its case. He noted rh s number of the accused had been held in solitary confinement for unc
scionable lengths of time. The state had been preparing for three monrh
but we had only received the indictment that day. Justice de Wet gave
a three-week adjournment until October 29.
I was disturbed to discover that first day that Winnie was unable to
attend. Because of her banning and her restriction to Johannesburg she
needed police permission to come to court. She had applied and been
refused. I also learned that our house had been raided and the police had
detained a young relative of Winnie's. Winnie was not the only wife being
harassed. Albertina Sisulu and Caroline Motsoaledi were detained under
the Ninety-Day Detention Act, and Walter's young son Max was also
arrested. This was one of the state's most barbarous techniques of applying
pressure: imprisoning the wives and children of freedom fighters. Many
men in prison were able to handle anything the authorities did to them,
but the thought of the state doing the same thing to their families was
almost impossible to bear.
Winnie subsequently appealed to the minister of justice, who granted
her permission to attend the trial on the condition that she did not wear
traditional dress. Ironically, the same government that was telling us to
embrace our culture in the homelands forbade Winnie from wearing a
Xhosa gown into court.
During the next three weeks, we were permitted to spend our days together
preparing our case. I was now among my fellow accused, and tnc
company of my colleagues was a tonic. As awaiting-trial prisoners \ were entitled to two half-hour visits a week, and one meal a day co
be sent in from the outside. I soon gained back my lost weight with Mrs
Pillay's delicious dinners. . ,,
While we were preparing our defense, the government was trying
case in the newspapers. Normally, a case that is sub judice canno ^ commented upon in public or in the press. But since the men arres ^ Rivonia were Ninety-Day detainees, and therefore not technically c a with a crime, this judicial principle went by the wayside. We were pi'^ branded as violent revolutionaries by everyone from the minister ° )
on down. Newspapers regularly featured headlines like "REVO
ON MILITARY BASIS."
RIVONIA 309
rťn October 29, we again entered the Palace of Justice; again the crowds
, | iree and excited; again the security was extremely tight; again the ^g filled with dignitaries from many foreign embassies. After three L , ,k< with my comrades I felt rejuvenated, and I was far more comfortable
ourt this time in a suit. Our attorneys had objected to our having to -ne to court in prison garb and we had won the right to wear our own
I ithes We again raised clenched fists to the gallery, and were warned I at if we did it again, we would be forced to come to court in our prison
khakis. To prevent such outbursts, the authorities reversed the normal
order of the prisoners preceding the judge into the courtroom. After that
tirst dav the judge entered first so that court would already be in session
when we entered.
We went on the attack immediately -- Bram Fischer criticized the
state's indictment as shoddy, poorly drawn, and containing absurdities
such as the allegation that I had participated in certain acts of sabotage
on dates when I was in Pretoria Local. Yutar was flummoxed. Judge de
Wet looked to him to reply to Bram's argument, and instead of offering
particulars he began to give what the judge derided as "a political speech."
De Wet was impatient with Yutar's fumbling and told him so. "The whole
basis of your argument as I understand it, Mr. Yutar, is that you are
satisfied that the accused are guilty." De Wet then quashed the indictment
and gaveled the session to a close.
For that moment we were technically free, and there was pandemonium
in the court. But we were rearrested even before Judge de Wet left his
seat. Lieutenant Swanepoel clapped each of us on the shoulder and said,
I am arresting you on a charge of sabotage," and we were herded back
to our cells. Even so, this was a blow to the government, for they now
had to go back to the drawing board in the case they were calling the ^ial to end all trials.
Th
ne state redrew their indictment and we were back in court in early
ecember. We all sensed that in the interim Justice de Wet had grown
ore hostile to us. We suspected his previous independence had brought o\vn tlle Wath of the government and pressure had been applied. The
sah c ^es were read: we were alleged to have recruited persons for of "^ and gwrilla warfare for the purpose of starting a violent rev^ °n, we had allegedly conspired to aid foreign military units to invade '^\ir' ?'i in m^er to support a Communist revolution; and we had "rdcr^f and received ^ds from foreign countries for this purpose. The tally or rnunltlons on the psrt of the accused, said Yutar melodramat- ^ were enough to blow up Johannesburg.
^isrrar then requested our pleas. We had agreed not to plead in
310 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the traditional manner but to use the moment to show our disda
the proceedings. or
"Accused number one. Nelson Mandela, do you plead guilty n
guilty?" rnot
I rose and said, "My Lord, it is not I, but the government that shn iri be in the dock. I plead not guilty."
"Accused number two, Walter Sisulu, do you plead guilty or
guilty?"
Sisulu: "The government is responsible for what has happened in th
country. I plead not guilty."
Justice de Wet said he was not interested in hearing political speeches
that we should merely plead not guilty or guilty. But his direction was
ignored. Each of the accused suggested that it was the government that
was criminal before pleading not guilty.
To enhance the drama of the proceedings, the state had made arrangements
for a live broadcast of Yutar's speech on the South African Broadcasting
System. Microphones had been placed on the prosecution table
as well as in front of the judge. But just as Yutar was clearing his throat,
Bram Fischer rose and made an application to the court for the removal
of the microphones on the grounds that the broadcasts would unfairly
prejudice the case and were not in keeping with the dignity of the court.
Despite Yutar's shrill plea for their retention. Justice de Wet ordered them
removed.
In his address, Yutar argued that from the time the ANC had been
driven underground, the organization had embarked on a policy of violence
designed to lead from sabotage through guerrilla warfare to an
armed invasion of the country. He asserted that we planned to deploy thousands of trained guerrilla units throughout the country, and these
units were to spearhead an uprising that would be followed by an armed
invasion by military units of a foreign power. "In the midst of the resulting
chaos, turmoil, and disorder," Yutar proclaimed, "it was planned by
the accused to set up a Provisional Revolutionary Government to t
over the administration and control of the country." The engine o ^ grand plan was Umkhonto we Sizwe, under the political direction o ^ ANC and the Communist Party, and the headquarters ofUmkhonto w
Rivonia. , ,
In his orotund prose, Yutar described how we recruited member^ MK, how we planned our national uprising for 1963 (here he \\a ^ fusing us with the EAC), how we erected a powerful radio transrni ^ Rivonia, and how we were collectively responsible for two
twenty-two acts of sabotage. He said Elias Motsoaledi and Andrew
RIVONIA 311
*
were in charge of recruiting members and that Dennis Goldberg ran rial school for recruits in the Cape. He detailed the production of 1 ims bombs, as well as the solicitation of money abroad.
Over the next three months, the state produced one hundred Seventy1, -e witnesses and entered into the record thousands of documents and
I irographs, including standard works on Marxism, histories of guerrilla
irfare, maps, blueprints, and a passport made out to one David Motimavi-
The first witness was a police photographer who had taken pictures
if Rivonia, and the next witnesses were domestic workers for the Goldreich
family, who had been held in detention all this time even though
they had no connection to the politics of the household. These servants
identified most of us by pointing to us in the dock, but old Mr. Jelliman,
in a brave attempt to help me, pretended that he did not see me when
he was asked to point to accused number one. Look again, the prosecutor
said, go over all the faces carefully. "I do not think he is here," Jelliman
said quietly.
We wondered what evidence the state had to prove my guilt. I had
been out of the country and in prison while much of the planning at
Rivonia had taken place. When I saw Walter in Pretoria Local just after
my sentencing, I urged him to make sure that all my books and notes
were removed from the farm. But during the first week of the trial, when
Rusty Bernstein applied for bail, Percy Yutar dramatically produced the
sketch of the Fort and the accompanying note about escape that I had
made while detained there. Yutar exclaimed that this was evidence that all of the accused meant to escape. It was a sign that nothing of mine "ad been removed from Rivonia. Later, I was told that my colleagues at
Rivonia had decided to preserve my escape note because they thought it
would be historic in the future. But in the present, it cost Rusty Bernstein
his bail.
The state's star witness was Bruno Mtolo, or "Mr. X" as he was known m court. In introducing "Mr. X," Yutar informed the court that the "iterrogadon would take three days and then, in theatrical tones, he added at the witness was "in mortal danger." Yutar asked that the evidence be 81ven in eamera, but that the press be included provided that they not "Wy the witness.
fro t^10 was a tau' weu-buut man with an excellent memory. A Zulu
was^ ban.' he had become the leader of the Natal region ofMK. He
only'1" '^"''"ced saboteur, and had been to Rivonia. I had met him
retur0^' when J ac^rcssed his group ofMK cadres in Natal after my
me rp i^"1 the ^^inent. His evidence concerning me in particular made ^e that the state would certainly be able to convict me.
IRI l
312 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
He began by saying that he was an MK saboteur who had bin
a municipal office, a power pylon, and an electricity line. With imn u^ precision, he explained the operation of bombs, land mines, and eren ri\e and how MK worked from underground. Mtolo said that while h h s never lost faith in the ideals of the ANC, he did lose faith in the n
nization when he realized that it and MK were instruments of the Cr>
munist Party.
His testimony was given with simplicity and what seemed like cand
but Mtolo had gone out of his way to embellish his evidence. This wa'
undoubtedly done on police instructions. He told the court that durinp my remarks to the Natal Regional Command I had stated that all MK
cadres ought to be good Communists but not to disclose their views
publicly. In fact, I never said anything of the sort, but his testimony was
meant to link me and MK to the Communist Party. His memory appeared
so precise the ordinary person would assume that it was accurate in all
instances. But this was not so.
I was bewildered by Mtolo's betrayal. I never ruled out the possibility of even senior ANC men breaking down under police torture. But by all
accounts, Mtolo was never touched. On the stand, he went out of his
way to implicate people who were not even mentioned in the case. It is
possible, I know, to have a change of heart, but to betray so many others,
many of whom were quite innocent, seemed to me inexcusable.
During cross-examination we learned that Mtolo had been a petty
criminal before joining MK and had been imprisoned three previous times
for theft. But despite these revelations, he was an extremely damaging
witness, for the judge found him reliable and believable, and his testimony
incriminated nearly all of us.
The keystone of the state's case was the six-page Plan of Action confiscated
in the Rivonia raid. The leaders of the High Command had had
this very document before them on the table when the police stonne
the farm. Operation Mayibuye sketches out in general form the plan lor the possible commencement of guerrilla operations, and how it nug
spark a mass armed uprising against the government. It envisions an im
landing of small guerrilla forces in four different areas of South Air^"
and the attacking of preselected targets. The document set a goal of s(.^ thousand MK recruits in the country who would meet the initial outs
force of one hundred twenty trained guerrillas. ^
The prosecution's case rested in large part on their contention ^ Operation Mayibuye had been approved by the ANC executive a
become the operating plan ofMK. We insisted that Operation Mavi^ ^ had not yet been formally adopted and was still under discussion ^ time of the arrests. As far as I was concerned. Operation Mayi u\
RIVONIA 313
... document that was not only not approved, but was entirely unl
ric in its goals and plans. I did not believe that guerrilla warfare was liable option at that stage.
The plan had been drafted in my absence so I had very little knowledge if r Even among the Rivonia Trialists there was disagreement as to .hether the plan had been adopted as ANC policy. Govan, who had
, r^,j the document with Joe Slovo, insisted that it had been agreed
non and felt that it was wrong for us to argue in court that it was still
inder discussion. But all the other accused contended that the document,
while drawn up by the High Command, had not been approved by the
ANC executive or even seen by Chief Luthuli.
Although a capital trial can be quite grim, our spirits were generally
high. There was a good deal of gallows humor among us. Dennis Goldberg,
the youngest of the accused, had an irrepressible sense of humor
and often had us laughing when we should not have been. When one
of the prosecution witnesses described how Raymond Mhlaba had worn
a clerical collar as a disguise, Dennis took to calling him Reverend
Mhlaba.
In our consulting room downstairs, we often communicated through
notes, which we would then burn and throw in the wastebasket. One of
the Special Branch officers who looked after us was Lieutenant Swanepoel,
a burly, red-faced fellow who was convinced we were always putting one
over on him. One day, while Swanepoel was observing us from the door,
Govan Mbeki began to write a note in a conspicuously secretive manner.
With similar drama he handed me the note. I read it, nodded my head ^gely, and passed it to Kathy, who ostentatiously took out his matches 2s if to burn the note when Swanepoel swooped into the room, grabbed me paper out ofKathy's hands, and said something about the dangers of 'ghting matches indoors. He then left the room to read his prize; a few scconds later, he stormed back saying, "I will get all of you for this!" wan had written in capital letters: "ISNT SWANEPOEL A FINE- POKING CHAP?"
e were locked up in prison and on trial for our lives, but outside
Jin" was ^"^"ming. Jimmy Kantor's wife was to give birth any day.
no "T was an attorney w\\0 had been roped into the trial by the state for ^er reason than that he was Harold Wolpe's brother-in- law.
do\v ne morning' when we were sitting in the dock, a note was passed n t" me from the other end.
R L
to A2" and T have discussed godfathers at length and we have come -- e conclusion that, whether the baby is a girl or boy, we would
314 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
consider it an honour if you would agree to accept this office a
adjunct to the more disreputable positions you have held in the na
By return mail I sent Jimmy back a note.
I would be more than delighted, and the honour is mine, not the bab\'
Now they dare not hang me.
56
THE STATE CASE continued through the Christmas season of 1962 ending on February 29, 1964. We had a little over a month to examine
the evidence and prepare our defense. We were not all equally affected
by the evidence. There was no evidence against James Kantor; he was
not even a member of our organization and should not have been on trial
at all. For Rusty Bernstein, Raymond Mhlaba, and Ahmed Kathrada
the evidence of involvement in conspiracy was slight and we decided
they should not incriminate themselves. In Rusty's case, the evidence
was negligible; he had merely been found at Rivonia with the others.
The remaining six of us would make admissions of guilt on certain
charges.
Bram was deeply pessimistic. He avowed that even if we proved that
guerrilla war had not been approved and our policy of sabotage was
designed not to sacrifice human life, the state could still impose the death
sentence. The defense team was divided on whether or not we should
testify. Some asserted that it would hurt our case if we testified. George
Bizos, though, suggested that unless we gave evidence and convinced the
judge that we had not decided on guerrilla warfare, he would certainly
impose the supreme penalty.
Right from the start we had made it clear that we intended to use the
trial not as a test of the law but as a platform for our beliefs. We would
not deny, for example, that we had been responsible for acts of sabotage- We would not deny that a group of us had turned away from nonviolenc
We were not concerned with getting off or lessening our punishrnc ^ but with having the trial strengthen the cause for which we were struggling -- at whatever cost to ourselves. We would not defend ours ^ in a legal sense so much as in a moral sense. We saw the o-i ^ continuation of the struggle by other means. We would readily
what was known by the state to be true but refuse to give awa,
information we thought might implicate others, hirke^ We would dispute the state's central contention that we had ern
RIVONIA 315
errilla warfare. We would admit that we had made contingency
on g1'
" undertake guerrilla warfare in the event sabotage failed. But ^ -ould claim it had not yet failed, for it had not been sufficiently
moted. We would deny the claims of murder and damage to innocent
randers that the state alleged; either these claims were outright lies,
rhe incidents were the work of someone else. We had never contem1
red the intervention of foreign military forces. In order to make these
laims we believed we would have to explain Operation Mayibuye to the
\ve
court.
In my own case, the court had sufficient evidence for a conviction.
Documents in my handwriting showed that I had left the country illegally,
had arranged for military training for our men, and had been behind the
formation of Umkhonto we Sizwe. There was also a document in my
handwriting called "How to be a good Communist," which the state
suggested was proof that I was a card-carrying Communist. In fact the
document's tide was taken from the work of a Chinese theoretician named
Liu Shao Chi, and was written by me to prove a point to Moses Kotane.
We had been engaged in a running debate about the appeal of communism
to ordinary South Africans. I had long argued that Communist literature
was, for the most part, dull, esoteric, and Western-centered, but ought
to be simple, clear, and relevant to the African masses. Moses insisted it
could not be done. To prove my point, I had taken Liu's essay and rewritten
it for an African audience.
I would be the first witness and therefore set the tone for the defense. In
South African courts, evidence from the witness box can be given only 'n the form of an answer to a question. I did not want to be limited to Aat format. We decided that instead of giving testimony, I would read a ^atement from the dock, while the others would testify and go through "oss-examination.
oecause a witness making a statement from the dock does not submit 0 ^oss-examination or questions from the bench, the statement does not ^e the same legal weight as ordinary testimony. Those who choose to c such a statement usually do so to avoid cross-examination. Our
°rneys warned me that it would put me in a more precarious legal . atlon' ^vthing I said in my statement regarding my own innocence \\-u be 'discounted by the judge. But that was not our highest priority.
ou '-"sved it was important to open the defense with a statement of fell tlcs ^d ideals, which would establish the context for all that ^as ^ wa"ted very much to cross swords with Percy Yutar, but it ^e important that I use the platform to highlight our grievances.
316 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
All of this was agreed upon in consultation, mainly throueh
because the consultation room was bugged. We even used the otes eavesdropping to our advantage by supplying them with disinform e s We gave every indication that I was going to testify so that they w
spend their time planning their cross-examination. In a staged co
sation, I told our attorney Joel Joffe that I would need the Treason T
record to prepare my testimony. We smiled at the notion ofYutar 001'
over the hundred or so volumes of Treason Trial transcripts.
I spent about a fortnight drafting my address, working mainly in my cell in the evenings. When I was finished, I read it first to my comrades and
fellow accused. They approved of it, suggesting a few changes, and then
I asked Bram Fischer to look it over. Bram became concerned after reading it and had a respected advocate named Hal Hanson read it. Hanson told
Bram, "If Mandela reads this in court they will take him straight out in
back of the courthouse and string him up." That confirmed Bram's anxieties
and he came to me the next day and urged me to modify the speech.
I felt we were likely to hang no matter what we said, so we might as well
say what we truly believed. The atmosphere at the time was extremely
grim, with newspapers routinely speculating that we would receive the
death sentence. Bram begged me not to read the final paragraph, but I
was adamant.
On Monday, the twentieth of April, under the tightest of security, we were taken to the Palace of Justice, this time to begin our defense. Winnie was there with my mother, and I nodded to them as we entered the court,
which was again full.
Bram announced that certain parts of the state's evidence would be
conceded by the accused, and there was a buzz in the court. But he went
on to say that the defense would deny a number of the state's assertions,
including the contention that Umkhonto we Sizwe was the military wing
of the ANC. He said that the leaders ofMK and the ANC "endeavored
to keep these two organizations entirely separate. They did not awa\ succeed in this," he said, "but. . . every effort was made to achieve a object." He emphatically denied that the ANC took orders from t^ Communist Party. He said the defense would challenge the ^S3"0 that Goldberg, Kathrada, Bernstein, and Mhlaba were members of ^ khonto. He stated that the defense would show that Umkhonto ha ^ ^ in fact adopted Operation Mayibuye, and that MK had not embarto preparations for guerrilla warfare.
"That will be denied?" asked Justice de Wet incredulously.
RIVONIA 317
"That will be denied," replied Bram. "The evidence will show that
., preparations for guerrilla warfare were being made, no plan was
idopted. It was hoped throughout that such a step could be avoided."
Then in his soft voice, Bram said, "The defense case. My Lord, will
mmence with a statement from the dock by accused number one, who
sonally took part in the establishment ofUmkhonto, and who will be
hie to inform the court of the beginnings of that organization."
At this, Yutar popped up from the table and cried, "My Lord! My
I.ord!" He was distressed that I would not be testifying for he had undoubtedly
prepared for my cross-examination. "My Lord," he said rather
despondently, "a statement from the dock does not carry the same weight
as evidence under oath."
"I think, Dr. Yutar," Justice de Wet responded dryly, "that counsel for
the defense have sufficient experience to advise their clients without your
assistance." Yutar sat down.
"Neither we nor our clients are unaware of the provisions of the criminal
code," replied Bram. "I call on Nelson Mandela."
I rose and faced the courtroom and read slowly.
I am the first accused.
I hold a Bachelor's degree in Arts, and practiced as an attorney in
Johannesburg for a number of years in partnership with Mr. Oliver
Tambo. I am a convicted prisoner, serving five years for leaving the
country without a permit and for inciting people to go on strike at the
end of May 1961.
I admit immediately that I was one of the persons who helped to
form Umkhonto we Sizwe and that I played a prominent role in its
affairs until I was arrested in August 1962.
At the outset, I want to say that the suggestion made by the state
in its opening that the struggle in South Africa is under the influence 0 foreigners or Communists is wholly incorrect. I have done whatever
Old, both as an individual and as a leader of my people, because of "V experience in South Africa, and my own proudly felt African background,
and not because of what any outsider might have said.
I" my youth in the Transkei, I listened to the elders of my tribe
'"g stories of the old days. Amongst the tales they related to me \ere those of wars fought by our ancestors in defense of the fatherland.
c ""y^s ofDingane and Bambatha, Hintsa and Makanna, Squngthi
, 'llasllc, Moshocshoe and Sekhukhuni, were praised as the pride Qg, yWy of the entire African nation. I hoped then that life might ^^_ e tnc opportunity to serve my people and make my own humble
318 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
contribution to their freedom struggle. This is what has motivated
in all that I have done in relation to the charges made against m
this case.
Having said this, I must deal immediately and at some length w' h
the question of violence. Some of the things so far told the court
true and some are untrue. I do not, however, deny that I plann d
sabotage. I did not plan it in a spirit of recklessness nor because I have
any love of violence. I planned it as a result of a calm and sober as
sessment of the political situation that had arisen after many years of
tyranny, exploitation, and oppression of my people by whites.
I wanted to impress upon the court that we had not acted irresponsibly
or without thought to the ramifications of taking up violent action
I laid particular emphasis on our resolve to cause no harm to human
life.
We of the ANC have always stood for a nonracial democracy, and we
shrank from any action which might drive the races further apart than
they already were. But the hard facts were that fifty years of nonviolence
had brought the African people nothing but more repressive legislation,
and fewer and fewer rights. It may not be easy for this court to understand,
but it is a fact that for a long time the people had been talking
of violence -- of the day when they would fight the white man and win
back their country, and we, the leaders of the ANC, had nevertheless
always prevailed upon them to avoid violence and to use peaceful methods.
While some of us discussed this in May and June of 1961, it could
not be denied that our policy to achieve a nonracial state by nonviolence
had achieved nothing, and that our followers were beginning to lose
confidence in this policy and were developing disturbing ideas of
terrorism. . . .
Umkhonto was formed in November 1961. When we took this decision,
and subsequently formulated our plans, the ANC heritage o
nonviolence and racial harmony was very much with us. We felt tna
the country was drifting towards a civil war in which blacks and whites
would fight each other. We viewed the situation with alarm. Civil w
would mean the destruction of what the ANC stood for; with civil war racial peace would be more difficult than ever to achieve. We alrea ^ have examples in South African history of the results of war. t
taken more than fifty years for the scars of the South African [Ang
Boer] War to disappear. How much longer would it take to era 1 ^ the scars of interracial civil war, which could not be fought wit
great loss of life on both sides?
RIVONIA 319
Lpcage I said, offered the best hope for future race relations. The of (he white rulers to our first efforts were swift and brutal:
re gg was declared to be a crime punishable by death. We did not sa civil war, I said, but we needed to be prepared for it.
IF 'oerience convinced us that rebellion would offer the government
I rnidess opportunities for the indiscriminate slaughter of our people.
Rut it was precisely because the soil of South Africa is already drenched
with the blood of innocent Africans that we felt it our duty to make
[(reparations as a long-term undertaking to use force in order to defend
ourselves against force. If war were inevitable, we wanted the fight to
be conducted on terms most favorable to our people. The fight which
held out prospects best for us and the least risk of life to both sides
was euerrilla warfare. We decided, therefore, in our preparations for
the future, to make provision for the possibility of guerrilla warfare.
All whites undergo compulsory military training, but no such
training was given to Africans. It was in our view essential to build up
a nucleus of trained men who would be able to provide the leadership
which would be required if guerrilla warfare started. We had to prepare
for such a situation before it became too late to make proper
preparations.
I explained that at this stage in our discussions I left the country to
attend the PAFMECSA conference and undergo military training. I said
that I underwent training because if there was to be a guerrilla war, I
wanted to be able to stand and fight beside my own people. Even so, I
believed that the possibilities of sabotage were far from exhausted and
should be pursued with vigor.
I told the court of the dividing line between the ANC and MK, and
w we made good-faith attempts to keep the two separate. This was our
P°Iicy, but in practice, it was not so simple. Because of bannings and "^prisonment, people often had to work in both organizations. Though
is might have sometimes blurred the distinction, it did not abolish it. t^111^ Ae allegations of the state that the aims and objects of the
and the Communist Party were one and the same.
"tl
he ideological creed of the ANC is, and always has been, the creed
mean Nationalism. It is not the concept of African Nationalism ^Pressed in the cry, "Drive the white man into the sea." The African
(^onallslT1 tor which the ANC stands is the concept of freedom and
ent for the African people in their own land. The most important ^ ^"-al document ever adopted by the ANC is the Freedom Charter.
y no means a blueprint for a socialist state. . . . The ANC has
320 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
never at any period of its history advocated a revolutionary chan
the economic structure of the country, nor has it, to the best of
recollection, ever condemned capitalist society. ... y
The ANC, unlike the Communist Party, admitted Africans onl
members. Its chief goal was, and is, for the African people to win nn
and full political rights. The Communist Party's main aim, on the nrh
hand, was to remove the capitalists and to replace them with a working
class government. The Communist Party sought to emphasize class
distinctions whilst the ANC seeks to harmonize them.
It is true that there has often been close cooperation between the
ANC and the Communist Party. But cooperation is merely proof of a
common goal  in this case the removal of white supremacy  and is
not proof of a complete community of interests. The history of the
world is full of similar examples. Perhaps the most striking illustration
is to be found in the cooperation between Great Britain, the United
States of America and the Soviet Union in the fight against Hitler.
Nobody but Hitler would have dared to suggest that such cooperation
turned Churchill or Roosevelt into Communists or Communist tools,
or that Britain and America were working to bring about a Communist
world. . . .
It is perhaps difficult for white South Africans, with an ingrained
prejudice against communism, to understand why experienced African
politicians so readily accepted Communists as their friends. But to us
the reason is obvious. Theoretical differences amongst those fighting
against oppression is a luxury we cannot afford at this stage. What is
more, for many decades Communists were the only political group in
South Africa who were prepared to treat Africans as human beings and
their equals; who were prepared to eat with us; talk with us, live with
and work with us. Because of this, there are many Africans who, today,
tend to equate freedom with communism.
I told the court that I was not a Communist and had always regarde
myself as an African patriot. I did not deny that I was attracted b\
idea of a classless society, or that I had been influenced by Marxist thou?^
This was true of many leaders of the newly independent states 01 ' ^
who accepted the need for some form of socialism to enable their p^l
to catch up with the advanced countries of the West.
From my reading of Marxist literature and from conversations
Marxists, I have gained the impression that Communists regar
parliamentary system of the West as undemocratic and reactionar) 
on the contrary, I am an admirer of such a system. ^
The Magna Carta, the Petition of Rights and the Bill of Rig""'
r^|
RIVONIA 321
, ^ents which are held in veneration by democrats throughout the
'nrld. I have great respect for British political institutions, and for the
-nuntry's system of justice. I regard the British Parliament as the most
riprnocratic institution in the world, and the independence and imparr'-ilitv
of its judiciary never fail to arouse my admiration. The American
(oneress the country's doctrine of separation of powers, as well as the
independence of its judiciary, arouse in me similar sentiments.
I detailed the terrible disparities between black and white life in South
Africa. In education, health, income, every aspect of life, blacks were
barely at a subsistence level while whites had the highest standards in the world -- and aimed to keep it that way. Whites, I said, often claim that
Africans in South Africa were better off than Africans in the rest of the
continent. Our complaint, I said, was not that we were poor by comparison
with the people in the rest of Africa, but that we were poor by
comparison with the whites in our country, and that we were prevented
by legislation from righting that imbalance.
The lack of human dignity experienced by Africans is the direct result
of the policy of white supremacy. White supremacy implies black inferiority.
Legislation designed to preserve white supremacy entrenches
this notion. Menial tasks in South Africa are invariably performed by
Africans. When anything has to be carried or cleaned the white man
looks around for an African to do it for him, whether the African is
employed by him or not. . . .
Poverty and the breakdown of family life have secondary effects.
Children wander about the streets of the townships because they have
no schools to go to, or no money to enable them to go to school,
or no parents at home to see that they go to school, because both
parents (if there be two) have to work to keep the family alive. This Mas to a breakdown in moral standards, to an alarming rise in illegitimacy
and to growing violence which erupts, not only politically, °ut everywhere. . . .
Africans want a just share in the whole of South Africa; they want ^urity and a stake in society. Above all, we want equal political rights, cause 'without them our disabilities will be permanent. I know this "nds revolutionary to Ac whites in this country, because the majority \oters w1^ ^e Africans. This makes the white man fear democracy. . . .
- "is then is what the ANC is fighting for. Their struggle is a truly
o\ '° one- It is a struggle of the African people, inspired by their
to r su "S w(^ ^elr own experience. It is a struggle for the right
322 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I had been reading my speech, and at this point I placed rnv
on the defense table, and turned to face the judge. The courtroom h ^ers extremely quiet. I did not take my eyes off Justice de Wet as I spoke if e memory the final words. rT1
During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the Afri
people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democrat 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.
The silence in the courtroom was now complete. At the end of the
address, I simply sat down. I did not turn and face the gallery, though I
felt all their eyes on me. The silence seemed to stretch for many minutes
But in fact it lasted probably no more than thirty seconds, and then from
the gallery I heard what sounded like a great sigh, a deep, collective
"ummmm," followed by the cries of women.
I had read for over four hours. It was a little after four in the afternoon,
the time court normally adjourned. But Justice de Wet, as soon as there
was order in the courtroom, asked for the next witness. He was determined
to lessen the impact of my statement. He did not want it to be the last
and only testimony of the day. But nothing he did could weaken its effect.
When I finished my address and sat down, it was the last time that Justice
de Wet ever looked me in the eye.
The speech received wide publicity in both the local and foreign press,
and was printed, virtually word for word, in the Rand Daily Mail. This
despite the fact that all my words were banned. The speech both indicated
our line of defense and disarmed the prosecution, which had prepared its entire case based on the expectation that I would be giving evidence
denying responsibility for sabotage. It was now plain that we would no
attempt to use legal niceties to avoid accepting responsibility for actions
we had taken with pride and premeditation.
Accused number two, Walter Sisulu, was next. Walter had to bear t e brunt of the cross-examination that Yutar had prepared for me.
withstood a barrage of hostile questions and rose above Yutar s p ^ machinations to explain our policy in clear and simple terms. He as ^ that Operation Mayibuye and the policy of guerrilla warfare had no
adopted as ANC policy. In fact, Walter told the court that he W^ sonally opposed its adoption on the grounds that it was prerna ^ Govan followed Walter in the witness box and proudly relate
"'ff
RIVONIA 323
i^ longtime membership in the Communist Party. The prosecutor -1 Govan why, if he admitted many of the actions in the four counts Js nst him, he did not simply plead guilty to the four counts? "First," Jr m said, "I felt I should come and explain under oath some of the
^ cl-ut led me to join these organizations. There was a sense of moral
, itta^lied to it. Secondly, for the simple reason that to plead guilty
nuld to my mind indicate a sense of moral guilt. I do not accept there
is moral guilt attached to my answers."
Like Govan, Ahmed Kathrada and Rusty Bernstein testified to their
membership of the Communist Party as well as the ANC. Although Rusty
was captured at Rivonia during the raid, the only evidence of a direct
nature that the state had against him was that he had assisted in the
erection of a radio aerial at the farm. Kathy, in his sharp-witted testimony,
denied committing acts of sabotage or inciting others to do so, but he
said he supported such acts if they advanced the struggle.
We had all been surprised when accused number eight, James Kantor,
had been arrested and grouped with us. Apart from being the brotherin-law
and legal partner of Harold Wolpe, who performed a number of
transactions for us through his office, he had no involvement whatsoever
with the ANC or MK. There was virtually no evidence against him, and
I assumed the only reason the state kept up the charade of prosecuting
him in prison was to intimidate progressive lawyers.
On the day that Justice de Wet was to rule on Jimmy's case, we were
waiting in the cells underneath the court and I said to Jimmy, "Let us
exchange ties for good luck." But when he saw the wide, old-fashioned
"e I gave him compared to the lovely, silk tie he gave me, he probably Aought I was merely trying to improve my wardrobe. Jimmy was some- "ung of a clotheshorse, but he wore the tie to court and when Justice de
"et dismissed the charges against him, he lifted the tie up to me as a "nd of salute and farewell.
Raymond Mhlaba was one of the leading ANC and MK figures in the sstern Cape, but because the state did not have much evidence against 11T1'ne denied he was a member ofMK and that he knew anything about
_ "^ge. We all decided that neither Elias Motsoaledi, accused number e! nor Andrew Miangeni, accused number ten, should testify. They ,1 r(, 'leve1 "^"^ers of MK, and could not add much to what had
tur riv sal<^' ^las Motsoaledi, despite having been beaten and torm
-. in Puson, never broke down. Andrew Miangeni, the last accused, ^ an unsworn statement admitting that he carried messages and in^i
us For MK and had disguised himself as a priest to facilitate this ^_ e, too, informed the court that he had been assaulted while in
324 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
prison, and subjected to electric shock treatment. Andrew was th
witness. The defense rested. All that remained were the final areum ast and then judgment. nts
On the twentieth of May, Yutar handed out a dozen blue leather-bn
volumes of his final speech to the press and one to the defense. Des
its handsome packaging, Yutar's address was a garbled summary of ih
prosecution's case and did not explain the indictment or assess the e
dence. It was filled with ad hominem insults. "The deceit of the accuser! is amazing," he said at one point. "Although they represented scarcely i% of the Bantu population they took it upon themselves to tell the world
that the Africans in South Africa are suppressed, oppressed and depressed."
Even Judge de Wet seemed mystified by Yutar's speech, and at
one point interrupted him to say, "Mr. Yutar, you do concede that you
failed to prove guerrilla warfare was ever decided upon, do you not?"
Yutar was stunned. He had assumed precisely the opposite. We were
surprised as well, for the judge's question gave us hope. Yutar haltingly told the court that preparations for guerrilla warfare were indeed made.
"Yes, I know that," de Wet replied impatiently, "the defense concedes
that. But they say that prior to their arrest they took no decision to engage
in guerrilla warfare. I take it that you have no evidence contradicting that
and that you accept it?"
"As Your Worship wishes," Yutar said in a strangled voice.
Yutar finished by saying that the case was not only one of high treason
"par excellence," but of murder and attempted murder -- neither of which
was mentioned in the indictment. In a fit of bluster, he proclaimed, "I
make bold to say that every particular allegation in the indictment has
been proved." He knew, even as he uttered those words, that they were
patently false.
Defense counsel Arthur Chaskalson rose first to deal with some of die
legal questions raised by the prosecution. He rejected Yutar's staternen
that the trial had anything to do with murder, and reminded the coiir
that MK's express policy was that there should be no loss of life. L Arthur began to explain that other organizations committed acts o s
otage for which the accused were blamed, de Wet interrupted to say
already accepted that as a fact. This was another unexpected vlctor\'^,
Bram Fischer spoke next and was prepared to tackle the state s ^ most serious contentions: that we had undertaken guerrilla wara,^.J that the ANC and MK were the same. Though de Wet had said he ^ ^ that guerrilla warfare had not yet begun, we were taking no chanc ^ as Bram launched into his first point, de Wet interjected somewhat
w!
RIVONIA 325
l ulcrht I made my attitude clear. I accept that no decision or date was fed upon for guerrilla warfare."
U'hcn Bram began his second point, de Wet again interrupted him to
rhar he also conceded the fact that the two organizations were separate.
r . m \vho was usually prepared for anything, was hardly prepared for
,, ivgt's response. He then sat down; the judge had accepted his argunts
even before he made them. We were jubilant -- that is, if men
-ine the death sentence can be said to be jubilant. Court was adjourned
for three weeks while de Wet considered the verdict.
57
THE WORLD had been paying attention to the Rivonia Trial. Nightlong
vigils were held for us at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. The students
of London University elected me president of their Students' Union, in
absentia. A group of experts at the U.N. urged a national convention for
South Africa that would lead to a truly representative parliament, and
recommended an amnesty for all opponents of apartheid. Two days before
Judge de Wet was due to give his decision, the U.N. Security Council
(with four abstentions, including Great Britain and the United States)
urged the South African government to end the trial and grant amnesty
to the defendants.
In the days before we were due to reconvene, I wrote papers for a set
of London University examinations for my LL.B. It might seem odd that
I was taking law exams a few days before the verdict. It certainly seemed
bizarre to my guards, who said I would not need a law degree where I ^s going. But I had continued my studies through the trial and I wanted to take the examination. I was single-minded about it, and I later realized ^at it was a way to keep myself from thinking negatively. I knew I would not De practicing law again very soon, but I did not want to consider the ^eniative. I passed the exams.
Thursday, June n, we reassembled in the Palace of Justice for the r ict. We knew that for at least six of us, there could be no verdict but
^ The question was the sentence.
, . <" wet wasted no time in getting down to business. He spoke in low,
to r torlcs' ' ^ nave recorded the reasons for the conclusions I have come
'o Not propose to read them out.
ny , ^^d number one is found guilty on all four counts. Accused
toun^ t\v0 is found guilty on all four counts. Accused number three is
g^ty on all four counts. . . ."
326 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
dc Wet pronounced each of the main accused guilty on all
Kathy was found guilty on only one of four counts, and Rusty B nts was found not guilty and discharged. eu1
"I do not propose to deal with the question of sentence todav" a Wet said. "The state and the defense will be given opportunities to ' i6 any submission they want tomorrow morning at ten o'clock." Coun ^ then adjourned.
We had hoped that Kathy and Mhlaba might escape conviction h
it was another sign, if one was necessary, that the state was taking a har h
line. If he could convict Mhlaba on all four counts with little evidence
could the death sentence be far behind for those of us against whom the
evidence was overwhelming?
That night, after a discussion among ourselves, Walter, Govan, and I
informed counsel that whatever sentences we received, even the death
sentence, we would not appeal. Our decision stunned our lawyers. Walter,
Govan, and I believed an appeal would undermine the moral stance we
had taken. We had from the first maintained that what we had done, we
had done proudly, and for moral reasons. We were not now going to
suggest otherwise in an appeal. If a death sentence was passed, we did
not want to hamper the mass campaign that would surely spring up. In
light of the bold and defiant line we had taken all along, an appeal would
seem anticlimactic and even disillusioning. Our message was that no sacrifice
was too great in the struggle for freedom.
Counsel were unhappy about our decision, and wanted to talk about
an appeal. But Walter, Govan, and I wanted to discuss the mechanics of
the sentencing procedure the next day. If we were sentenced to death,
what would then happen? We were told that after de Wet pronounced
the death sentence, he would ask me, as the first accused, "Have you an^ reason to advance why the sentence of death should not be passe .
I told Bram, Joel, and Vernon that in that case I would have quite a o
to say. I would tell de Wet that I was prepared to die secure in the
knowledge that my death would be an inspiration to the cause for w
I was giving my life. My death -- our deaths -- would not be in '.<* '
anything we might serve the cause greater in death as martyrs th
ever could in life. Counsel said that such a speech would not it- ^' helpful for an appeal, and I reaffirmed that we would not be app1-11^
Even if--especially if--we did not receive the death penaltv,^ ^ were practical reasons not to appeal. For one thing, we migw ^ appellate court might decide that de Wet had been too lenient '"^^i
we deserved the death penalty. An appeal would forestall in^"" pressure to release us.
I RIVONIA 327
p, ^e state, a death sentence would be the most practical verdict. We
, L^.yd that John Vorster, the minister of justice, had told friends that c fAinistcr Smuts's greatest blunder during the Second World War
not hanging him for his treason. The Nationalists, he said, would
n'oc make the same mistake.
I was prepared for the death penalty. To be truly prepared for somehine
one must actually expect it. One cannot be prepared for something
while secretly believing it will not happen. We were all prepared, not because we were brave but because we were realistic. I thought of the line
from Shakespeare: "Be absolute for death; for either death or life shall
be the sweeter."
I 58
ON FRIDAY, JUNE 12,1964, we entered court for the last time. Nearly
a year had passed since the fateful arrests at Rivonia. Security was extraordinarily
high. Our convoy raced through the streets with sirens wailing.
All the roads leading to the courthouse had been blocked off to
normal traffic. The police checked the identification of anyone attempting
to go near the Palace of Justice. They had even set up checkpoints at the
local bus and railway stations. Despite the intimidation, as many as two
thousand people assembled in front of the courthouse holding banners
and signs such as "WE STAND BY OUR LEADERS." Inside, the spectators'
gallery was full, and it was standing room only for the local and
foreign press.
I waved hello to Winnie and my mother. It was heartening to see them "We; my mother had journeyed all the way from the Transkei. It must be a very odd sensation to come to a courtroom to see whether or not Your son will be sentenced to death. Though I suspect my mother did of understand all that was going on, her support never wavered. Winnie "equally stalwart, and her strength gave me strength.
The registrar called out the case: "The State against Mandela and els- Bcture the sentence was to be passed, there were two pleas in 'gation. One was delivered by Harold Hanson and the other by the
. or Alan Paton, who was also national president of the Liberal Party.
'un son ^"^ doquently, saying that a nation's grievances cannot be ^.lresscc^ rliat people will always find a way to give voice to those
-o-j ^lu:s- "^ was not their aims which had been criminal," said Hanson, hq , e "t-uis to which they had resorted." Hanson said the judge
... do well to recall that his own people, the Afrikaners, had struggled
'^'y tor their freedom.
328 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Though Paton did not himself support violence, he said the
had had only two alternatives: "to bow their heads and submit
resist by force." The defendants should receive clemency he sairi to erwise the future of South Africa would be bleak.
But de Wet did not seem to be listening to either man. He ne'rh looked up nor took any notes while they spoke. He seemed absorbed r his own thoughts. He had obviously already decided; he was me l
waiting for the moment to reveal his decision.
He nodded for us to rise. I tried to catch his eye, but he was not eve
looking in our direction. His eyes were focused on the middle distance
His face was very pale, and he was breathing heavily. We looked at each
other and seemed to know: it would be death, otherwise why was this
normally calm man so nervous? And then he began to speak.
I have heard a great deal during the course of this case about the
grievances of the non-European population. The accused have told me
and their counsel have told me that the accused who were all leaders
of the non-European population were motivated entirely by a desire to
ameliorate these grievances. I am by no means convinced that the motives
of the accused were as altruistic as they wish the court to believe.
People who organize a revolution usually take over the government and
personal ambition cannot be excluded as a motive.
He paused for a moment as if to catch his breath. De Wet's voice, which
was muted before, was now barely audible.
The function of this court as is the function of the court in any other
country is to enforce law and order and to enforce the laws of the state
within which it functions. The crime of which the accused have been
convicted, that is the main crime, the crime of conspiracy, is in essence
one of high treason. The state has decided not to charge the crime in
this form. Bearing this in mind and giving the matter very serious
consideration I have decided not to impose the supreme penalty whic
in a case like this would usually be the proper penalty for the crime,
but consistent with my duty that is the only leniency which I ca show. The sentence in the case of all the accused will be one of imprisonment.
We looked at each other and smiled. There had been a great c011^ gasp in the courtroom when de Wet announced that he was not sen ^ us to death. But there was consternation among some spectators ^ they had been unable to hear de Wet's sentence. Dennis Goldbergs called to him, "Dennis, what is it!?"
n
RIVONIA 329
"Lift'." he veUed back, grinning. "Life! To live!"
T rurned and smiled broadly to the gallery, searching out Winnie's face
, l j. of my mother, but it was extremely confused in the court, with me shouting, police pushing the crowd this way and that. I could not ^ ,-hem. I flashed the thumbs-up ANC salute as many of the spectators
dashing outside to tell the crowd the verdict. Our police guardians
h^an to hustle us out of the dock and toward the door leading under- oround and although I looked again for Winnie's face, I was not able to ^ before I ducked through the door leading to the cells below.
We were kept handcuffed in the cells underneath the courthouse. The police were extremely nervous about the crowd outside. They kept us
underground for more than half an hour, hoping people would disperse.
We were taken through the back of the building and entered the black
van. We could hear the motorcycle escort revving up beside us. To avoid
the crowd, the van took a different course, but even so, we could hear
the crowd shouting "Amandia!," and the slow beautiful rhythms ofNkosi
Sikelel' iAfrika." We made clenched fists through the bars of the window,
hoping the crowd could see us, not knowing if they could.
All of us were now convicted prisoners. We were separated from Dennis
Goldberg because he was white and he was taken to a different facility. The rest of us were locked up in cells in Pretoria Local away from all the
other prisoners. Instead of shouts and songs, we now heard only the
clanging of doors and gates.
That night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my cell, I ran over the
reasons for de Wet's decision. The demonstrations throughout South
Africa and the international pressure undoubtedly weighed on his mind.
"ternational trade unions had protested the trial. Dockworkers' unions around the world threatened not to handle South African goods. The
ussian prime minister, Leonid Brezhnev, wrote to Dr. Verwoerd asking
or leniency. Members of the United States Congress protested. Fifty
embers of the British Parliament had staged a march in London. Alex
g^s-Home, the British foreign secretary, was rumored to be working
^ '"d the scenes to help our cause. Adiai Stevenson, the U.S. reprefvc
wwi at ^ ^^' wrote a letter saying that his government would do \\. '"S lt could to prevent a death sentence. I thought that once de
^r A v ^^P^d that we had not yet initiated guerrilla warfare and that
"Upc and JVIK were ^P-""^ entities, it would have been difficult to
V e death penalty; it would have seemed excessive.
by ^ voer^ told Parliament that the judgment had not been influenced
e grains of protest and representations that had come in from
I
330 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
around the world. He boasted that he had tossed into the wastebasket all
the telegrams from socialist nations.
Towards the end of the proceedings. Judge de Wet had remarked in
passing to Bram Fischer that the defense had generated a great deal of
worldwide propaganda in the case. This was perhaps his own way of
acknowledging the pressure. He knew that if we were executed, the great
majority of the people would regard him as our killer.
Yet he was under even greater pressure from his own people. He was
a white Afrikaner, a creature of the South African system and mindset.
He had no inclination to go against the belief system that had formed
him. He had succumbed to these pressures by sentencing us to life and
resisted them by not giving us death.
I was surprised and displeased by the sentences de Wet imposed on
Kathrada, Motsoaledi, and Miangeni. I had expected him to discharge
Kathy, and to give Elias and Andrew lighter sentences. The latter two
were comparatively junior members of MK, and the combined offenses
of the three of them could hardly be compared with those of the rest of
us. But by not appealing, we undoubtedly cost Kathy, Andrew, and Elias:
an appeals court might have cut down their sentences.
Every evening, in Pretoria Local, before lights were out, the jail would
echo to African prisoners singing freedom songs. We too would sing in
this great swelling chorus. But, each evening, seconds before the lights
were dimmed, as if in obedience to some silent command, the hum of
voices would stop and the entire jail would become silent. Then, from a
dozen places throughout the prison, men would yell "Amandia!" This
would be met by hundreds of voices replying "Ngawethu!" Often, we
would start this call-and-response ourselves, but that night, other nameless
prisoners took the initiative, and the voices from around the prison seemed
uncommonly strong as though steeling us for what lay ahead.
Part Eight
ROBBEN ISLAND:
THE DARK YEARS
59
AT MIDNIGHT, I was awake and staring at the ceiling -- images from rhe trial were still rattling around in my head--when I heard steps
comiiifi down the hallway. I was locked in my own cell, away from the
others. There was a knock at my door and I could see Colonel Aucamp's
face at the bars. "Mandela," he said in a husky whisper, "are you awake?"
I told him I was. "You are a lucky man," he said. "We are taking you
to a place where you will have your freedom. You will be able to move
around; you'll see the ocean and the sky, not just gray walls."
He intended no sarcasm, but I well knew that the place he was referring
to would not afford me the freedom I longed for. He then remarked rather
cryptically, "As long as you don't make trouble, you'll get everything you
want."
Aucamp then woke the others, all of whom were in a single cell,
ordering them to pack their things. Fifteen minutes later we were making
our way through the iron labyrinth of Pretoria Local, with its endless
series of clanging metal doors echoing in our ears.
Once outside, the seven of us -- Walter, Raymond, Govan, Kathy, Andrew,
Elias, and myself-- were handcuffed and piled into the back of a
police van. It was well after midnight, but none of us was tired, and the
atmosphere was not at all somber. We sat on the dusty floor, singing and
chanting, reliving the final moments of the trial. The warders provided
us with sandwiches and cold drinks and Lieutenant Van Wyck was perched
in the back with us. He was a pleasant fellow, and during a lull in the
singing, he offered his unsolicited opinion on our future. "Well," he said, "you chaps won't be in prison long. The demand for your release is too
strong. In a year or two, you will get out and you will return as national
heroes. Crowds will cheer you, everyone will want to be your friend, ^ornen \vill want you. Ag, you fellows have it made." We listened without tonwicnr, but I confess his speech cheered me considerably. Unfortu'^telv,
his prediction turned out to be off by nearly three decades.
Ur
e were departing quietly, secretly, under a heavy police escort, in the "^ddle of the night, and in less than half an hour we found ourselves at a ^al) military airport outside the city. We were hustled onto a Dakota,
^g^ military transport plane that had seen better days. There was no eat! and we shivered in the belly of the plane. Some of the others had
ver tfown before and they seemed more anxious about our voyage than
334 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
our destination; bumping up and down in a plane at fifteen thous
feet seemed far more perilous than being locked in a cell behind h' h walls.
After about an hour in the air, dawn lightened the terrain below Th
plane had portholes, and as soon as we could see in the half-light rm
comrades pressed their faces to the glass. We flew southeast, over the drv
flat plains of the Orange Free State and the green and mountainous Caop
peninsula. I, too, craned to see out the portholes, examining the scenerv
not as a tourist but as a strategist, looking for areas where a guerrilla
army might hide itself.
There had been a running argument since the formation of MK as to
whether the countryside of South Africa could support a guerrilla army.
Most of the High Command thought that it could not. When we flew
over a wooded, mountainous area called Matroosberg in the Cape, I yelled
to my colleagues that here was terrain where we could fight. The men
became excited and craned to get a better look, and indeed, the heavily
forested area appeared as though it could shelter a nascent guerrilla force.
Minutes later we approached the outskirts of Cape Town. Soon, we
could see the little matchbox houses of the Cape Flats, the gleaming towers
of downtown, and the horizontal top of Table Mountain. Then, out in
Table Bay, in the dark blue waters of the Atlantic, we could make out the
misty outline of Robben Island.
We landed on an airstrip on one end of the island. It was a grim, overcast
day, and when I stepped out of the plane, the cold winter wind
whipped through our thin prison uniforms. We were met by guards with
automatic weapons; the atmosphere was tense but quiet, unlike the boisterous
reception I had received on my arrival on the island two years
before.
We were driven to the old jail, an isolated srone building, where we
were ordered to strip while standing outside. One of the ritual indignities
of prison life is that when you are transferred from one prison to anothci, the first thing that happens is that you change from the garb of the of
prison to that of the new. When we were undressed, we were thrown vne plain khaki uniforms of Robben Island.
Apartheid's regulations extended even to clothing. All of us, excep
Kathy, received short trousers, an insubstantial jersey, and a canvas )ac
Kathy, the one Indian among us, was given long trousers. Norm . Africans would receive sandals made from car tires, but in this lnstan we were given shoes. Kathy, alone, received socks. Short trousers
Africans were meant to remind us that we were "boys." I put on the s
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 335 oiisers that day, but I vowed that I would not put up with them for
long-
"rhc warders pointed with their guns where they wanted us to go, and
harked their orders in simple one-word commands: "Move!" "Silence!"
"Halt!" They did not threaten us in the swaggering way that I recalled
from my previous stay, and betrayed no emotion.
The old jail was only temporary quarters for us. The authorities were
in the process of finishing an entirely separate maximum-security structure
for political prisoners. While there, we were not permitted to go outside
or have any contact with other prisoners.
The fourth morning we were handcuffed and taken in a covered truck to
a prison within a prison. This new structure was a one-story rectangular
stone fortress with a flat cement courtyard in the center, about one
hundred feet by thirty feet. It had cells on three of the four sides. The
fourth side was a twenty-foot-high wall with a catwalk patrolled by guards
with German shepherds.
The three lines of cells were known as sections A, B, and C, and we
were put in section B, on the easternmost side of the quadrangle. We
were each given individual cells on either side of a long corridor, with
half the cells facing the courtyard. There were about thirty cells in all.
The total number of prisoners in the single cells was usually about twentyfour.
Each cell had one window, about a foot square, covered with iron
bars. The cell had two doors: a metal gate or grille with iron bars on the
inside and a thick wooden door outside of that. During the day, only the
grille was locked; at night, the wooden door was locked as well.
The cells had been constructed hurriedly, and the walls were perpetually
damp. When I raised this with the commanding officer, he told me our
bodies would absorb the moisture. We were each issued three blankets ^ flimsy and worn they were practically transparent. Our bedding consisted
of a single sisal, or straw, mat. Later we were given a felt mat, and
one placed the felt mat on top of the sisal one to provide some softness.
v. that time of year, the cells were so cold and the blankets provided so
iitde warmth that we always slept fully dressed.
1 was assigned a cell at the head of the corridor. It overlooked the ^urtyard and had a small eye-level window. I could walk the length of
y cell m three paces. When I lay down, I could feel the wall with my eet and my head grazed the concrete at the other side. The width was u0^ six feet, and the walls were at least two feet thick. Each cell had a ^e card posted outside of it with our name and our prison service
^ber. Mine read, "N Mandela 466/64," which meant I was the 466th
336 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
prisoner admitted to the island in 1964.1 was forty-six years old, a polir prisoner with a life sentence, and that small cramped space was to be m
home for I knew not how long.
We were immediately joined by a number of prisoners who had bee
held in the general section of the prison, a squat brick building not fa
from Section B. The general prison, known as sections IF and G contained
about a thousand mostly common-law prisoners. As many as a
quarter of them were political prisoners, and a handful of those men were
put with us in Section B. We were isolated from the general prisoners
for two reasons: we were considered risky from a security perspective
but even more dangerous from a political standpoint. The authorities
were concerned we might "infect" the other prisoners with our political
views.
Among the men put with us was George Peake, one of the founders
of the South African Coloured People's Organization, a Treason Trialist,
and most recently a member of the Cape Town City Council. He had
been sentenced for planting explosives outside a Cape Town prison. Dennis
Brutus, another Coloured political activist, was a poet and writer from
Port Elizabeth imprisoned for violating his bans. We were also joined by
Billy Nair, a longtime member of the Natal Indian Congress, sentenced
for sabotage as a member of Umkhonto we Sizwe.
Within a few days we had more company, including Neville Alexander,
a prominent Coloured intellectual and member of the Non-European
Unity Movement, who had formed a tiny radical offshoot called the Yu
Chi Chan Club in Cape Town which studied guerrilla warfare. Neville
had a B.A. from the University of Cape Town and a doctorate in German
literature from Tubingen University in Germany. Along with Neville,
there was Fikile Barn, a law student of the University of Cape Town and
another member of the Yu Chi Chan Club; and Zephania Mothopeng,
a member of the PAC National Executive. Zeph had been a teacher in
Orlando, and was a staunch opponent of Bantu Education, and one or
the most level-headed of the PACs leaders. Three aged peasants from the
Transkei, sentenced for plotting to assassinate K. D. Matanzima, now
the chief minister of the "self-governing" Transkei. were also imprisoned
with us.
This became our core group of about twenty prisoners. Some I kn^'
some I had heard of, while others I did not know at all. Normally, in prison, one of the few festive times is seeing old friends and new IaL ' but the atmosphere in those first few weeks was so oppressive we w not even able to greet each other. We had as many guards as prison'- and they enforced every regulation with threats and intimidation.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 337
* * *
That first week we began the work that would occupy us for the next few
month''  E^h morning, a load of stones about the size ofvolleyballs was
dumped by the entrance to the courtyard. Using wheelbarrows, we moved
rhe stones to the center of the yard. We were given either four-pound
hammers or fourteen-pound hammers for the larger stones. Our job was
to crush the stones into gravel. We were divided into four rows, about a
vard-and-a-half apart, and sat cross-legged on the ground. We were each
given a thick rubber ring, made from tires, in which to place the stones.
The ring was meant to catch flying chips of stone, but hardly ever did
so. We wore makeshift wire masks to protect our eyes.
Warders walked among us to enforce the silence. During those first
few weeks, warders from other sections and even other prisons came to
stare at us as if we were a collection of rare caged animals. The work was
tedious and difficult; it was not strenuous enough to keep us warm but
it was demanding enough to make all our muscles ache.
June and July were the bleakest months on Robben Island. Winter was
in the air, and the rains were just beginning. It never seemed to go above
forty degrees Fahrenheit. Even in the sun, I shivered in my light khaki
shirt. It was then that I first understood the cliche of feeling the cold in
one's bones. At noon we would break for lunch. That first week all we
were given was soup, which stank horribly. In the afternoon, we were
permitted to exercise for half an hour under strict supervision. We walked
briskly around the courtyard in single file.
On one of our first days pounding rocks, a warder commanded Kathy
to take a wheelbarrow filled with gravel to the truck parked by the entrance.
Kathy was a slender fellow unused to hard physical labor. He could not
budge the wheelbarrow. The warders yelled: ''Loot daariiie kruiwa hop!"
(Let that wheelbarrow move!) As Kathy managed to nudge it forward,
Ae wheelbarrow looked as if it would tip over, and the warders began to
^ugh. Kathy, I could see, was determined not to give them cause for
"iirth. I knew how to maneuver the wheelbarrows, and I jumped up to
"P him. Before being ordered to sit down, I managed to tell Kathy to
^"eel it slowly, that it was a matter of balance not strength. He nodded
d then carefully moved the wheelbarrow across the courtyard. The
Orders stopped smiling.
he next morning, the authorities placed an enormous bucket in the
^rtyard and announced that it had to be half full by the end of the
^k. We worked hard and succeeded. The following week, the warder
^ ^'"ge announced that we must now fill the bucket three-quarters of
^ ^ay. We worked with great diligence and succeeded. The next week
were ordered to fill the bucket to the top. We knew we could not
ft. I
338 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
tolerate this much longer, but said nothing. We even managed to fill k bucket all the way, but the warders had provoked us. In stolen whis
we resolved on a policy: no quotas. The next week we initiated our fi
go-slow strike on the island: we would work at less than half the so we had before to protest the excessive and unfair demands. The eua rl
immediately saw this and threatened us, but we would not increase n
pace, and we continued this go-slow strategy for as long as we worked
in the courtyard.
Robben Island had changed since I had been there for a fortnieht's stav
in 1962. In 1962, there were few prisoners; the place seemed more like an
experiment than a fully-fledged prison. Two years later, Robben Island
was without question the harshest, most iron-fisted outpost in the South
African penal system. It was a hardship station not only for the prisoners
but for the prison staff. Gone were the Coloured warders who had
supplied cigarettes and sympathy. The warders were white and overwhelmingly
Afrikaans-speaking, and they demanded a master-servant relationship.
They ordered us to call them "baas," which we refused. The
racial divide on Robben Island was absolute: there were no black warders,
and no white prisoners.
Moving from one prison to another always requires a period of adjustment.
But journeying to Robben Island was like going to another
country. Its isolation made it not simply another prison, but a world of
its own, far removed from the one we had come from. The high spirits
with which we left Pretoria had been snuffed out by its stern atmosphere;
we were face to face with the realization that our life would be unredeemably
grim. In Pretoria, we felt connected to our supporters and our
families; on the island, we felt cut off, and indeed we were. We had the
consolation of being with each other, but that was the only consolation.
My dismay was quickly replaced by a sense that a new and different fight
had begun.
From the first day, I had protested about being forced to wear sho
trousers. I demanded to see the head of the prison and made a list o
complaints. The warders ignored my protests, but by the end of the secon
week, I found a pair of old khaki trousers unceremoniously dumpe" °
the floor of my cell. No pin-striped three-piece suit has ever pleased m
as much. But before putting them on I checked to see if my comra
had been issued trousers as well. , (
They had not, and I told the warder to take them back. I insisted ^ all African prisoners must have long trousers. The warder g"1""1 "Mandela, you say you want long pants and then you don't want
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 339
,i,,.n \vc i^ive them to you." The warder balked at touching trousers worn
, g black man, and finally the commanding officer himself came to my
ii co pick them up. "Very well, Mandela," he said, "you are going to
have the same clothing as everyone else." I replied that if he was willing ..o give me long trousers, why couldn't everyone else have them? He did ^ot have an answer.
60
AT THE END of our first two weeks on the island, we were informed
that our lawyers, Bram Fischer and Joel Joffe, were going to be visiting
the following day. When they arrived, we were escorted to the visiting
area to meet them. The purpose of their visit was twofold: to see how
we had settled in, and to verify that we still did not want to appeal our
sentences. It had only been a few weeks since I had seen them, but it felt
like an eternity. They seemed like visitors from another world.
We sat in an empty room, a major just outside supervising the consultation.
I felt like hugging them, but I was restrained by the presence
of the major. I told them that all of us were well, and explained that we
were still opposed to an appeal for all the reasons we had previously
enunciated, including the fact that we did not want our appeal to interfere
with the cases of other ANC defendants. Bram and Joel seemed resigned
to this, though I knew Bram believed we should mount an appeal.
When we were winding up our conversation, I briefly asked Bram about Molly, his wife. No sooner had I pronounced Molly's name than
"ram stood up, turned away, and abruptly walked out of the room. A 'w minutes later, he returned, once again composed, and resumed the ronversation, but without answering my question.
Our meeting ended shortly afterward, and when we were walking back to our cells with the major, he said to me, "Mandela, were you struck by tlle behavior of Bram Fischer?" I said that I had been. He told me that "lolly had died in a car accident the previous week. Bram, he said, had
01 driving and had swerved to avoid an animal in the road, and the 'ar had plunged into a river. Molly had drowned.
e were devastated by the news. Molly was a wonderful woman, ^roiis and unselfish, utterly without prejudice. She had supported 1411! in more ways than it was possible to know. She had been wife,
^gue, and comrade. Bram had already experienced disaster in his life:
sor'. a diabetic, had died in adolescence. ^ oc act of turning away when I asked about Molly was typical of
m s character. He was a stoic, a man who never burdened his friends
340 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
with his own pain and troubles. As an Afrikaner whose con;,, 'i.-nce if
him to reject his own heritage and be ostracized by his own peool
showed a level of courage and sacrifice that was in a class by itself. I fn '
only against injustice, not my own people.
I informed the major that I intended to write Bram a condolence len
and he responded that I could do so. The rules governing letter-writi '
were then extremely strict. We were only permitted to write to our im
mediate families, and just one letter of five hundred words every si
months. I was therefore surprised and pleased when the major did not
oppose my writing Bram. But he didn't live up to his agreement. I wrote
the letter and handed it over to the major, but it was never posted.
Within a few months, our life settled into a pattern. Prison life is about
routine: each day like the one before; each week like the one before it
so that the months and years blend into each other. Anything that departs
from this pattern upsets the authorities, for routine is the sign of a wellrun
prison.
Routine is also comforting for the prisoner, which is why it can be a
trap. Routine can be a pleasant mistress whom it is hard to resist, for
routine makes the time go faster. Watches and timepieces of any kind were
barred on Robben Island, so we never knew precisely what time it was.
We were dependent on bells and warders' whistles and shouts. With each
week resembling the one before, one must make an effort to recall what
day and month it is. One of the first things I did was to make a calendar
on the wall of my cell. Losing a sense of time is an easy way to lose one's
grip and even one's sanity.
Time slows down in prison; the days seem endless. The cliche of time
passing slowly usually has to do with idleness and inactivity. But this was
not the case on Robben Island. We were busy almost all the time, with
work, study, resolving disputes. Yet, time nevertheless moved glacially.
This is partially because things that took a few hours or days outside
would take months or years in prison. A request for a new toothbrus
might take six months or a year to be filled. Ahmed Kathrada once sai
that in prison the minutes can seem like years, but the years go by \ ' minutes. An afternoon pounding rocks in the courtyard might seem
forever, but suddenly it is the end of the year, and you do not know w
all the months went.
The challenge for every prisoner, particularly every political pr150 is how to survive prison intact, how to emerge from prison unduni1115 how to conserve and even replenish one's beliefs. The first task in a ^ plishing that is learning exactly what one must do to survive. To tha one must know the enemy's purpose before adopting a strategy
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 341
, -,,yne it. Prison is designed to break one's spirit and destroy one's
solve. To do this, the authorities attempt to exploit every weakness,
. -polish every initiative, negate all signs of individuality  all with the
dea of stamping out that spark that makes each of us human and each
of us who we are.
Our survival depended on understanding what the authorities were
attempting to do to us, and sharing that understanding with each other.
It would be very hard if not impossible for one man alone to resist. I do
not know that I could have done it had I been alone. But the authorities'
greatest mistake was keeping us together, for together our determination
was reinforced. We supported each other and gained strength from each
other. Whatever we knew, whatever we learned, we shared, and by sharing
we multiplied whatever courage we had individually. That is not to say
that we were all alike in our responses to the hardships we suffered. Men
have different capacities and react differently to stress. But the stronger
ones raised up the weaker ones, and both became stronger in the process.
Ultimately, we had to create our own lives in prison. In a way that even
the authorities acknowledged, order in prison was preserved not by the
warders but by ourselves.
As a leader, one must sometimes take actions that are unpopular, or
whose results will not be known for years to come. There are victories
whose glory lies only in the fact that they are known to those who win
them. This is particularly true of prison, where one must find consolation
in being true to one's ideals, even if no one else knows of it.
I was now on the sidelines, but I also knew that I would not give up
the fight. I was in a different and smaller arena, an arena for whom the
only audience was ourselves and our oppressors. We regarded the struggle
in prison as a microcosm of the struggle as a whole. We would fight
inside as we had fought outside. The racism and repression were the same;
1 would simply have to fight on different terms.
Prison and the authorities conspire to rob each man of his dignity. In
^d of itself, that assured that I would survive, for any man or institution
^at tries to rob me of my dignity will lose because I will not part with
1( at any price or under any pressure. I never seriously considered the
P°ssibihty that I would not emerge from prison one day. I never thought
at a life sentence truly meant life and that I would die behind bars.
srttaps I was denying this prospect because it was too unpleasant to
"template. But I always knew that someday I would once again feel the
gra<>s 'wilder my feet and walk in the sunshine as a free man.
am fundamentally an optimist. Whether that comes from nature or
"lure, I cannot say. Part of being optimistic is keeping one's head
"tea toward the sun, one's feet moving forward. There were many
342 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
dark moments when my faith in humanity was sorely tested, but I \vr>
not and could not give myself up to despair. That way lav defeat
death. u
61
WE WERE AWAKENED at 5:30 each morning by the night warder
who clanged a brass bell at the head of our corridor and yelled "Word
wakker! Staan op!" (Wake up! Get up!) I have always been an early riser
and this hour was not a burden to me. Although we were roused at 530
we were not let out of our cells until 6:45, by which time we were meant
to have cleaned our cells and rolled up our mats and blankets. We had
no running water in our cells and instead of toilets had iron sanitary buckets known as "ballies." The ballies had a diameter of ten inches and
a concave porcelain lid on the top that could contain water. The water in
this lid was meant to be used for shaving and to clean our hands and
faces.
At 6:45, when we were let out of our cells, the first thing we did was
to empty our ballies. The ballies had to be thoroughly cleansed in the
sinks at the end of the hallway or they created a stench. The only pleasant
thing about cleaning one's ballie was that this was the one moment in
those early days when we could have a whispered word with our colleagues.
The warders did not like to linger when we cleaned them, so it
was a chance to talk softly.
During those first few months, breakfast was delivered to us in our
cells by prisoners from the general section. Breakfast consisted of mealie
pap porridge, cereal made from maize or corn, which the general prisoners
would slop in a bowl and then spin through the bars of our cells. It was
a clever trick and required a deft hand so as not to spill any of the porridge- After a few months, breakfast was delivered to us in the courtyard in
old metal oil drums. We would help ourselves to pap using simple metal
bowls. We each received a mug of what was described as coffee, but whic
was in fact ground-up maize, baked until it was black, and then brewe
with hot water. Later, when we were able to go into the courtyard to
serve ourselves, I would go out into the courtyard and jog around
perimeter until breakfast arrived.
Like everything else in prison, diet is discriminatory.
In general, Coloureds and Indians received a slightly better diet
Africans, but it was not much of a distinction. The authorities W say that we received a balanced diet; it was indeed balanced -- be the unpalatable and the inedible. Food was the source of many o
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 343
rotests, but in those early days, the warders would say, "Ag, you kaffirs
re eating better in prison than you ever ate at home!"
Tn the midst of breakfast, the guards would yell, "Val in! Val in!" (Fall
in' Fall in!)-> an<^ we would stand outside our cells for inspection. Each prisoner was required to have the three buttons of his khaki jacket properly
buttoned. We were required to doff our hats as the warder walked by. If
our buttons were undone, our hats unremoved, or our cells untidy, we
were charged with a violation of the prison code and punished with either
solitary confinement or the loss of meals.
After inspection we would work in the courtyard hammering stones
until noon. There were no breaks; if we slowed down, the warders would
yell at us to speed up. At noon, the bell would clang for lunch and another
metal drum of food would be wheeled into the courtyard. For Africans,
lunch consisted of boiled mealies, that is, coarse kernels of corn. The
Indian and Coloured prisoners received samp, or mealie rice, which
consisted of ground mealies in a souplike mixture. The samp was sometimes
served with vegetables whereas our mealies were served straight.
For lunch we often received phuzamandia, which means "drink of
strength," a powder made from mealies and a bit of yeast. It is meant to
be stirred into water or milk and when it is thick, it can be tasty, but the
prison authorities gave us so little of the powder that it barely colored
the water. I would usually try to save my powder for several days until I
had enough to make a proper drink, but if the authorities discovered that
you were hoarding food, the powder was confiscated and you were
punished.
After lunch we worked until four, when the guards blew shrill whistles
and we once again lined up to be counted and inspected. We were then
permitted half an hour to clean up. The bathroom at the end of our
rorndor had two seawater showers, a saltwater tap, and three large galvanized
metal buckets, which were used as bathtubs. There was no hot water- We would stand or squat in these buckets, soaping ourselves with the brackish water, rinsing off the dust from the day. To wash yourself ^ith cold water when it is cold outside is not pleasant, but we made the
st of it. We would sometimes sing while washing, which made the water
ern less icy. In those early days, this was one of the only times that we ^uld converse.
recisely at 4:30, there would be a loud knock on the wooden door le end of our corridor, which meant that supper had been delivered.
"irnon law prisoners were used to dish out the food to us and we
return to our cells to eat it. We again received mealie pap porridge, Qrnes with the odd carrot or piece of cabbage or beetroot thrown
344 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in  but one usually had to search for it. If we did get a vegetable
would usually have the same one for weeks on end, until the carror
cabbage were old and moldy and we were thoroughly sick of them Ev
other day, we received a small piece of meat with our porridge. The m
was usually mostly gristle.
For supper. Coloured and Indian prisoners received a quarter loaf nf
bread (known as a katkop, that is, a cat's head, after the shape of the
bread) and a slab of margarine. Africans, it was presumed, did not care
for bread as it was a "European" type of food.
Typically, we received even less than the meager amounts stipulated in
the regulations. This was because the kitchen was rife with smuggling
The cooks  all of whom were common-law prisoners  kept the best
food for themselves or their friends. Often they would lay aside the tastiest
morsels for the warders in exchange for favors or preferential treatment.
At 8 p.m., the night warder would lock himself in the corridor with
us, passing the key through a small hole in the door to another warder
outside. The warder would then walk up and down the corridor, ordering
us to go to sleep. No cry of "lights out" was ever given on Robben Island
because the single mesh-covered bulb in our cell burned day and night.
Later, those studying for higher degrees were permitted to read until ten
or eleven.
The acoustics along the corridor were quite good, and we would try
to chat a bit to each other before going to sleep. But if we could hear a
whisper quite clearly, so could the warder, who would yell, "Stilte in die
gang!" (Quiet in the passage!) The warder would walk up and down a
few times to make sure we were not reading or writing. After a few
months, we would sprinkle a handful of sand along the corridor so that
we could hear the warder's footsteps and have time to stop talking or
hide any contraband. Only when we were quiet did he take a seat in the
small office at the end of the passage where he dozed until morning.
62
ONE MORNING, several days after my meeting with Bram and Joel,
we were taken to the head office. The head office was only about a quar e
of a mile away and was a simple stone structure that resembled our o^
section. Once there, we were lined up to have our fingerprints ta '<- ^
which was routine prison service business. But while waiting, I not1 . r
a warder with a camera. After our fingerprints had been taken, the c
warder ordered us to line up for photographs. I motioned to my colleag
not to move, and I addressed the warder: "I would like you to pr
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 345
he document from the commissioner of prisons authorizing our pictures
he taken." Photographs of prisoners required such authorization.
It was always valuable to be familiar with regulations, because the
warders themselves were often ignorant of them and could be intimidated by one's superior knowledge. The warder was taken aback by my request
and was unable to offer any explanation or produce anything in writing
from the commissioner of prisons. He threatened to charge us if we did
not consent to have our photographs taken, but I said that if there was
no authorization, there would be no pictures, and that is where the matter
remained.
As a rule, we objected to having our pictures taken in prison on the
grounds that it is generally demeaning to be seen as a prisoner. But there
was one photograph I did consent to, the only one I ever agreed to while
on Robben Island.
One morning, a few weeks later, the chief warder, instead of handing us
hammers for our work in the courtyard, gave us each needles and thread
and a pile of worn prison jerseys. We were instructed to repair the garments,
but we discovered that most of these jerseys were frayed beyond
repair. This struck us as a curious task, and we wondered what had
provoked the change. Later that morning, at about eleven o'clock, the
front gate swung open, revealing the commanding officer with two men
in suits. The commanding officer announced that the two visitors were
a reporter and photographer from the Daily Telegraph in London. He
related this as if visiting members of the international press were a regular
diversion for us.
Although these men were our first official visitors, we regarded them
skeptically. Firstly, they were brought in under the auspices of the government,
and second, we were aware that the Telegraph was a conservative "ewspaper unlikely to be sympathetic to our cause. We well knew that
there was great concern in the outside world about our situation and that ' was in the government's interest to show that we were not being "Estreated.
1 he two journalists walked slowly around the courtyard, surveying us.
e kept our heads down concentrating on our work. After they had made
ne ^Ult, one of the guards plucked me by the shoulder and said, sndela, come, you will talk now." In those early days, I often spoke
,. "alt of my fellow prisoners. The prison service regulations were
Llt ^t each prisoner was permitted to speak only for himself. This
one to negate the power of organization and to neutralize our ^ ^tive strength. We objected to this rule, but made little headway. We not syen permitted to use the word we when we made complaints.
346 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
But during the first few years, when the authorities needed one priso
to speak on behalf of others, that individual would be me.
I talked to the reporter, whose name was Mr. Newman, for abn
twenty minutes, and was candid about both prison and the Rivonia Trial
He was an agreeable fellow, and at the end of our talk, he said he would
like the photographer to take my picture. I was reluctant, but in this cas
relented because I knew the photograph would only be published overseas
and might serve to help our cause if the article was even the least bit
friendly. I told him I would agree provided Mr. Sisulu could join me
The image shows the two of us talking in the courtyard about some
matter that I can no longer remember. I never saw the article or heard
anything about it. The reporters were barely out of sight when the warders
removed the jerseys and gave us back our hammers.
The men from the Telegraph were the first of a small stream of visitors
during those early months. While the Rivonia Trial still resonated in
people's minds, the government was eager to show the international community
that we were being treated properly. There were stories in the
press about the inhuman conditions on the island, about how we were
being assaulted and tortured. These allegations embarrassed the government,
and to combat them they brought in a string of outsiders meant
to rebut these critical stories.
We were briefly visited by a British lawyer who had argued for Namibian
independence before the World Court, after which we were informed
that a Mr. Hynning, a representative of the American Bar
Association, would be coming to see us. Americans were then a novelty
in South Africa, and I was curious to meet a representative of so august
a legal organization.
On the day of Mr. Hynning's visit we were called into the courtyard.
The American arrived in the company of General Steyn, the commissioner
of prisons, who rarely made appearances on the island. General Steyn
was that unusual thing in the prison service, a polished and sophisticate
man. His suits were always of a fine quality and a fashionable cut. ne
was courtly, and referred to us as "gentlemen," even doffing his hat to
us, something no one else in the prison service ever did. Yet Gener
Steyn oppressed us by omission rather than commission. He basic Y turned a blind eye to what was happening on the island. His habitu
absence emboldened the more brutal prison officials and gave them c blanche to do whatever they wanted. In his most gracious manner,
general introduced our guest and said, "Gentlemen, please select} spokesman." A number of the prisoners called out my name.
General Steyn nodded in my direction, and I stood up. In contras
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 347
Feneral Steyn, Mr. Hynning was a heavyset, unkempt man. I thanked him fo1" visiting us and said we were honored by his presence. I then summarized our complaints, beginning with the central and most imoortant
one, that we were political prisoners, not criminals, and that we
should be treated as such. I enumerated our grievances about the food,
our living conditions, and the work detail. But as I was speaking, Mr.
Hynning kept interrupting me. When I made a point about the long
hours doing mindless work, he declared that as prisoners we had to work
and were probably lazy to boot.
When I started to detail the problems with our cells, he interjected
that the conditions in backward American prisons were far worse than
Robben Island, which was a paradise by comparison. He added that we
had been justly convicted and were lucky not to have received the death
penalty, which we probably deserved.
Mr. Hynning perspired a great deal and there were those among us
who thought he was not altogether sober. He spoke in what I assumed
was a southern American accent, and had a curious habit of spitting when
he talked, something none of us had ever seen before.
Finally, I had heard enough, and I interrupted him, "No, sir, you
misunderstand the points that I am making." Hynning took offense that
I was now contradicting him, while General Steyn watched and listened
without comment. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to keep tempers down. The men were angered by Mr. Hynning's remarks and annoyed
that he had been permitted to see us at all. Normally, a visit of any kind
lifted our spirits but the visit of Mr. Hynning was demoralizing. Perhaps
that is what the authorities wanted. To meet someone with so impressive
an affiliation and so little understanding was depressing. Hynning finally
)ust turned and walked away without so much as a good-bye. We were
not sorry to see him go.
We discussed Mr. Hynning for years afterward and many of the men "lutatcd the way he spoke to comic effect. We never heard about him ^ain, and he certainly did not win any friends on Robben Island for the ^erican Bar Association.
63
'"^L, all prisoners are classified by the authorities as one of four '-gories: A, B, C, or D. A is the highest classification and confers the q ost P^tloges; D is the lowest and confers the least. All political pris.
s' or what the authorities called "security prisoners," were automat-
\ dassified as D on admission. The privileges affected by these
348 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
classifications included visits and letters, studies, and the opnorninirv
buy groceries and incidentals -- all of which are the lifebkxxl of
prisoner. It normally took years for a political prisoner to raise his star
from D to C.
We disdained the classification system. It was corrupt and derneanin
another way of repressing prisoners in general and political prisoners in
particular. We demanded that all political prisoners be in one category Although we criticized it, we could not ignore it: the classification system
was an inflexible feature of prison life. If you protested that, as a D Group prisoner, you could receive only one letter every six months, the authorities
would say. Improve your behavior, become a C Group prisoner, and you
will be able to receive two letters every six months. If you complained
that you did not receive enough food, the authorities would remind you
that if you were in A Group, you would be able to receive money orders
from the outside and purchase extra food at the prison canteen. Even a
freedom fighter benefits from the ability to buy groceries and books.
The classifications generally ran parallel to the length of one's sentence.
If you were sentenced to eight years, you would generally be classified as
D for the first two years, C for the next two, B for the following two,
and A for the last two. But the prison authorities wielded the classification
system as a weapon against political prisoners, threatening to lower our
hard-won classifications in order to control our behavior.
Though I had been in prison for nearly two years before I was taken
to Robben Island, I was still in D Group when I arrived. While I desired
the privileges that came with higher classifications, I refused to
compromise my conduct. The fastest way to raise one's classification
was to be docile and not complain. "Ag, Mandela, you are a troublemaker,"
the warders would say. "You will be in D Group for the rest of
your life."
Every six months, prisoners were called before the prison board to
have their classifications evaluated. The board was meant to assess our
behavior in terms of prison regulations, but we found that it preferred
to act as a political tribunal rather than a mere evaluator of behavior.
During my first meeting with the board, the officials asked me questions
about the ANC and my beliefs. Although this had nothing to with the
classification system, I was vain enough to answer and think that I mig
convert them to my beliefs. It was one of the few times we were treate as human beings, and I for one responded. Later I realized that this ^a simply a technique on the part of the authorities to glean inforrna. from us, and I had fallen for it. Shortly afterward, we agreed among
ourselves not to discuss politics with the prison board.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 349
A< a D Group prisoner, I was entitled to have only one visitor, and to
rite and receive only one letter every six months. I found this one of
h - most inhumane restrictions of the prison system. Communication
,-ith one's family is a human right; it should not be restricted by the
irtiricial gradations of a prison system. But it was one of the facts of
prison life- Visits and letters were restricted to "first degree" relatives. This was a
restriction we not only found irksome but racist. The African sense of
immediate family is far different from that of the European or Westerner.
Our family structures are larger and more inclusive; anyone who claims
descent from a common ancestor is deemed part of the same family.
In prison, die only thing worse than bad news about one's family is
no news at all. It is always harder to cope with the disasters and tragedies
one imagines than with the reality, however grim or disagreeable. A letter
with ill tidings was always preferable to no letter at all.
But even this miserable restriction was abused by the authorities. The
anticipation of mail was overwhelming. Mail call took place once a month,
and sometimes six months would go by without a letter. To be allowed
one letter in six months and then not to receive it is a great blow. One
wonders: What has happened to my wife and children, to my mother and
my sisters? When I did not receive a letter I felt as dry and barren as the
Great Karroo desert. Often the authorities would withhold mail out of
spite. I can remember warders saying, "Mandela, we have received a letter
for you, but we cannot give it to you." No explanation of why, or whom
the letter was from. It required all my self-discipline not to explode at
such times. Afterward, I would protest through the proper channels, and
sometimes get it.
When letters did arrive, they were cherished. A letter was like the
summer rain that could make even the desert bloom. When I was handed
a letter by the authorities, I would not rush forward and grab it as I felt "he doing, but take it in a leisurely manner. Though I yearned to tear it "P6" and read it on the spot, I would not give the authorities the satis- sction of seeing my eagerness, and I would return slowly to my cell as
' ough I had many things to occupy me before opening a letter from my
'arnily.
^ring the first few months, I received one letter from Winnie, but ^as so heavily censored that not much more than the salutation was
1 he island's censors would black out the offending passages in ink,
. , "cv later changed this when they realized we could wash away the ^d see what was underneath. They began to use razors to slice out '- paragraphs. Since most letters were written on both sides of a ^E-j^e of paper, the material on the other side would also be excised.
350 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
They seemed to relish delivering letters in tatters. The censorship dela
the delivery of mail because warders, some of whom were not profici
in English, might take as long as a month to censor a letter. The leu
we wrote were censored as well; they were often as cut up as the len
we received.
At the end of August, after I had been on the island less than three
months, I was informed by the authorities that I would have a visitor the
following day. They would not tell me who it was. Walter was informed
that he, too, would have a visitor, and I suspected, I hoped, I wished _
I believed  that it would be a visit from Winnie and Albertina.
From the moment Winnie learned we had been brought to the island
she had been trying to arrange a visit. As a banned person, Winnie had
to receive a special dispensation from the minister of justice, for she was
technically not permitted to communicate with me.
Even with the help of the authorities, visiting Robben Island was not
an easy proposition. Visits were a maximum of thirty minutes long, and
political prisoners were not permitted contact visits, in which the visitor
and prisoner were in the same room.
Visits did not seem to be planned in advance by the authorities. One
day, they would contact your wife and say, "You have permission to visit
your husband tomorrow." This was enormously inconvenient, and often
had the effect of making visits impossible. If a family member was able
to plan a visit in advance, the authorities would sometimes deliberately
delay issuing a permit until after the plane had departed. Since most of
the men's families lived far from the Cape and had very little money, visits
by family members were often far beyond their means. Some men who
came from poor families did not see their wives for many years at a time,
if at all. I knew of men who spent a decade or more on Robben Island
without a single visit.
The visiting room for noncontact visits was cramped and windowless.
On the prisoner's side, there was a row of five cubicles with small square
pieces of glass that looked out on identical cubicles on the other si ^
One sat in a chair and looked through the thick, smudged glass that ha
a few small holes drilled into it to permit conversation. One had to t
very loudly to be heard. Later the authorities installed microphones an
speakers in front of the glass, a marginal improvement. j
Walter and I were called to the visitors' office in the late morning ^
took seats at the far end of the room. I waited with some anxiety,
suddenly, filling out the glass on the other side of the window was Wlf\f\
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 351
I elv f^ce. Winnie always dressed up for prison visits, and tried to wear
mething new and elegant. It was tremendously frustrating not to be
hie to touch my wife, to speak tenderly to her, to have a private moment coscthcr. We had to conduct our relationship at a distance under the eyes
of people we despised.
I could see immediately that Winnie was under tremendous strain.
Seeing me m sucn circumstances must have been trying. Just getting to the island itself was difficult, and added to that were the harsh rituals of
the prison, the undoubted indignities of the warders, and the impersonality of the contact.
Winnie, I later discovered, had recently received a second banning order
and had been terminated from her job at the Child Welfare Office as a
result. Her office was searched by the police shortly before she was fired.
The authorities were convinced that Winnie was in secret communication
with me. Winnie loved her job as a social worker. It was the hands-on
end of the struggle: placing babies with adoptive parents, finding work
for the unemployed and medical help for the uninsured. The banning
and harassment of my wife greatly troubled me: I could not look after
her and the children, and the state was making it difficult for her to look
after herself. My powerlessness gnawed at me.
Our conversation was awkward at first, and was not made easier by
the presence of two warders standing directly behind her and three behind
me. Their role was not only to monitor but to intimidate. Regulations
dictated that conversation had to be in either English or Afrikaans --
African languages were forbidden -- and could involve family matters
only. Any line of talk that departed from the family and verged on the
political might mean the abrupt termination of the visit. If one mentioned 3 name unfamiliar to the warders, they would interrupt the conversation, ^d ask who the person was and the nature of the relationship. This "sppened often, as the warders were generally unfamiliar with the variety anu "ature of African names. It was frustrating to spend precious minutes 01 one's visit explaining to a warder the different branches of one's family ee- But their ignorance also worked in our favor: it allowed us to invent ode names for people we wanted to talk about and pretend that we were Herring to family members.
, nat ""t visit was important, for I knew that Winnie was anxious
, ut "V health: she had heard stories that we were being physically ^,used' l quickly informed her that I was fine and she could see that I
I , "r' ^ough a bit thinner than before. She, too, was thinner, something
dra ^s attn^uted to stress. After a visit in which Winnie's face looked
a n or tense-' I would urge her to put on a bit of weight. She was
352 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
always dieting, and I was always telling her not to. I inquired one by n
about all the children, about my mother and sisters, and Winnie's n
family.
Suddenly, I heard the warder behind me say, 'Time up! Time uo'" t
turned and looked at him with incredulity. It was impossible that half a
hour had passed. But, in fact, he was right; visits always seemed to p- by in the blink of an eye. For all the years that I was in prison, I neve
failed to be surprised when the warder called, "Time up!" Winnie and I
were both hustled from our chairs and we waved a quick farewell. I always
felt like lingering after Winnie left, just to retain the sense other presence
but I would not let the warders see such emotion. As I walked back to
the cell, I reviewed in my head what we had talked about. Over the next
days, weeks, and months, I would return to that one visit again and again.
I knew I would not be able to see my wife again for at least six months.
As it turned out, Winnie was not able to visit me for another two years.
64
ONE MORNING in early January, as we lined up to be counted before
beginning work in the courtyard, we were instead marched outside and
ordered into a covered truck. It was the first time that we had left our
compound. No announcement was made as to our destination, but I had
an idea of where we were headed. A few minutes later we emerged from
the truck in a place that I had first seen when I was on the island in 1962:
the lime quarry.
The lime quarry looked like an enormous white crater cut into a rocky
hillside. The cliffs and the base of the hillside were blindingly white. At
the top of the quarry were grass and palm trees, and at the base was a
clearing with a few old metal sheds.
We were met by the commanding officer. Colonel Wessels, a rather
colorless fellow who cared only about strict adherence to prison regulations.
We stood at attention as he told us that the work we would be doing would last six months and afterward we would be given light tas
for the duration of our terms. His timing was considerably off. We r
mained at the quarry for the next thirteen years.
After the C.O.'s speech, we were handed picks and shovels and gi^ rudimentary instructions as to the mining of lime. Mining lims is n simple task. That first day, we were clumsy with our new tools anc tracted little. The lime itself, which is the soft, calcified residue of seas ^ ^ and coral, is buried in layers of rock, and one had to break throug
with a pick, and then extract the seam of lime with a shovel. This w l
rrr
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 353
ore strenuous than the work in the courtyard, and after our first few Aws on the quarry we fell asleep immediately after our supper at 4:30 in rhe afternoon. We woke the next morning aching and still tired.
The authorities never explained why we had been taken from the courtyard
to the quarry. They may simply have needed extra lime for the island's
roads. But when we later discussed the transfer, we assumed it was another way of enforcing discipline, of showing us that we were not different
from ^le general prisoners -- who worked in the island's stone quarry -- and that we had to pay for our crimes just as they did. It was an attempt
to crush our spirits.
But those first few weeks at the quarry had the opposite effect on us.
Despite blistered and bleeding hands, we were invigorated. I much preferred
being outside in nature, being able to see grass and trees, to observe
birds flitting overhead, to feel the wind blowing in from the sea. It felt
good to use all of one's muscles, with the sun at one's back, and there
was simple gratification in building up mounds of stone and lime.
Within a few days, we were walking to the quarry, rather than going
by truck, and this too was a tonic. During our twenty-minute march to
the quarry, we got a better sense of the island, and could see the dense
brush and tall trees that covered our home, and smell the eucalyptus
blossoms, spot the occasional springbok or kudu grazing in the distance.
Although some of the men regarded the march as drudgery, I never did.
Although our work at the quarry was meant to show us that we were no
different from the other prisoners, the authorities still treated us like the
lepers who once populated the island. Sometimes we would see a group
of common-law prisoners working by the side of the road, and their
warders would order them into the bushes so they would not see us as we marched past. It was as if the mere sight of us might somehow affect wir discipline. Sometimes out of the corner of an eye we could see a
Prisoner raise his fist in the ANC salute.
Near the quarry, the dirt road diverged, and to the right the general
Prisoners trooped off to the rock quarry. This crossroads was later to TOme an important site of communications with them. Where the road inched, we could see in the brush the small white cottage where Robert 0 ukwe lived. The house had been built for a black warder years before,
now Sobukwe lived in it by himself. It was a tiny plot, unkempt and
C ^'"^n, and one would not even know that anyone lived there, except
r tp- guard who stood in front.
as 1° ^^ sentence had ended in 1963, but under what became known
.e Sobukwe clause of the General Law Amendment Act of 1963, the ^t0^ J^ti^ Gould hold political prisoners indefinitely without
354 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
charge. That is precisely what they did with Bob. For six years, Sobuk
lived a kind of half-life on the island; he was a free man who was den
his liberty. Sometimes we were able to get a glimpse of him in his gard
but that was all. '
After arriving in the morning, we would fetch our picks, shovels, hammers
and wheelbarrows from a zinc shed at the top of the quarry. Then w
would array ourselves along the quarry face, usually in groups of three
or four. Warders with automatic weapons stood on raised platforms watching
us. Unarmed warders walked among us, urging us to work harder "Gaan aan! Gaan aan!" (Go on! Go on!), they would shout, as if we
were oxen.
By eleven, when the sun was high in the sky, we would begin to flag.
By that time, I would already be drenched in sweat. The warders would
then drive us even harder. "Nee, man! Kom aan! Kom aan!" (No, man!
Come on! Come on!), they would shout. Just before noon, when we
would break for lunch, we would pile the lime into wheelbarrows and
cart it over to the truck, which would take it away.
At midday, a whistle would blow, and we would make our way to the
bottom of the hill. We sat on makeshift seats under a simple zinc shed
shielding us from the sun. The warders ate at a larger shed with tables
and benches. Drums of boiled mealies were delivered to us. Hundreds of
seagulls, screaming and swooping, circled above us as we ate, and a wellaimed
dropping could sometimes spoil a man's lunch.
We worked until four, when we again carted the lime to the waiting
truck. By the end of the day, our faces and bodies were caked with
white dust. We looked like pale ghosts except where rivulets of sweat had
washed away the lime. When we returned to our cells, we would scrub
ourselves in the cold water, which never seemed to completely rinse away
the dust.
Worse than the heat at the quarry was the light. Our backs were protected
from the sun by our shirts, but the sun's ray's would be reflected into our
i J ct"
eyes by the lime itself. The glare hurt our eyes and, along with the du ,
made it difficult to see. Our eyes teared and our faces became fixed in a permanent squint. It would take a long time after each day's work for o
eyes to adjust to the diminished light. ,After
our first few days at the quarry, we made an official request
sunglasses. The authorities refused. This was not unexpected, for we w
then not even permitted reading glasses. I had previously pointed ou
the commanding officer that it did not make sense to permit us to
books but not permit us glasses to read them with.
: ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 355
During the following weeks and months, we requested sunglasses again
j again. But it was to take us almost three years before we were allowed
m have them, and that was only after a sympathetic physician agreed that ac glasses were necessary to preserve our eyesight. Even then, we had to
purchase the glasses ourselves.
For us, such struggles -- for sunglasses, long trousers, study privileges,
eaualized food--were corollaries to the struggle we waged outside
orison. The campaign to improve conditions in prison was part of the
apartheid struggle. It was, in that sense, all the same; we fought injustice
wherever we found it, no matter how large, or how small, and we fought
injustice to preserve our own humanity.
Shortly after we started working at the quarry, we were joined in Section
B by a number of other prominent political prisoners. Several were MK
men who had been arrested in July of 1964 and convicted of more than
fifty acts of sabotage in what became known as the "little Rivonia Trial."
These included Mac Maharaj, a member of the SACP and one of the
sharpest minds in the struggle; Laloo Chiba, also a member of the MK
High Command, and a stalwart colleague who proved a great asset in
prison; and Wilton Mkwayi, the Treason Trialist who had been mistakenly
let go during a moment of confusion when the State of Emergency was
declared in 1960. He had left South Africa secretly, received military
training, and become commander-in-chief of MK after the Rivonia Trial.
We were also joined by Eddie Daniels, a Coloured member of the Liberal
Party, who had been convicted for sabotage operations undertaken by the
African Resistance Movement, a small sabotage group composed ofmemoers
of die Liberal Party. Eddie was to become one of my greatest friends
i" prison.
To counterbalance the effect of these new political allies, the authorities ^0 put a handful of common-law prisoners in our section. These men ^re hardened criminals, convicted of murder, rape, and armed robbery. they were members of the island's notorious criminal gangs, either the Big ^es or the Twenty-Eights, which terrorized other prisoners. They were
rawny and surly, and their faces bore the scars of the knife fights that ere common among gang members. Their role was to act as agents if ^'ocateurs, and they would attempt to push us around, take our food,
inhibit any political discussions we tried to have. One of these fellows as known as Bogart, after the American tough-guy movie actor. He had u opposite Walter's and Walter used to complain that he would demand
ter s breakfast from him each morning, and that he was too scared to
'Use.
Th
e g^g members worked in their own clique apart from us at the
356 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
quarry. One day, they began singing what sounded like a work son? T
fact, it was a famous work song with their own adapted lyrics: "Benifun
eRivonia?," which means "What did you want at Rivonia?" The next I'
was something like "Did you think that you would become the gover
ment?" They sang exuberantly and with a mocking tone. They had oh
viously been encouraged by the warders, who were hoping that the son
would provoke us.
Although the more hotheaded among us wanted to confront them
instead, we decided to fight fire with fire. We had far more and better
singers among us than they had, and we huddled together and planned
our response. Within a few minutes, we were all singing the song "Stimela," a rousing anthem about a train making its way down from Southern
Rhodesia. "Stimela" is not a political song, but in the context, it became
one, for the implication was that the train contained guerrillas coming
down to fight the South African army.
For a number of weeks our two groups sang as we worked, adding
songs and changing lyrics. Our repertoire increased, and we were soon
singing overt political songs, such as "Amajoni," a song about guerrilla
soldiers, the title of which was a corruption of the English slang word
for soldier, Johnny; and 'Tshotsholoza," a song that compares the struggle
to the motion of an oncoming train. (If you say the tide over and over,
it mimics the sound of the train.) We sang a song about the Freedom
Charter, and another about the Transkei, whose lyrics said, "There are
two roads, one road is the Matanzima road, and one road is the Mandela
road, which one will you take?"
The singing made the work lighter. A few of the fellows had extraordinary
voices, and I often felt like putting my pick down and simply
listening. The gang members were no competition for us; they soon
became quiet while we continued singing. But one of the warders was
fluent in Xhosa and understood the content of our songs, and we were
soon ordered to stop singing. (Whistling was also banned.) From that
day on we worked in silence.
I saw the gang members not as rivals but as raw material to be convene
There was a nonpolitical prisoner among us, nicknamed Joe My 1" j'
who later joined the ANC and proved invaluable in helping us srnugg
material in and out of prison. ,
One day we heard that Bogart had been savagely beaten by a war e at the quarry. I did not see the assault, but I saw the results. His face c and badly bruised, Bogart approached me in our corridor and asked
help. I immediately agreed to take up his case. j
We were always looking for ways to stand up to the authoring
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 357
, report of a beating was the kind of incident we could raise with the
head office. Shortly before this, we had learned that a certain PAC man
arned Ganya had been beaten by a warder. In my role as an attorney, I wrote a letter to the commissioner of prisons protesting on behalf of Fanya- I was brought to the Head Office, where I was confronted by orison officials. In the same breath they denied that the beating had occurred and wanted to know how I had heard about it. I insisted that
the warder who had beaten Ganya be removed from the island. They
refused, saying there was no evidence against him. But shortly afterward
the warder in question was transferred off the island.
I had been emboldened by this case, so when Bogart asked for help I
immediately demanded to see the commanding officer. The next day I
was summoned to the head office, where the commander blandly informed
me that the case had been investigated and dismissed. "That's a violation
of regulations," I said. "The case must be tried."
"No," he said, "we have attempted to interview the so-called complainant
and he denies that he was ever assaulted."
"That's impossible," I said. "I spoke to him only yesterday." The commander
gestured to a lieutenant and said, "Then see for yourself." The
lieutenant led Bogart into the room. His face was covered with bandages.
The commander asked him whether or not he had been beaten. "No, baas," he said quietly, without meeting my gaze, "I was never assaulted."
He was then dismissed.
"Well, Mandela," the commander said. "The case is closed." The commander
had succeeded in humiliating me. He had obviously bribed Bogart
with extra food and tobacco to drop his charges. From that point on, I
demanded a signed and written statement from a prisoner before I agreed
to take up his case.
65
^E DAY in the summer of 1965, we discovered some fat glistening on ur fridge at breakfast and chunks of fresh meat with our pap at supper.
e "ext day some of the men received new shirts. The guards at the ^arry and the warders in our section seemed a bit more deferential. All
us were suspicious; in prison, no improvement happens without a
°n. A day later we were notified that the International Red Cross ou d oe arriving the following day
. is was a crucial occasion, more important than any of our previous ^ rs' -^hc Red Cross was responsible and independent, an international lzat10" to whom the Western powers and the United Nations paid
358 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
attention. The prison authorities respected the Red Cross -- and h
spected, I mean feared, for the authorities respected only what they w
afraid of. The prison service distrusted all organizations that could off
world opinion, and regarded them not as legitimate investigators to h
dealt with honestly but as meddling interlopers to be hoodwinked 'r possible. Avoiding international condemnation was the authorities' nrin
cipal goal.
In those early years, the International Red Cross was the only organization
that both listened to our complaints and responded to them
This was vital, because the authorities ignored us. Regulations required
that the authorities provide some official procedure for acknowledging our complaints. They did so, but only in the most perfunctory manner
Every Saturday morning, the chief warder would come into our section
and call out, "Klagtes and Versoeke! Klagtes and Versoeke!" (Complaints
and Requests! Complaints and Requests!) Those of us with klagtes and versoeke -- which was nearly everyone -- lined up to see the chief warder.
One by one, we would make formal complaints about food, or clothing,
or visits. To each, the chief warder would nod his head and simply say, "Ja, ja," and then, "Next!" He did not even write down what we said. If
we tried to speak for our organizations, the warders would yell, "No ANC
or PAC here! Verstaan?" (Understand?)
Shortly before the Red Cross's visit we had submitted a formal list of
complaints to the commissioner of prisons. At the time we were only
permitted paper and pencil to write letters. We had secretly consulted
with each other at the quarry and in the lavatory, and put together a list.
We submitted it to our chief warder, who did not want to take it and
accused us of violating regulations by making such a list. One of our
complaints to the Red Cross would be that the authorities did not listen
to our complaints.
On the day of their visit, I was called to the head office to meet with
the Red Cross representative. That year, and for the following few years,
the representative was a Mr. Senn, a former director of prisons in "is
native Sweden who had emigrated to Rhodesia. Senn was a quiet, rathe
nervous man in his mid-fifties who did not seem at all comfortable in
surroundings. 11
The meeting was not monitored, a critical difference from nearh of our other visitors. He asked to hear all of our complaints and gnevanc _
and listened very carefully, taking extensive notes. He was very cou
and thanked me for all that I told him. Even so, that first visit was ra
tense. Neither of us yet knew what to expect from the other.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 359
I complained quite vociferously about our clothing, affirming that we
j.j ^of want to wear short trousers and needed proper clothing including .ricks and underwear, which we were not then given. I recounted our
crricvances regarding food, visits, letters, studies, exercise, hard labor, and
the behavior of warders. I made certain requests I knew the authorities
would never satisfy, such as our desire to be transferred to prisons nearer
our homes.
After our session, Senn met with the commissioner of prisons and his
staff while I waited. I assumed that he relayed our complaints to the
authorities, indicating the ones he thought were reasonable. Not long
after Senn's visit our clothing did improve and we were given long trousers.
But Senn was not a progressive fellow by any means; his years in
Rhodesia seemed to have acclimatized him to racism. Before I had returned
to my cell, I reminded him of our complaint that African prisoners
did not receive bread. Mr. Senn appeared flustered, and glanced over at
the colonel, who was head of the prison. "Bread is very bad for your
teeth, you know, Mandela," Mr. Senn said. "Mealies are much better for
you. They make your teeth strong."
In later years, the International Red Cross sent more liberal men who
wholeheartedly fought for improvements. The organization also played a
critical role in an area that was less obvious but no less important to us.
They often provided money to wives and relatives who would not otherwise
have been able to visit us on the island.
After we had been sent to Robben Island, there was concern among our
supporters that we would not be permitted to study. Within a few months
of our arrival, the authorities announced that those who wanted to study
could apply for permission. Most of the men did so and even though
they were D Group prisoners, permission was granted. The state, after the Rivonia Trial, was feeling confident and thought giving us study
Privileges would be harmless. Later, they came to regret it. Postgraduate
study was not permitted, but they made an exception in my case because "sd established a precedent when I was in Pretoria.
ery few of the men in our section had B.A.'s and many registered for "^ersity-level courses. Quite a few did not have high school degrees and ec rourses to qualify for that degree. Some of the men were already
educated, like Govan Mbeki and Neville Alexander, but others had ^ot gone past Standard V or VI. Within months, virtually all of us were I., -' '"S for one degree or another. At night, our cell block seemed more He a study hall than a prison-
t the privilege of studying came with a host of conditions. Certain
360 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
subjects, such as politics and military history, were prohibited. For v
we were not permitted to receive funds except from our families so A '
poor prisoners rarely had money for books or tuition. This made rk opportunity to study a function of how much money one had. Nor w
we permitted to lend books to other prisoners, which would have enahl a our poorer colleagues to study.
There was always controversy about whether or not we should accent
study privileges. Some members of the Unity Movement at first felt that
we were accepting a handout from the government, which compromised
our integrity. They argued that studying should not be a conditional
privilege but an unfettered right. While I agreed, I could not accept that
we should therefore disavow studying. As freedom fighters and political
prisoners, we had an obligation to improve and strengthen ourselves and
study was one of the few opportunities to do so.
Prisoners were permitted to enroll at either the University of South
Africa (UNISA) or Rapid Results College, which was for those studying
for their high school qualification. In my own case, studying under the
auspices of the University of London was a mixed blessing. On the one
hand I was assigned the sorts of stimulating books that would not have
been on a South African reading list; on the other, the authorities inevitably
regarded many of them as unsuitable and thus banned them.
Receiving books at all was often a challenge. You might make an
application to a South African library for a book on contract law. They
would process your request and then send you the book by post. But
because of the vagaries of the mail system, the remoteness of the island,
and the often deliberate slowness of the censors, the book would reach
you after the date that it needed to be returned. If the date had passed,
the warders would typically send the book back without even showing it
to you. Given the nature of the system, you might receive a late fine
without ever having received the book.
In addition to books, we were permitted to order publications necessary
to our studies. The authorities were extremely strict about this. and the only kind of publication that would pass muster might be a
quarterly on actuarial science for a prisoner studying accounting. But o
day, Mac Maharaj told a comrade who was studying economics to req The Economist. We laughed and said we might as well ask for Time mag
azine, because The Economist was also a newsweekly. But Mac slmr,
smiled and said the authorities won't know that; they judge a D00 _
its title. Within a month, we were receiving The Economist and r^ the news we hungered for. But the authorities soon discovered
mistake and ended the subscription.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 361
Snce most of the men began to study, we complained that we did not
have the minimum facilities necessary for studying, such as desks
nd chairs. I made this complaint to the International Red Cross. Finally, rhe authorities built in each cell a kind of stand-up desk, a simple wooden
hoard that jutted out from the wall at about chest-level.
This was not precisely what we had envisaged. After a tedious day at rhe quarry, one did not much feel like working at a stand-up desk. A
number of us complained about the desks, and Kathy was the most vociferous.
He informed the commanding officer that not only was it an
imposition to have stand-up desks, but that they sloped so steeply that
the books fell off. The commanding officer made a surprise visit to Kathy's
cell asked for a book, and plunked it on his desk. It did not move. He
asked Kathy for another and placed it on top of the first one; again,
nothing happened. Finally, after placing four books on the desk, he turned
to a sheepish Kathy and said, "Ag, there's nothing wrong with these
desks," and walked out. But about six months later, the authorities relented
and we were given three-legged wooden stools and the stand-up desks
were lowered.
One complaint I voiced to the International Red Cross concerned the
arbitrary way we were charged by the warders. To be "charged" meant
that a warder claimed that a prisoner had violated a specific regulation,
which could be punished by isolation or by loss of meals and privileges.
Warders generally did not treat this lightly, for when a prisoner was
charged he was allowed a judicial hearing and, depending on the seriousness
of the offense, a magistrate was brought in from Cape Town. At
the time, the authorities were refusing to permit hearings. When I complained
to the International Red Cross about this, I had yet to experience
the problem myself. But that situation was soon remedied.
On weekends, during our first year on the island, we were kept inside ""r cells all day except for a half hour of exercise. One Saturday, after ^turning from exercise in the courtyard, I noticed that a warder had left
j a newspaper on the bench at the end of the corridor. He had become
I ^ther friendly to us, and I assumed that he had not left the newspaper
| ^re by accident.
Newspapers were more valuable to political prisoners than gold or ^onds, more hungered for than food or tobacco; they were the most
, t'lou<' contraband on Robben Island. News was the intellectual raw
t-pa1 °f the struggle. We were not allowed any news at all, and we
Th lr' ^^^^ even more than myself, seemed bereft without news. suthorities attempted to impose a complete blackout; they did not
362 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
want us to learn anything that might raise our morale or reassure us i+>
people on the outside were still thinking about us.
We regarded it as our duty to keep ourselves current on the polin of the country, and we fought long and hard for the right to have new
papers. Over the years, we devised many ways of obtaining them h
back then we were not so adept. One of the advantages of going to th
quarry was that warders' sandwiches were wrapped in newspaper and they
would often discard these newsprint wrappers in the trash, where we
secretly retrieved them. We would distract the warders' attention pluck
the papers out of the garbage, and slide them into our shirts.
One of the most reliable ways to acquire papers was through bribery and this was the only area where I tolerated what were often unethical
means of obtaining information. The warders always seemed to be short
of money, and their poverty was our opportunity.
When we did get hold of a paper, it was far too risky to pass around.
Possession of a newspaper was a serious charge. Instead, one person would
read the paper, usually Kathy or, later, Mac Maharaj. Kathy was in charge
of communications, and he had thought of ingenious ways for us to pass
information. Kathy would go through the paper and make cuttings of
relevant stories, which were then secretly distributed to the rest of us.
Each of us would write out a summary of the story we were given; these
summaries were then passed among us, and later smuggled to the general
section. When the authorities were particularly vigilant, Kathy or Mac
would write out his summary of the news and then destroy the paper,
usually by tearing it into small pieces and placing it in his ballie, which
the warders never inspected.
When I noticed the newspaper lying on the bench, I quickly left my cell,
walked to the end of the corridor, looked in both directions, and then
plucked the newspaper off the bench and slipped it into my shirt. Normally,
I would have hidden the newspaper somewhere in my cell and taken
it out only after bedtime. But like a child who eats his sweet before his
main course, I was so eager for news that I opened the paper in my c
immediately.
I don't know how long I was reading; I was so engrossed in the pap1- that I did not hear any footsteps. Suddenly, an officer and two o
warders appeared and I did not even have time to slide the paper ^ my bed. I was caught black-and-white-handed, so to speak. "Man e ^ the officer said, "we are charging you for possession of contraban , _ ^ you will pay for this." The two warders then began a thorough scare
my cell to see if they could turn up anything else. ^j
Within a day or two a magistrate was brought in from Cape io
TIT
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 363
, gg taken to the room at headquarters that was used as the island's
urt. In t:nls instance, the authorities were willing to call in an outside
maeisti'.ite because they knew they had an open-and-shut case. I offered defense, and was sentenced to three days in isolation and deprivation
of meals.
I do not think that I was set up by the warder who left the newspaper
on the bench, though some assumed I had been. At the hearing, the
authorities grilled me as to how I got the newspaper, and I refused to
answer. If I had been railroaded, the authorities would have known how
I'd gotten it.
The isolation cells were in our same complex, but in another wing. Although
just across the courtyard, they felt enormously distant. In isolation,
one was deprived of company, exercise, and even food: one received only
rice water three times a day for three days. (Rice water is simply water
in which rice has been boiled.) By comparison, our normal ration of pap
seemed like a feast.
The first day in isolation was always the most painful. One grows
accustomed to eating regularly and the body is not used to being deprived.
I found that by the second day I had more or less adjusted to the absence
of food, and the third passed without much craving at all. Such deprivation
was not uncommon among Africans in everyday life. I myself had gone
without food for days at a time in my early years in Johannesburg.
As I have already mentioned, I found solitary confinement the most
forbidding aspect of prison life. There is no end and no beginning;
there is only one's own mind, which can begin to play tricks. Was that a
dream or did it really happen? One begins to question everything. Did
* niake the right decision, was my sacrifice worth it? In solitary, there is
no distraction from these haunting questions.
out the human body has an enormous capacity for adjusting to trying
Qrcumstances. I have found that one can bear the unbearable if one can e? one's spirits strong even when one's body is being tested. Strong Evictions are the secret of surviving deprivation; your spirit can be full
even ^en your stomach is empty.
ose early years, isolation became a habit. We were routinely charged
, "ie smallest infractions and sentenced to isolation. A man might lose a, .^^ l?or a sidelong glance or be sentenced for failing to stand when
rii|>3 der ^^d the room. Some PAC prisoners, who often flouted the
-IF ''iitiply for the 53^ of doing so, spent a great deal of time in isolation.
rckŤi,. orltles believed that isolation was the cure for our defiance and ^'ousncss.
364 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
The second time I was charged and spent time in isolation occi
shortly after the first. As I have mentioned, we were having great diffi i
making our complaints heard. The remoteness of the prison made k authorities feel they could ignore us with impunity. They believed th c they turned a deaf ear to us, we would give up in frustration and th
people on the outside would forget about us.
One day we were working at the lime quarry when the commandin
officer came to observe us, accompanied by a gentleman whom we at first
did not recognize. One of my colleagues whispered to me that it was
Brigadier Aucamp from the Head Office, our commanding officer's commanding
officer. (He is not to be confused with the Aucamp of Pretoria
Local, who looked after us during the Rivonia Trial.) The two men stood
at a distance, watching us.
Aucamp was a short, heavyset fellow in a suit rather than a military uniform. He normally came to the island on biannual inspections. On
those occasions, we were ordered to stand at attention at the grille of our
cells and hold up our prison cards as he walked by.
I decided that Aucamp's unexpected appearance was a singular opportunity
to present our grievances to the man who had the power to
remedy them. I put down my pick and began to walk over to them. The
warders immediately became alarmed and moved toward me. I knew that
I was violating regulations, but I hoped the warders would be so surprised
by the novelty of my action that they would do nothing to stop me. That
proved to be the case.
When I reached the two men, the commanding officer said bluntly,
"Mandela, go back to your place. No one called you." I disregarded him
and addressed Aucamp, saying I had taken this extraordinary action because
our complaints were being ignored. The C.O. interrupted me.
"Mandela, I order you back to your place." I turned to him and said in
a measured tone, "I am here already, I will not go back." I was hoping
that Aucamp would agree to hear me out, but he studied me coldly a"1 then turned to the warders and said calmly, "Charge him."
I continued to speak as the guards led me away. "Take him back to t i- cells," the C.O. said. I was charged and, once again, I had no defcnst:
The punishment this time was four days in isolation. There was a le^ in what I had done, a lesson I already knew but had disobeyed out o^ desperation. No one, least of all prison officials, ever likes to have authority publicly challenged. In order to respond to me, Aucamp
have had to humiliate his subordinate. Prison officials responded n
better to private overtures. The best way to effect change on K0 ^ Island was to attempt to influence officials privately rather than p ^ I was sometimes condemned for appearing to be too accomrnoua r
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 365 pi officials, but I was willing to accept the criticism in exchange for
pi-is' the iir;; irovement.
66
THE MOST IMPORTANT PERSON in any prisoner's life is not the
minister of justice, not the commissioner of prisons, not even the head
of prison, but the warder in one's section. If you are cold and want an
extra blanket, you might petition the minister of justice, but you will get
no response. If you go to the commissioner of prisons, he will say, "Sorry,
it is against regulations." The head of prison will say, "If I give you an
extra blanket, I must give one to everyone." But if you approach the
warder in your corridor, and you are on good terms with him, he will
simply go to the stockroom and fetch a blanket.
I always tried to be decent to the warders in my section; hostility was
self-defeating. There was no point in having a permanent enemy among
the warders. It was ANC policy to try to educate all people, even our
enemies: we believed that all men, even prison service warders, were
capable of change, and we did our utmost to try to sway them.
In general v/e treated the warders as they treated us. If a man was
considerate, we were considerate in return. Not all of our warders were
ogres. We noticed right from the start that there were some among them
who believed in fairness. Yet, being friendly with warders was not an easy
proposition, for they generally found the idea of being courteous to a black man abhorrent. Because it was useful to have warders who were ^11 disposed toward us, I often asked certain men to make overtures to elected warders. No one liked to take on such a job.
We had one warder at the quarry who seemed particularly hostile to us- This was troublesome, for at the quarry we would hold discussions ^ong ourselves, and a warder who did not permit us to talk was a great '"drancc, I asked a certain comrade to befriend this fellow so that he
°uid not interrupt our talks. The warder was quite crude, but he soon
gan to relax a bit around this one prisoner. One day, the warder asked ''comrade for his jacket so that he could lay it on the grass and sit on
^'en though I knew it went against the comrade's grain, I nodded to hlm to do it.
A if ^ '^ ew vs ^ater' we were having our lunch under the shed when this
,( ' <-r ^"dered over. The warder had an extra sandwich, and he threw
fr, . e g^ss near us and said, "Here." That was his way of showing -dship
Th'
is presented us with a dilemma. On the one hand, he was treating
366 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
us as animals to whom he could toss a bit of slop, and I felt if w undermine our dignity to take the sandwich. On the other hand \ve \v
hungry, and to reject the gesture altogether would humiliate the ward e we were trying to befriend. I could see that the comrade who h ^ befriended the warder wanted the sandwich, and I nodded for him
take it.
The strategy worked, for this warder became less wary around us H
even began to ask questions about the ANC. By definition, if a ma
worked for the prison service he was probably brainwashed by the eovernment's
propaganda. He would have believed that we were terrorists
and Communists who wanted to drive the white man into the sea. But
as we quietly explained to him our nonracialism, our desire for equal
rights, and our plans for the redistribution of wealth, he scratched his
head and said, "It makes more bloody sense than the Nats."
Having sympathetic warders facilitated one of our most vital tasks on
Robben Island: communication. We regarded it as our duty to stay in
touch with our men in IF and G, which was where the general prisoners
were kept. As politicians, we were just as intent on fortifying our organization
in prison as we had been outside. Communication was essential if
we were to coordinate our protests and complaints. Because of the greater
numbers of prisoners coming and going in the general section, the men
in IF and G tended to have more recent information about not only what
was happening in the movement, but about our friends and families.
Communication between sections was a serious violation of regulations.
We found many effective ways around the ban. The men who
delivered our drums of food were from the general section, and in the
early months we managed to have whispered conversations with them in which we conveyed brief messages. We formed a clandestine communications
committee, composed of Kathy, Mac Maharaj, Laloo Chiba, and
several others, and their job was to organize all such practices.
One of the first techniques was engineered by Kathy and Mac, who
had noticed that on our walks to the quarry, the warders often tosse
away empty matchboxes. They began secretly collecting them, and
had the idea of constructing a false bottom to the box and placing '" a tiny written message. Laloo Chiba, who once trained as a tailor, wr
out minuscule coded messages that would be placed in the con\
matchbox. Joe Gqabi, another MK soldier who was with us, would c-" ^ the matchboxes on our walks to the quarry and drop them at a stra . crossing where we knew the general prisoners would pass. Throug , pered conversations at food deliveries, we explained the plan, Uesig
prisoners from IF and G would pick up the matchboxes on their\
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 367
rJ we retrieved messages in the same fashion. It was far from perfect, id we could easily be foiled by something as simple as the rain. We soon
evolved more efficient methods.
\Ve looked for moments when the warders were inattentive. One such
rime was during and after meals. We helped ourselves to our food, and we worked out a scheme whereby comrades from the general section who worked in the kitchen began placing letters and notes wrapped in plastic
at the bottom of the food drums. We sent return communication in a
similar way, wrapping notes in the same plastic and placing them at the
bottom of the mounds of dirty dishes that were routed back to the kitchen.
We would do our best to create a mess, scattering food all over the plates.
The warders even complained about the disarray, but never bothered to
investigate.
Our toilets and showers were adjacent to the isolation section. Prisoners
from the general section were often sentenced to isolation there and
would use the same set of toilets we did, though at different times. Mac
devised a method of wrapping notes in plastic and then taping them
inside the rim of the toilet bowl. We encouraged our political comrades
in the general section to be charged and placed in isolation so that they
could retrieve these notes and send replies. The warders never bothered
to search there.
In order not to have our notes read or understood by the authorities
if they were found, we devised ways of writing that could not easily be
seen or deciphered. One way was to write messages with milk. The milk
would dry almost immediately, and the paper would look blank. But the
disinfectant we were given to clean our cells, when sprayed on the dried "ilk, made the writing reappear. Unfortunately, we did not regularly
receive milk. After one of us was diagnosed with an ulcer, we used his.
Another technique was to write in tiny, coded script on toilet paper. fhe paper was so small and easily hidden that this became a popular way
Guggling out messages. When the authorities discovered a number
"^e communications, they took the extraordinary measure of ration- '"g toilet paper. Govan was then ailing and not going to the quarry, and e was given the task of counting out eight squares of toilet paper for ^h prisoner per day
ut even with all these ingenious methods, one of the best ways was
o the easiest: getting sent to the prison hospital. The island had one
\vhi ant^ 1( was ^ff^11^ to segregate us from the general prisoners "- We were there. Sometimes prisoners from the different sections even
j , the same wards, and men from Section B and prisoners from IF
r,i """gled and exchanged information about political organizations, ^Lgo-slows, whatever the current prison issues were.

368 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Communication with the outside world was accomplished in two w
through prisoners whose sentences were completed and who were leav'
the island, and through contact with visitors. Prisoners who were leav'
would smuggle out letters in their clothes or baggage. With outsid
visitors, the situation was even more dangerous, because the risks we
also borne by the visitor. When lawyers visited us, warders were nnr permitted in the room and we would sometimes pass a letter to the lawyer
to be taken out. Lawyers were not searched. In these meetings, we could
also communicate by writing as we had during the Rivonia Trial. Because
the room was bugged, we might say, "Please tell. . ." and then pause and
write "O.T," meaning Oliver Tambo, on a piece of paper, "that we approve
of his plan to cut down the size of the . . ." and then write, "National
Executive.'"
Through a plastic-wrapped note hidden in our food drums, we learned
in July of 1966 that the men in the general section had embarked on a
hunger strike to protest poor conditions. The note was imprecise, and
we did not know exactly when the strike had started or exactly what it
was about. But we would support any strike of prisoners for whatever
reason they were striking. Word was passed among us, and we resolved
to initiate a sympathetic strike beginning with our next meal. A hunger
strike consists of one thing: not eating.
Because of the time lag in communications, the general prisoners probably
did not learn of our participation for a day or so. But we knew that
the news would hearten them. The authorities would be telling them that
we were not participating in the strike, that we were gorging ourselves
on gourmet meals. This was standard operating procedure; in a crisis,
the authorities inevitably started a disinformation campaign to play one
section against the other. In this case, while the ANC unanimously supported
the strike, some PAC men in the general section did not.
During the first day of our strike, we were served our normal rations
and refused to take them. On the second day, we noticed that our portions
were larger and a few more vegetables accompanied our pap. On the tni
day, juicy pieces of meat were served with supper. By the fourth day,
porridge was glistening with fat, and great hunks of meat and color
vegetables were steaming on top. The food was positively mouthwaten e. The warders smiled when we passed up the food. The te"1?^"0",^ great, but we resisted, even though we were being driven especially
at the quarry. We heard that in the main section, prisoners were collap
and being taken away in wheelbarrows. [;
I was called to the Head Office for an interview with Colonel We
Such sessions were delicate, as my fellow prisoners knew that
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 369
. --.ties would attempt to influence me to call off the strike. Wessels was
rlirect man and demanded to know why we were on a hunger strike. I
nhined that as political prisoners we saw protest to alter prison con- A rions as an extension of the anti-apartheid struggle. "But you don't even
know why they are striking in IF and G," he said. I said that did not
matter, that the men in IF and G were our brothers and that our struggle
was indivisible. He snorted, and dismissed me.
The following day we learned of an extraordinary course of events:
the warders had gone on their own food boycott, refusing to go to their
own cafeteria. They were not striking in support of us, but had decided
that if we could do such a thing, why couldn't they? They were demanding
better food and improved living conditions. The combination of the two
strikes was too much for the authorities. They settled with the warders
and then, a day or two later, we learned the authorities had gone to the general section and asked for three representatives to negotiate changes.
The general prisoners declared victory and called off the hunger strike.
We followed suit a day later.
That was the first and most successful of the hunger strikes on the island.
As a form of protest, they did not have a high success rate and the rationale
behind them always struck me as quixotic. In order for a hunger strike
to succeed, the outside world must learn of it. Otherwise, prisoners will
simply starve themselves to death and no one will know. Smuggled-out
information that we were on a hunger strike would elicit newspaper stories,
which in turn would generate pressure from advocacy groups. The
problem, particularly in the early years, was that it was next to impossible
to alert people on the outside that we were waging a hunger strike inside.
For me, hunger strikes were altogether too passive. We who were
already suffering were threatening our health, even courting death. I have ^ways favored a more active, militant style of protest such as work strikes,
go-slow strikes, or refusing to clean up; actions that punished the au- "'orities, not ourselves. They wanted gravel and we produced no gravel.
y wanted the prison yard clean and it was untidy. This kind of behavior 'dressed and exasperated them, whereas I think they secretly enjoyed Etching us go hungry.
"t when it came to a decision, I was often outvoted. My colleagues
 JQKingly accused me of not wanting to miss a meal. The proponents
"nger strikes argued that it was a traditionally accepted form of protest
\\ k113^ ^een ^^g^ a^ over the world by such prominent leaders as i( atma Gandhi. Once the decision was taken, however, I would support ^ wholeheartedly as any of its advocates. In fact, during the strikes I ten m the position of remonstrating with some of my more wayward
370 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM I
colleagues who did not want to abide by our agreement. "Madiba, I \vanf my food," I remember one man saying. "I don't see why I should 0.0 without. I have served the struggle for many years."
Comrades would sometimes eat on the sly. We knew this for a simple
reason: by the second day of a hunger strike, no one needs to use the
toilet. Yet one morning you might see a fellow going to the toilet. We
had our own internal intelligence service because we knew that certain
men were weak in this regard.
IN THE MIDST of the July 1966 hunger strike I had my second visit
from my wife. It was almost exactly two years after the first visit, and it
nearly did not happen at all. Winnie had been under constant harassment
since her first visit in 1964. Her sisters and brother were persecuted by
the police, and the authorities attempted to forbid anyone in her family
from living with her. Some of this I learned at the time, much of it I
found out later. Some of the nastiest items were known to me because
when I would return from the quarry, I often would find neatly cut
clippings about Winnie that had been anonymously placed on my bed by
the warders.
In small and spiteful ways, the authorities did their best to make Winnie's
journeys as unpleasant as possible. For the previous two years, her
visits had been stymied by local magistrates and by the repeated bannings
that prevented her from traveling. I had recently heard through counsel
that Winnie had been informed by the police that she could visit me only
if she carried a pass. Winnie, who had been protesting the government's
policy regarding women's passes since the i9sos, rightly refused to carry
the hated document. The authorities were clearly attempting to humiliate
her and me. But I thought it was more important that we see each other
than to resist the petty machinations of the authorities, and Winnie consented
to carry a pass. I missed her enormously and needed the reassurance
of seeing her, and we also had vital family matters to discuss.
The regulations governing each of Winnie's visits were long and cornplicated.
She was barred from taking a train or car and had to fly, makin?
the trip much more expensive. She was required to take the shortest ron^ from the airport to Caledon Square, the Cape Town police station, where
she was required to sign various documents. She had to report to th
same station on the way back and sign more documents.
I had also learned from a newspaper clipping that a Special Branc
officer broke into our Orlando house while Winnie was dressing and s
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 371
reacted angrily, pushing the officer out of the bedroom. The lieutenant
laid a charge of assault against her, and I asked my friend and colleague
George Bizos to defend her, which he ably did. We had seen stories about
(his in the newspapers, and some of the men even joked with me about
Winnie's bellicosity. "You are not the only boxer in the family, Madiba," they said.
This second visit was for only half an hour, and we had much to discuss.
Winnie was a bit agitated from the rough treatment in Cape Town and
the fact that, as always, she had to ride in the hold of the ferry where the
fumes from the engine made her ill. She had taken pains to dress up for
me, but she looked thin and drawn.
We reviewed the education of the children, the health of my mother,
which was not very good, and our finances. A critical issue was the
education of Zeni and Zindzi. Winnie had placed the girls in a school
designated as Indian, and the authorities were harassing the principal on
the grounds that it was a violation of the law for the school to accept
African pupils. We made the difficult decision to send Zeni and Zindzi
to boarding school in Swaziland. This was hard on Winnie, who found
her greatest sustenance in the two girls. I was consoled by the fact that
their education would probably be superior there, but I worried about
Winnie. She would be lonely and prey for people who sought to undermine
her under the guise of being her friends. If anything, Winnie was
too trusting of people's motives.
To get around the restrictions on discussing nonfamily matters, we used names whose meaning was clear to us, but not to the warders. If I
wanted to know how Winnie was really doing, I might say, "Have you
heard about Ngutyana recently; is she all right?" Ngutyana is one of
Winnie's clan names, but the authorities were unaware of that. Then Winnie could talk about how and what Ngutyana was doing. If the warder
asked who Ngutyana was, we would say she was a cousin. If I wanted to
know about how the external mission of the ANC was faring, I would ^k, "How is the church?" Winnie would discuss "the church" in appropriate
terms, and I might then ask, "How are the priests? Are there any
new sermons?" We improvised and managed to exchange a great deal of '"formation that way.
As always, when the warder yelled, "Time up!," I thought only a few "^utcs had passed. I wanted to kiss the glass good-bye, but restrained ^yselt. I always preferred for Winnie to leave first so she would not have 0 ^e me led away by the warders, and I watched as she whispered a sood-bye, hiding her pain from the warders.
After the visit, I replayed all the details in my mind, what Winnie wore,
"M she said, what I said. I then wrote her a letter going over some of
372 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
what we had discussed, and reminding her of how much I cared fn h how unshakable our bond was, how courageous she was. I saw rnv I <r r to her both as love letters and as the only way I could give her the ernof ers! support she needed.
Soon after the visit, I learned that Winnie had been charged for fair
to report to the police on her arrival in Cape Town as well as refusino- furnish the police with her address when she left. Having already eiv
her address at the ferry, she was asked again when she returned and
refused, saying she had done so earlier.
Winnie was arrested and released on bail. She was tried and sentenced
to a year's imprisonment, which was suspended except for four davs
Winnie was subsequently dismissed from her second job as a social worker
because of the incident, and lost her main source of income.
The state did its utmost to harass me in ways they thought I would be
powerless to resist. Toward the end of 1966, the Transvaal Law Society at the instigation of the minister of justice, made a motion to strike me
off the roll of practicing attorneys as a result of my conviction in the
Rivonia Trial. Apparently they were not discouraged by the earlier unsuccessful
attempt to remove my name from the roll because of my conviction
in the Defiance Campaign.
I found out about the Law Society's action only after it had been
initiated. The Transvaal Law Society was an extremely conservative organization,
and they were seeking to punish me at a time when they
assumed I would be unable to defend myself. It is not easy for a prisoner
on Robben Island to defend himself in court, but that is precisely what
I intended to do.
I informed the authorities that I planned to contest the action and
would prepare my own defense. I told prison officials that in order to
prepare adequately, I would need to be exempt from going to the quarry and would also require a proper table, chair, and reading light to wor
on my brief. I said I needed access to a law library and demanded to be
taken to Pretoria.
My strategy was to overwhelm the prison authorities and the court'
with legitimate requests, which I knew they would have a difficult 1
satisfying. The authorities always found it distressing when I wante ^ defend myself in court because the accompanying publicity would s that I was still fighting for the same values I always had.
Their first response was, "Mandela, why don't you retain a law)^ defend you? He will be able to handle the case properly. Why put you^ ^ out?" I went ahead and applied to the registrar of the Supreme Co ^ the records, documents, and books that I would need. I also requc
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 373
i r of the state's witnesses and summaries of their prospective testimony.
I received a letter stating that before the court would grant my requests
, ^vould need to know the nature of my defense. This was extraordinary. Tn ask the nature of a lawyer's defense before the trial? No defendant can
, compelled to reveal his defense before he is actually in court. I wrote
hack to tell them that the nature of my defense would become clear to
them when I filed my papers -- and not until then. ^
This was the beginning of a flurry of correspondence between me and
the registrar as well as the state attorney, who was representing the Law
Society. I would not back down on any of my requests. The authorities
were equally intransigent: I could not be taken off quarry detail, I could
not have a table and chair, and under no circumstances would I be able
to go to Pretoria to use the law library.
I continued to bedevil the Law Society and registrar with demands,
which they continued to deflect. Finally, several months and many letters
later, without any fanfare and with just a cursory notification to me, they
dropped the entire matter. The case was becoming more than they had
bargained for. They had reckoned I would not have the initiative or wherewithal
to defend myself; they were mistaken.
I was able to read in detail about the official reactions to my opposition
to the Law Society's actions because we were receiving a daily newspaper
just as if it were delivered to our door. In effect, it was.
The warder who supervised us at night was a quiet, elderly Jehovah's
Witness whom Mac Maharaj had befriended. One night, he wandered
over to Mac's cell and told him that he wanted to enter a newspaper
contest that required an essay. Would Mac, he wondered, be willing to assist him in writing it? The old warder hinted that if Mac helped him,
there would be a reward. Mac agreed, and duly wrote the essay. A fortnight
"ter, the old man came to Mac very excited. He was now a finalist in the
competition; would Mac write him another essay? The warder promised "^c a cooked chicken in return. Mac told the old warder that he would ^ink about it.
The next day, Mac came to Walter and me and explained the situation. "'Ie Walter encouraged Mac to accept the food, I appreciated his re- ttance to do so, because it would appear that he was getting special
atrnent- That night, he told the warder he would write the essay in ^ange for a pack of cigarettes. The old warder agreed, and the following
ning presented Mac with a newly bought pack of cigarettes. "e next day, Mac told us that he now had the leverage he wanted
r the old warder. How? we asked. "Because I have his fingerprints on e ^garette pack," Mac said, "and I can blackmail him." Walter exclaimed
374 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
that that was immoral. I did not criticize Mac, but asked what he \v
blackmail him for. Mac raised his eyebrow: "Newspapers," he said W I
and I looked at each other. I think Walter was the only man on Rohh
Island who relished newspapers as much as I did. Mac had already d
cussed his plan with the communications committee, and although
both had reservations about Mac's technique, we did not stop him
That night Mac told the warder that he had his fingerprints on th
pack of cigarettes and that if the old man did not cooperate, he would
expose him to the commanding officer. Terrified of being fired and losinp
his pension, the warder agreed to do whatever Mac wanted. For the next
six months, until the warder was transferred, the old man would smuggle
that day's newspaper to Mac. Mac would then summarize the news and
reduce it to a single small piece of paper, which would circulate among
us. The unfortunate warder did not win the contest, either.
It would be hard to say what we did more of at the quarry: mine lime
or talk. By 1966, the warders had adopted a laissez-faire attitude: we could
talk as much as we wanted as long as we worked. We would cluster in
small groups, four or five men in a rough circle, and talk all day long,
about every subject under the sun. We were in a perpetual conversation
with each other on topics both solemn and trifling.
There is no prospect about prison which pleases  with the possible
exception of one. One has time to think. In the vortex of the struggle,
when one is constantly reacting to changing circumstances, one rarely
has the chance to carefully consider all the ramifications of one's decisions
or policies. Prison provided the time  much more than enough time 
to reflect on what one had done and not done.
We were constantly engaged in political debates. Some were dispatched
in a day, others were disputed for years. I have always enjoyed the cutand-thrust
of debating, and was a ready participant. One of our earnest
and longest debates concerned the relationship between the ANC and
the Communist Party. Some of the men, especially those MK soldiers
who had been trained in socialist countries, believed that the ANC an
the party were one and the same. Even some very senior ANC colleagu i
such as Govan Mbeki and Harry Gwala, subscribed to this theory.
The party did not exist as a separate entity on Robben ^ana,prison, there was no point in making the distinction between the A
and the party that existed on the outside. My own views on the su )
had not altered in many years. The ANC was a mass liberation moveine
that welcomed all those with the same objectives.
Over time, the debate concerning the ANC and the party gre^ P^,
gressively acrimonious. A number of us proposed one way to resolve
r^
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 375
nJd write to the ANC in exile in Lusaka. We prepared a secret twentypage
document on the subject with a covering letter from myself to gpc to Lusaka. It was a risky maneuver to prepare and smuggle out
nch a document. In the end, Lusaka confirmed the separation of the
ANC arid the party and the argument eventually withered away.
Another recurrent political discussion was whether or not the ANC
leadership should come exclusively from the working class. Some argued
that because the ANC was a mass organization made up mainly of ordinary
workers, the leadership should come from those same ranks. My
argument was that it was as undemocratic to specify that the leaders had
to be from the working class as to declare that they should be bourgeois
intellectuals. If the movement had insisted on such a rule, most of its
leaders, men such as Chief Luthuli, Moses Kotane, Dr. Dadoo, would
have been ineligible. Revolutionaries are drawn from every class.
r Not all debates were political. One issue that provoked much discussion
was circumcision. Some among us maintained that circumcision as practiced
by the Xhosa and other tribes was not only an unnecessary mutilation
of the body, but a reversion to the type of tribalism that the ANC was
seeking to overthrow. It was not an unreasonable argument, but the
prevailing view, with which I agreed, was that circumcision was a cultural
ritual mar had not only a salutary health benefit but an important psychological
effect. It was a rite that strengthened group identification and
inculcated positive values.
The debate continued for years, and a number of men voted in favor
of circumcision in a very direct way. A prisoner working in the hospital
who had formerly practiced as an ingdbi set up a secret circumcision ^hool, and a number of the younger prisoners from our section were
arcumcised there. Afterward, we would organize a small party of tea and "iscuits for the men, and they would spend a day or two walking around "I blankets, as was the custom.
ne subject we hearkened back to again and again was the question of
" "ether there were tigers in Africa. Some argued that although it was
P°pularly assumed that tigers lived in Africa, this was a myth and they erc "stive to Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Africa had leopards in urluance, but no tigers. The other side argued that tigers were native
oiv an<^ some st1^ ^ive<^tnere- Some claimed to have seen with their c\'^ this most powerful and beautiful of cats in the jungles of Africa. Maintained that while there were no tigers to be found in contem-
^ arv Africa, there was a Xhosa word for tiger, a word different from
-ne for leopard, and that if the word existed in our language, the
B E
376 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
creature must have once existed in Africa. Otherwise, why would rh
be a name for it? This argument went round and round, and I rememK e Mac retorting that hundreds of years ago there was a Hindi word if
craft that flew in the air, long before the airplane was invented but rh
did not mean that airplanes existed in ancient India.
68
"ZITHULELE," the Quiet One, was what we called the tolerant softspoken
warder in charge of us at the quarry. He routinely stood a great
distance from us while we worked and did not appear to care what we
did as long as we were orderly. He never berated us when he found us
leaning on our spades and talking.
We responded in kind. One day, in 1966, he came to us and said
"Gentlemen, the rains have washed away the lines on the roads, we need
twenty kilos of lime today. Can you help?" Although we were working
very little at the time, he had approached us as human beings, and we
agreed to assist him.
That spring, we had felt a certain thawing on the part of the authorities,
a relaxation of the iron-fisted discipline that had prevailed on the island.
The tension between prisoners and warders had lessened somewhat.
But this lull proved to be short-lived and came to an abrupt end one
morning in September. We had just put down our picks and shovels on
the quarry face and were walking to the shed for lunch. As one of the
general prisoners wheeled a drum of food toward us, he whispered, "Verwoerd
is dead." That was all. The news quickly passed among us. We
looked at each other in disbelief and glanced over at the warders, who
seemed unaware that anything momentous had occurred.
We did not know how the prime minister had died. Later, we heard about
the obscure white parliamentary messenger who stabbed Verwoerd t
death, and we wondered at his motives. Although Verwoerd thought
Africans were beneath animals, his death did not yield us any pleasure.
Political assassination is not something I or the ANC has ever supporte
It is a primitive way of contending with an opponent.
Verwoerd had proved to be both the chief theorist and master bu
of grand apartheid. He had championed the creation of the bantust
and Bantu Education. Shortly before his death he had led the Natlon'^ in the general election of 1966, in which the party of aparthci
increased its majority, winning 126 seats to the 39 achieved by the
Party, and the single seat won by the Progressive Party.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 377
\s often happened on the island, we had learned significant political
 s before our own guards. But by the following day, it was obvious
i,,, v/.ii lers knew, for they took out their anger on us. The tension that
had taken months to abate was suddenly at full force. The authorities
heean a crackdown against political prisoners as though we had held the
l^nife that stabbed Verwoerd.
The authorities always imagined that we were secretly linked with all
kinds of powerful forces on the outside. The spate of successful guerrilla
attacks against the South African police forces in Namibia by the SouthWest
African People's Organization (SWAPO) -- an ally of the ANC --
had also unnerved them. I suppose we should have been flattered that the
government thought our nascent military ability was sophisticated enough
to successfully eliminate their head of state. But their suspicions merely
reflected the insecurities of narrow, shortsighted men who blamed their
problems not on their own misguided policies but on an opponent by
the name of the ANC.
The punishment against us was never enunciated as an official policy,
but it was a renewal of the harsh atmosphere that prevailed upon our
arrival on the island. The Quiet One was replaced with a man who was
a vicious martinet. His name was Van Rensburg and he had been flown
to the island on twenty-four hours' notice after the assassination. His
reputation preceded him, for his name was a byword among prisoners
for brutality.
Van Rensburg was a big, clumsy, brutish fellow who did not speak
but shouted. During his first day on the job we noticed he had a small
swastika tattooed on his wrist. But he did not need this offensive symbol
to prove his cruelty. His job was to make our lives as wretched as possible, ^d he pursued that goal with great enthusiasm.
^ach day over the next few months. Van Rensburg would charge one of us for insubordination or malingering. Each morning, he and the other Orders would discuss who would be charged that afternoon. It was a
P^icy of selective intimidation, and the decision on who would be charged was tal<en regardless of how hard that prisoner had worked that day. When evvere trudging back to our cells. Van Rensburg would read from a list,
_ andela for Sisulu or Kathrada], I want to see you immediately in front )r Ac head of prison."
e island's administrative court began working overtime. In response,
orrned our own legal committee made up of myself, Fikile Barn, and
th --^araj. Mac had studied law and was adept at putting the au-
v\'a *les on ^le ^fe1"181^- Fiks, who was working toward a law degree, a "right, resourceful fellow who had become the head of the prisoners'
378 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
committee in our section. The job of our legal committee was to ad
our comrades on how to conduct themselves in the island's adrninistr t e court.
Van Rensburg was not a clever fellow, and while he would lord it nv us at the quarry, we could outwit him in court. Our strategy was not r argue with him in the field, but to contest the charges in court where w
would have a chance to make our case before slightly more enlightened
officers. In administrative court, the charge would be read by the presidin?
magistrate. "Malingering at the quarry," he might say, at which Van
Rensburg would look smug. After the charge had been read in full t
always advised my colleagues to do one thing and one thing only: ask
the court for "further particulars." This was one's right as a defendant
and though the request became a regular occurrence. Van Rensburg would
almost always be stumped. Court would then have to be adjourned while
Van Rensburg went out to gather "further particulars."
Van Rensburg was vindictive in large ways and small. When our lunch
arrived at the quarry and we would sit down to eat -- we now had a
simple wooden table -- Van Rensburg would inevitably choose that moment
to urinate next to our food. I suppose we should have been grateful
that he did not urinate directly on our food, but we lodged a protest
against the practice anyway.
One of the few ways prisoners can take revenge on warders is through
humor, and Van Rensburg became the butt of many of our jokes. Among
ourselves we called him "Suitcase." Warders' lunch boxes were known as
"suitcases" and normally a warder would designate a prisoner, usually his
favorite, to carry his "suitcase," and then reward him with half a sandwich.
But we always refused to carry Van Rensburg's "suitcase," hence, the
nickname. It was humiliating for a warder to carry his own lunch pail.
One day, Wilton Mkwayi inadvertendy referred to "Suitcase" within
Van Rensburg's hearing. "Who is Suitcase?" Van Rensburg bellowed.
Wilton paused for a moment and then blurted out, "It's you!"
"Why do you call me Suitcase?" Van Rensburg asked. Wilton paused.
"Come, man," Van Rensburg said. "Because you carry your own 'subcase,'
" Wilton replied tentatively. "The general prisoners carry the 'sun--
cases' of their warders, but we won't carry yours--so we call y
Suitcase."
Van Rensburg considered this for a moment, and instead of ge o angry, announced, "My name is not Suitcase, it's Dik Nek." There
silence for a moment, and then all of us burst into laughter. In Atn '
Dik Nek literally means "Thick Neck"; it suggests someone who is sti
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 379
hnrn and unyielding. Suitcase, I suspect, was too thick to know that he
had been insulted.
Due dav at the quarry, we resumed our discussion of whether or not the
rieer was native to Africa. We were not able to talk as freely during Van
Rensburg's tenure as we had been before, but we were able to talk nonetheless
while we worked.
The principle advocate of those who argued that the tiger was not
native to Africa was Andrew Masondo, an ANC leader from the Cape
who had also been a lecturer at Fort Hare. Masondo could be a volatile
fellow, and he was vehement in his assertions that no tigers had ever been
found in Africa. The argument was going back and forth and the men
had put down their picks and shovels in the heat of the argument. This
attracted the attention of the warders, and they shouted at us to get back
to work. But we were so absorbed in the argument that we ignored the
warders. A few of the lower-ranking warders ordered us to go back to
work, but we paid them no attention. Finally, Suitcase marched over and
bellowed at us in English, a language in which he was not expert: "You
talk too much, but you work too few!"
The men now did not pick up their tools because they were bent over
in laughter. Suitcase's grammatical mistake struck everyone as extremely
comical. But Suitcase was not at all amused. He immediately sent for
Major Kellerman, the commanding officer.
Kellerman arrived on the scene a few minutes later to find us in much
the same state as we had been before. Kellerman was relatively new to
the island, and was determined to set the right tone. One of the warders
then reported to Kellerman that Andrew Masondo and I had not been
working, and we were to be charged with malingering and insubordination.
Under Kellerman's authority, we were then handcuffed and taken
to isolation.
from that point on. Suitcase seemed to hold a special grudge against me. "e day, while he was supervising us at the quarry, I was working next
0 hkile Barn. We were off by ourselves, on the far side of the quarry. e worked diligently, but since we were both studying law at the time,
fre were discussing what we had read the night before. At the end of the ay' ^/an Rensburg stood in front of us and said, "Fikile Barn and Nelson indela, I want to see you in front of the head of prison."
^ " e were brought before the lieutenant, who was the head of pris'
and Van Rensburg announced, "These men did not work the whole ^ ^m Charging them for defying orders." The lieutenant asked if we
380 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
had anything to say. "Lieutenant," I responded, "we dispute the ch
We have been working and, in fact, we have evidence that \vc have h
working, and it is essential to our defense." The lieutenant scotYed at rh
"All you men work in the same area," he said. "How is it possible to ha /
evidence?" I explained that Fiks and I had been working apart from rh
others and that we could show exactly how much work we had don
Suitcase naively confirmed that we had been off by ourselves, and the lieutenant agreed to have a look. We drove back to the quarry.
Once there, Fiks and I walked to the area where we had been working I pointed to the considerable pile of rocks and lime that we had built un and said, "There, that is what we have done today." Suitcase had never
even bothered to examine our work and was rattled by the quantity of
it. "No," he said to the lieutenant, "that is the result of a week's work."
The lieutenant was skeptical. "All right, then," he said to Suitcase, "show
me the small pile that Mandela and Barn put together today." Suitcase
had no reply, and the lieutenant did something I have rarely seen a superior
officer do: he chastised his subordinate in the presence of prisoners. "You
are telling lies," he said, and dismissed the charges on the spot.
One morning in early 1967, during Suitcase's tenure, we were preparing
to walk to the quarry when Suitcase informed us that an order had come
down from Major Kellerman forbidding us to talk. Not only was conversation
banned on our walks; henceforth, there would be no conversation
permitted at the quarry. "From now on, silence!" he yelled.
This command was greeted by profound dismay and outrage. Talking
and discussing issues were the only things that made the work at the
quarry tolerable. Of course, we could not discuss it on the way to the
quarry because we were ordered not to talk, but during our lunch break
the ANC leadership and the heads of the other political groups managed
secretly to hash out a plan.
While we were surreptitiously hatching our plan. Major Kellerman
himself appeared and walked into our lunch shed. This was highly unusual;
we had never had such a high-ranking visitor in our lowly shed. With a
cough of embarrassment, he announced that his order had been a mist
and that we could resume talking at the quarry, just as long as we di
quietly. He then told us to carry on and spun on his heel and was gon^ We were glad the order was rescinded, but suspicious as to why.
For the remainder of the day, we were not forced to work very har^ Suitcase did his best to be friendly, and said that as a gesture of goodw he had decided to withdraw all pending charges against us.
That afternoon, I discovered that my cell had been moved from num ^ 4, near the entrance of the passageway, to number 18, at the back.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 381
v belongings had been dumped into the new cell. As always, there was
no explanation.
\Ve guessed that we were to have a visitor and I had been moved because
rhe authorities did not want me to be the first among the prisoners to
ralk to whoever was coming. If each prisoner in turn voiced his complaints,
the authorities could yell "Time up!" before a visitor reached cell 18. We
resolved that in the interest of unity, each individual along the passageway
would inform any visitor that while everyone had individual complaints,
the prisoner in number 18 would speak for all.
The following morning, after breakfast, we were informed by Suitcase
that we would not be going to the quarry. Then Major Kellerman appeared
to say that Mrs. Helen Suzman, the lone member of the liberal Progressive
Party in Parliament and the only voice of true opposition to the Nationalists
in Parliament, would be arriving shortly. In less than fifteen minutes,
Mrs. Suzman -- all five feet two inches of her -- came through the door
of our passageway, accompanied by General Steyn, the commissioner of
prisons. As she was introduced to each prisoner, she asked him whether
or not he had any complaints. Each man replied the same way: "I have
many complaints, but our spokesman is Mr. Nelson Mandela at the end
of the corridor." To General Steyn's dismay, Mrs. Suzman was soon at
my cell. She firmly shook my hand and cordially introduced herself.
Unlike judges and magistrates, who were automatically permitted access
to prisons, members of Parliament had to request permission to visit
a prison. Mrs. Suzman was one of the few, if not the only, members of
Parliament who took an interest in the plight of political prisoners. Many
stories were circulating about Robben Island, and Mrs. Suzman had come
to investigate for herself.
As this was Mrs. Suzman's first visit to Robben Island, I attempted to
put her at ease. But she was remarkably confident and utterly unfazed by "er surroundings, and proposed that we get down to business right away. General Stcyn and the commanding officer stood by her, but I did not "iince words. I told her of our desire to have the food improved and Dualized and to have better clothing; the need for facilities for studying;
"ur right to information such as newspapers; and many more things. I
u her of the harshness of the warders, and mentioned Van Rensburg
Particular. I pointed out that he had a swastika tattooed on his forearm.
'clen reacted like a lawyer. "Well, Mr. Mandela," she said, "we must not
c mac too far because we don't know when it was made. Perhaps, for
unple, his parents had it tattooed on him?" I assured her that was not
the case.
. °rmally, I would not complain about an individual warder. One learns
P_>on that it is better to fight for general principles than to battle each
382 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
individual case. However callous a warder may be, he is usually \uy rying out prison policy. But Van Rensburg was in a class by himself
we believed that if he were gone, it would make a disproportionate d'f ference for all of us.
Mrs. Suzman listened attentively, jotting down what I said in a small
notebook, and promised to take these matters up with the minister of justice. She then made an inspection of our cells, and talked a bit with
some of the other men. It was an odd and wonderful sight to see this
courageous woman peering into our cells and strolling around our courtyard.
She was the first and only woman ever to grace our cells.
Van Rensburg was exceedingly nervous during Mrs. Suzman's visit
According to Kathy, while Mrs. Suzman and I were talking. Van Rensburg
apologized for all his past actions. But his contrition did not last
long, for the next day he informed us he was reinstating all the charges
against us. We later learned that Mrs. Suzman had taken up our case in Parliament,
and within a few weeks of her visit. Suitcase was transferred off
the island.
69
I NEVER IMAGINED the struggle would be either short or easy. The
first few years on the island were difficult times both for the organization
outside and those of us in prison. After Rivonia, much of the movement's
underground machinery had been destroyed. Our structures had been
discovered and uprooted; those who were not captured were scrambling
to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Virtually every one of the ANC s
senior leaders was either in jail or in exile.
In the years after Rivonia, the ANC's External Mission, formerly responsible
for fund-raising, diplomacy, and establishing a military training
program, took up the reins of the organization as a whole. The Externa
Mission not only had to create an organization in exile, but had the even
more formidable task of trying to revitalize the underground ANC insi e South Africa. ,
The state had grown stronger. The police had become more po^",
their methods more ruthless, their techniques more sophisticated.
South African Defense Force was expanding. The economy was sta ^ the white electorate untroubled. The South African government had po^ erful allies in Great Britain and the United States who were content
maintain the status quo. , ^
But elsewhere the struggle against imperialism was on the marc
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 383
i,, middle to late ipdos, armed struggles were being fought throughout
utherii Africa. In Namibia (then South-West Africa), SWAPO was
j^pg its first incursions in the Caprivi Strip; in Mozambique and An(mia
the guerrilla movement was growing and spreading. In Zimbabwe rdu'n Rhodesia), the battle against white minority rule was advancing.
lan Smith's white government was bolstered by the South African Defense
Force, and the ANC regarded the battle in Zimbabwe as an extension of
our struggle at home. In 1967, we learned that the ANC had forged an
alliance with the Zimbabwe African People's Union (ZAPU), which had
been formed by Joshua Nkomo.
That year, a group ofMK soldiers who had been training in Tanzania
and Zambia crossed the Zambezi River into Rhodesia with the intention
of making their way home. This first group ofMK soldiers was christened
the Luthuli Detachment and they were the spearhead of the armed struggle.
In August, as the Luthuli Detachment, accompanied by ZAPU
troops, moved southward, they were spotted by the Rhodesian army. Over
the next few weeks, fierce battles were fought and both sides sustained
casualties. Finally, our troops were overpowered by the superior numbers
of the Rhodesian forces. Some were captured, and others retreated into
Bechuanaland -- which had become independent Botswana. By the beginning
of 1968, another larger ANC detachment had entered Rhodesia
and fought not only the Rhodesian army but South African policemen
who had been posted to Rhodesia.
We heard of this months later by rumor, but did not learn the full
story until some of the men who had fought there were imprisoned with "s. Though our forces were not victorious, we quietly celebrated the fact
that our MK cadres had engaged the enemy in combat on their own
terms. It was a milestone in the struggle. "Justice" Panza, one of the rommanders of the Luthuli Detachment, was later imprisoned with us.
He briefed us on the detachment's military training, political education, ^d valor in the field. As a former commander-in-chief of MK, I was terribly proud of our soldiers.
erorc receiving the news ofMK's battles abroad, we also learned of Chief "thiili's death at home in July 1967. The circumstances were curious: he
been hit by a train in an area near his farm where he often walked. ^s granted permission to write a letter to his widow. Luthuli's death a great vacuum in the organization; the chief was a Nobel Prize winner, ^ '^'ngmshed, internationally known figure, a man who commanded
pect from both black and white. For these reasons, he was irreplaceable.
--n Oliver Tambo, who was acting president-general of the ANC, the
384 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
organization found a man who could fill the chiefs shoes. Like Lurh r
he was articulate yet not showy, confident but humble. He too epitomi ^ Chief Luthuli's precept: "Let your courage rise with danger."
We organized a small memorial service for the chief in Section B a ri
permitted everyone who wanted to speak to do so. It was a quiet
spectful service, with only one sour note. When Neville Alexander ofrh
Unity Movement rose to speak, it was apparent that he had come not t
praise the chief but to bury him. Without even perfunctory regrets at the
man's passing, he accused Luthuli of being a patsy of the white man
mainly on the grounds that the chief had accepted the Nobel Peace Prize
Apart from its wrong-headedness, Neville's speech was entirely contrary
to the climate of cooperation between organizations we were trying to create on the island. From the moment I arrived on the island I had
made it my mission to seek some accommodation with our rivals in the
struggle. I saw Robben Island as an opportunity to patch up the lone
and often bitter differences between the PAC and the ANC. If we could
unite the two organizations on the island, that could set a precedent for
uniting them in the liberation struggle as a whole.
Yet from the beginning, relations with the PAC had been more competitive
than cooperative. Some of the PAC men had already been on the
island, and saw our arrival as an encroachment on their territory. We
heard from some of our men that the most senior PAC prisoners had
expressed regret that we had not been hanged.
In 1962, when I had first been on the island, the PAC had greatly
outnumbered the ANC. In 1967, the numbers were reversed. Yet this
seemed to harden the PAC in their positions. They were unashamedly
anti-Communist and anti-Indian. In the early years, I had talks with Zeph
Mothopeng, who had been on the PAC's National Executive Committee.
Zeph argued that the PAC was more militant than the ANC, and that in
prison, the ANC should follow the PAC's lead. The PAC maintained that
negotiations with the authorities were a betrayal, but that did not stop
them from taking advantage of the benefits that resulted from negotiations.
In 1967,1 held talks with Selby Ngendane on the question of unity.
Outside of prison, Ngendane had been violently opposed to the Freedom
Charter, but in prison, particularly when sent to our section, Selby me
lowed. We eventually wrote separate letters to our respective organization
in the general section advocating the idea of unity. The ANC also wor well with Clarence Makwetu, who later became president of the - ^ Makwetu, who had once been a member of the ANC Youth ^'^'.^i
in our section and was a balanced, sensible man. We had many I1"0 discussions about the unity of our two organizations, but after M
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 385
was released and was succeeded in the PAC leadership on Robben Island
hy John Pokela, the talks foundered.
The PAC's insecurity occasionally had comical results. At one point,
 order came from Pretoria that I was to be isolated from all other prisoners at the quarry. I would work separately, eat separately, and have
my own guard. We noticed that this new ruling caused some agitation
among the PAC. Several days later, the PAC decided that their leader, Zeph Mothopeng, would also be isolated, and on their own they had
him work and eat separately from everyone else for as long as I did.
The PAC often refused to participate in meetings that had no overt
party affiliation. When we called meetings to discuss our grievances and
later had news sessions to discuss what we had learned from the paper,
the PAC boycotted these gatherings. I found this greatly annoying. The
PAC, we learned, were ignorant of changes in their own organization on
the outside. At the time, the PAC members on the island refused to believe
our claims that the exiled PAC had opened its doors to whites and Indians
as members. That was heresy. Yet we had read in the paper that the white
activist Patrick Duncan had become a member of the PAC executive. The PAC members derided this at the time as ANC propaganda.
The ANC formed its own internal organization on the island. Known as
the High Command, or more officially, the High Organ, it consisted of
the most senior ANC leaders on Robben Island, the men who had been
members of the National Executive Committee: Walter Sisulu, Govan
Mbeki, Raymond Mhlaba, and myself. I served as the head of the High
Organ.
From its inception, we decided the High Organ would not try to
influence external ANC policy. We had no reliable way of evaluating the
situation in the country, and concluded it would neither be fair nor wise
tor us to offer guidance on matters about which we were uninformed.
"stead, we made decisions about such matters as prisoners' complaints, ^rikes, mail, food -- all of the day-to-day concerns of prison life. We
Quid, when possible, convene a general members meeting, which we ^garded as vital to the health of our organization. But as these meetings
jre extremely dangerous and thus infrequent, the High Organ would
i en '^ decisions that were then communicated to all the other mem-
rs. "e High Organ also operated a cell system, with each cell consisting 01 "irce members.
n the first few years on the island, the High Organ also acted as a
lOft^"^ cornmittee for ^1 the political prisoners in our section. In
'we °rganized a petition demanding better treatment that was signed
386 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
by virtually everyone, including members of the PAC, the Unity M
ment, and the Liberal Party, represented by Eddie Daniels. This arran
ment was acceptable to all until Neville Alexander complained that ť+, High Organ was neither democratic nor truly representative, and rh
some other body ought to be created.
Neville's original suggestion eventually turned into a prisoners' corn mittee composed of people from all political parties. There was fear amon
the other organizations that the ANC would attempt to dominate it and
the committee's rules were Grafted so that its powers were purely consultative
and its decisions not binding. Even so, it was still difficult to
agree on a common approach to problems. We suggested that Fikile Barn a member of the Yu Chi Chan Club, preside over meetings. Later the
committee leadership would rotate. Eventually the committee became
known as Ulundi, and acted as a disciplinary committee for all political
prisoners.
The High Organ was the source of some controversy because of its
ethnic composition: all four permanent members were from Xhosa backgrounds.
This was a matter of coincidence rather than design; the senior
ANC leadership on the island, the only four to have served on the National
Executive Committee, happened to be Xhosa. It would not have been
proper to take a less senior comrade and put him on the High Organ
simply because he was not a Xhosa. But the fact that the High Organ
was Xhosa-dominated disturbed me because it seemed to reinforce the
mistaken perception that we were a Xhosa organization.
I have always found this criticism to be vexing and based on both
ignorance of ANC history and maliciousness. I would refute it by noting
that the presidents of the ANC have been Zulus, Mosothos, Pedis, and
Tswanas, and the executive has always been a mixture of tribal groups. 1
recall once working in our courtyard on a sunny afternoon, while some
men from the general section were working on the roof above me. The^ shouted at me, "Mdala! [Old man!], why do you only talk to Xhosas?
The accusation stung me. I looked up and said, "How can you accuse me
of discrimination? We are one people." They seemed satisfied by that, but
their perception stuck in my mind. From then on, whenever I kn^ would be walking in front of men from the general section, I would
to converse with Kathy or Eddie Daniels, or someone who was no
Xhosa. , ,,.
We subsequently decided that there should be a fifth, rotatingrne"1^ of the High Organ. This member was usually not a Xhosa; Kathy,
example, was the fifth member of the High Organ for more than
years. Laloo Chiba also served for a time, and in the end, the en
died a slow and unremarkable death.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 387
T did not by any means dominate the High Organ, and in fact, a
irnber of proposals that I felt strongly about were rejected. This is as it
hould be, but I sometimes found it frustrating. There were two issues
c^arding the authorities about which I could never persuade my colleaeues.
Prison regulations stated that prisoners must stand in the presence
of a senior officer. I advocated that we should remain seated, as it was
demeaning to have to recognize the enemy when he did not recognize us
as political prisoners. My comrades believed this was a trivial matter and
the negative consequences of resistance would outweigh any benefits.
The second issue was rejected by the High Organ on similar grounds.
The warders called us by either our surnames or our Christian names.
Each, I felt, was degrading, and I thought we should insist on the honorific
"Mister." I pressed for this for many years, without success. Later, it even
became a source of humor as my colleagues would occasionally call me
"Mr." Mandela.
70
TIME MAY SEEM to stand still for those of us in prison, but it did
not halt for those outside. I was reminded of this when I was visited by
my mother in the spring of 1968. I had not seen her since the end of the
Rivonia Trial. Change is gradual and incremental, and when one lives in
the midst of one's family, one rarely notices differences in them. But when
one doesn't see one's family for many years at a time, the transformation
can be striking. My mother suddenly seemed very old.
She had journeyed all the way from the Transkei, accompanied by my
wn Makgatho, my daughter Makaziwe, and my sister Mabel. Because I
"ad four visitors and they had come a great distance, the authorities
"tended the visiting time from a half an hour to forty-five minutes.
I had not seen my son and daughter since before the trial and they
had become adults in the interim, growing up without me. I looked at
wem with amazement and pride. But though they had grown up, I am
a raid I still treated them more or less as the children they had been when
^nt to prison. They may have changed, but I hadn't.
My mother had lost a great deal of weight, which concerned me. Her
ace "ypsared haggard. Only my sister Mabel seemed unchanged. While
^s a great pleasure to see all of them and to discuss family issues, I
a? uneasy about my mother's health.
^oke with Makgatho and Maki about my desire for them both to
^e further schooling and asked Mabel about relatives in the Transkei.
"^e passed far too quickly. As with most visits, the greatest pleasure
388 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
often lies in the recollection of it, but this time, I could not stop wn
ing about my mother. I feared that it would be the last time I would
see her.
Several weeks later, after returning from the quarry, I was told to to the Head Office to collect a telegram. It was from Makgatho, informi
me that my mother had died of a heart attack. I immediately made
request to the commanding officer to be permitted to attend her funeral
in the Transkei, which he turned down. "Mandela," he said, "while I know
you are a man of your word and would not try to escape, I cannot trust
your own people, and we fear that they would try to kidnap you." It
added to my grief that I was not able to bury my mother, which was my
responsibility as her eldest child and only son.
Over the next few months I thought about her a great deal. Her life
had been far from easy. I had been able to support her when I was
practicing as an attorney, but once I went to prison, I was unable to help
her. I had never been as attentive as I should have been.
A mother's death causes a man to look back on and evaluate his own
life. Her difficulties, her poverty, made me question once again whether
I had taken the right path. That was always the conundrum: Had I made
the right choice in putting the people's welfare even before that of my
own family? For a long time, my mother had not understood my commitment
to the struggle. My family had not asked for or even wanted to
be involved in the struggle, but my involvement penalized them.
But I came back to the same answer. In South Africa, it is hard for a
man to ignore the needs of the people, even at the expense of his own
family. I had made my choice, and in the end, she had supported it. But
that did not lessen the sadness I felt at not being able to make her life
more comfortable, or the pain of not being able to lay her to rest.
In the early hours of the morning of May 12, 1969, the security police
awakened Winnie at our home in Orlando and detained her without
charge under the 1967 Terrorism Act, which gave the government unprecedented
powers of arrest and detention without trial. The raid, I la1"" learned, was part of a nationwide crackdown in which dozens of others
were detained, including Winnie's sister. The police dragged Winnie a^a\
while Zeni and Zindzi clung to her skirts. She was placed in solitan
confinement in Pretoria, where she was denied bail and visitors; over
next weeks and months, she was relentlessly and brutally interrogate
When Winnie was finally charged -- six months later -- I manage
send instructions that she be represented by Joel Carlson, a longtime a apartheid lawyer. Winnie and twenty-two others were charged un
Suppression of Communism Act for attempting to revive the ANC.
ROBBEN ISLAND: THE DARK YEARS 389
rcorge Bizos and Arthur Chaskalson, both members of the Rivonia team,
,ned the defense. In October, seventeen months after her arrest, the
,,,te withdrew its case without explanation, and Winnie was released.
Within two weeks, she was again banned, and placed under house arrest.
She immediately applied for permission to visit me and was rebuffed.
There was nothing I found so agonizing in prison as the thought that
Winnie was in prison too. I put a brave face on the situation, but inwardly
I was deeply disturbed and worried. Nothing tested my inner equilibrium
as much as the time that Winnie was in solitary confinement. Although
I often urged others not to worry about what they could not control, I
was unable to take my own advice. I had many sleepless nights. What
were the authorities doing to my wife? How would she bear up? Who
was looking after our daughters? Who would pay the bills? It is a form
of mental torture to be constantly plagued by such questions and not
have the means to answer them.
Brigadier Aucamp allowed me to send letters to Winnie, and relayed
one or two from her. Normally, prisoners awaiting trial are not permitted
mail, but Aucamp permitted it as a favor to me. I was grateful, but knew
the authorities had not granted permission out of altruism: they were
reading our letters, hoping to glean some information that would assist
their case against Winnie.
During this time I experienced another grievous loss. One cold morning
in July of 1969, three months after I learned of Winnie's incarceration, I
was called to the main office on Robben Island and handed a telegram.
It was from my youngest son, Makgatho, and it was only a sentence long.
He informed me that his older brother, my first and oldest son, Madiba Thembekilc, whom we called Thembi, had been killed in a motorcar
accident in the Transkei. Thembi was then twenty-five years old, and the
father of two small children.
"hat can one say about such a tragedy? I was already overwrought
-ut my wife, I was still grieving for my mother, and then to hear such news... 1 do not have words to express the sorrow, or the loss I felt. It eft a hole in my heart that can never be filled.
returned to my cell and lay on my bed. I do not know how long I ^u there, but I did not emerge for dinner. Some of the men looked
' ut I said nothing. Finally, Walter came to me and knelt beside my ^and I handed him the telegram. He said nothing, but only held my
th ^ not ^now now ^"S ne remained with me. There is nothing
°ne man can say to another at such a time. if , asKC^ permission of the authorities to attend my son's funeral. As a
r' 1! was my responsibility to make sure that my son's spirit would
&u
390 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
rest peacefully. I told them they could send a security cordon with
and that I would give my word that I would return. Permission was deni ri
All I was permitted to do was write a letter to Thembi's mother Evelv
in which I did my best to comfort her and tell her that I shared h '
suffering.
I thought back to one afternoon when Thembi was a boy and he cam
to visit me at a safe house in Cyrildene that I used for secret ANC work
Between my underground political work and legal cases, I had not been
able to see him for some time. I surprised him at the house and found
him wearing an old jacket of mine that came to his knees. He must have
taken some comfort and pride in wearing his father's clothing, just as I
once did with my own father's. When I had to say good-bye again, he
stood up tall, as if he were already grown, and said, "I will look after the
family while you are gone."
Part Nine
ROBBEN ISLAND:
BEGINNING TO HOPE
71
THE GRAPH of improvement in prison was never steady. Progress was
halting, and typically accompanied by setbacks. An advancement might
take wears to win, and then be rescinded in a day. We would push the rock up the hill, only to have it tumble down again. But conditions did
improve. We had won a host of small battles that added up to a change
in the atmosphere of the island. While we did not run the island, the
authorities could not run it without us, and in the aftermath of Van
Rensburg's departure, our life became more tolerable.
Within our first three years on the island we were all given long trousers.
By 1969, we received our own individual prison uniforms, instead of being
issued a different set each week. These uniforms actually fit us and we
were allowed to wash them ourselves. We were permitted out in the
courtyard at all hours during the weekend. Although our food was not
yet equalized, African prisoners would occasionally receive bread in the
morning. We were allowed to pool our food anyway, so that the differences
did not matter. We had been given board games and cards, which we
often played on Saturdays and Sundays. At the quarry, our talk was rarely
interrupted. If the commanding officer was coming, the warders on duty
would blow a whistle to warn us to pick up our tools. We had neutralized
the worst warders and befriended the more reasonable ones, though the
authorities realized this and rotated warders every few months.
We were able to meet among ourselves virtually whenever we wanted.
\x
Meetings of the High Organ, general members' meetings, and meetings
°r Ulundi were generally not broken up unless they were too conspicuous. ^e inmates seemed to be running the prison, not the authorities.
o
^n and God-fearing, the Afrikaner takes his religion seriously. The one
exible event on our weekly schedule was Sunday morning religious
vices. This was an observance the authorities considered mandatory
,. was as if they believed their own mortal souls would be in peril if they 10 not give us the benefit of worship on Sunday.
^ery Sunday morning, a minister from a different denomination
d preach to us. One Sunday it would be an Anglican priest, the next
'^ch Reform predicant, the next a Methodist minister. The clerics
p Pruned by the prison service, whose one edict was that they must and c? ^""^ly on religious matters. Warders were present at all services ule minister strayed from religion, he was not invited back.
394 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
During the first two years on the island, we were not even perm
to leave our cells for Sunday services. The minister would preach if the head of our corridor. By our third year, services were held in rh courtyard, which we preferred. In those years, this was the only time
were permitted in the courtyard on Sunday, except for our half hour if
exercise. Few of our men were religious, but no one minded lone sermon
we enjoyed being outside. '
Once services were held outside, we were given the option ofattendine
Some men only attended services in their own denomination. Though I
am a Methodist, I would attend each different religious service.
One of our first ministers was an Anglican priest by the name of Father
Hughes, a gruff, burly Welshman who had served as a chaplain in the
submarine corps during the Second World War. When he first arrived
he was perturbed by having to preach in the corridor, which he found
inimical to the contemplation of God. On his first visit, instead of preaching
to us, he recited passages of Winston Churchill's wartime radio addresses
in his beautiful baritone: "We shall fight on the beaches, we shall
fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets,
we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender."
Father Hughes soon preached to us in the courtyard and we found his
sermons splendid. He made a point of discreetly inserting bits and pieces
of news into his sermons, something we appreciated. He might say, for
example, that like the pharaoh of ancient Egypt, the prime minister of
South Africa was raising an army.
We always sang hymns at the end of services, and I think Father Hughes
visited us so frequently just to hear us sing. He brought along a portable
organ, and he would play for us. He praised our singing, saying that it
was the only singing that matched the choirs in his native Wales.
The Methodist minister was a Reverend Jones, a nervous and gloomy
fellow who had been based in the Congo during its revolution. His
experience there seemed to be the source of his melancholy. Over and
over, he preached the importance of reconciliation -- implying that it wa
we who needed to reconcile ourselves to the whites.
One Sunday, during the reverend's one-sided message, I noticed ec 1
Daniels shifting uneasily. Finally, Eddie could take it no longer. "You're preaching reconciliation to the wrong people," Eddie called out.
been seeking reconciliation for the last seventy-five years." This
enough for Reverend Jones and we never saw him again.
Reverend Jones was not the only minister Eddie scared away. We ^\ visited by a Coloured minister known as Brother September. One Sun ^ a prisoner named Hennie Ferris, who was an eloquent speaker, volun
m\
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 395
lead a prayer. Brother September was pleased to recognize such dention.
Hennie began speaking in lofty language, and at one point, asked
i congregation to close its eyes and pray. Everyone, including Brother September, obliged. Eddie then tiptoed to the front, opened Brother
September's briefcase, and removed the Sunday Times of that day. No one
suspected anything at the time, but Brother September never brought
newspapers again.
Reverend Andre Scheffer was a minister of the Dutch Reformed Mission
Church in Africa, a sister church of the Dutch Reformed Church, the
faith of nearly all the Afrikaner people. The Mission Church catered only
to Africans. Reverend Scheffer was a crusty, conservative fellow who
usually preached to the general prisoners. One Sunday, he wandered over
to our section and we asked him why he didn't preach to us. "You men
think you are freedom fighters," he said contemptuously. "You must have
been drunk on liquor or high on dagga [marijuana] when you were
arrested. Freedom fighters, my foot!" But we challenged him to come to
preach to us, and eventually, in the late i96os, he responded.
Reverend Scheffer was unorthodox in one respect: he took a scientific
approach to religion. I found this very appealing. Many people use science
to debunk religion, but Reverend Scheffer enlisted science to bolster his
beliefs. I recall one sermon in which he talked about the three Wise Men
from the East who followed a star until it led them to Bethlehem. "This
is not just a superstition or a myth," he said, and then cited evidence
from astronomers that at that time in history there was a comet that
followed the path outlined in the Bible.
As Reverend Scheffer became familiar with us, he became more sympathetic.
He had a dry sense of humor and liked to poke fun at us. "You
know," he would say, "the white man has a more difficult task than the
"lack man in this country. Whenever there is a problem, we have to find a solution. But whenever you blacks have a problem, you have an excuse. mu can simply say, ^ngabilungu.''" We burst into laughter not only
cause his pronunciation was unintentionally comical, but also because re were amused by the idea. 'Vgabelunpfu" is a Xhosa expression that
^s, "It is the whites." He was saying that we could always blame all , our ""oubles on the white man. His message was that we must also
within ourselves and become responsible for our actions -- sentients
^A which I wholeheartedly agreed.
at Sundays were to the rest of the week, Christmas was to the rest of
to\' ' ^ was ^ one ^ wnen the authorities showed any goodwill
men. We did not have to go to the quarry on Christmas Day, and
.kl.
396 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
we were permitted to purchase a small quantity of sweets. We did
have a traditional Christmas meal, but we were given an extra mi
coffee for supper.
The authorities permitted us to organize a concert, hold competiti
and put on a play. The concert was the centerpiece. Our choirmaster \v ' Selby Ngendane of the PAC. Selby had been a member of the ANC Yoi rh
League before switching allegiance to the Pan Africanist Congress H
was a natural entertainer with a lovely voice and a fine ear.
Selby chose the songs, arranged the harmonies, selected the soloists
and conducted the performance. The concert took place on Christmas
morning in the courtyard. We would mix in traditional English Christmas
songs with African ones, and include a few protest songs -- the authorities
did not seem to mind or perhaps know the difference. The warders
were our audience, and they enjoyed our singing as much as we did.
Before coming to prison, Ngendane was perceived as something of a
political lightweight. But in prison, Selby showed his mettle. In prison,
one likes to be around men who have a sunny disposition, and Selby had
one.
Prison was a kind of crucible that tested a man's character. Some men,
under the pressure of incarceration, showed true mettle, while others
revealed themselves as less than what they had appeared to be.
In addition to the concerts, we held a chess and draughts (or checkers)
tournament, and also played Scrabble and bridge. Every year, I competed
in the draughts competition, and some years, I won the grand prize, which
was usually a candy bar. My style of play was slow and deliberate; my
strategy conservative. I carefully considered the ramifications of every
option and took a long time between moves. I resist such analogies, but
it is my preferred mode of operating not only in draughts but in politics.
Most of my opponents played more swiftly, and often lost patience
with my manner of play. One of my most frequent opponents was Don
Davis. A member of the Non-European Unity Movement, Don had grown
up in the diamond-mining area of Kimberley and was a rugged, fear ess
fellow who was also highly strung. Don was an excellent draughts plave^ but his style contrasted with mine. When Don played, perspiration wou
flow down his face. He became tense and agitated as he played, and m
his moves rapidly as though points were awarded for speed. Several
Don and I found ourselves in the finals of the annual tournament.
Don called me Qhipu because of a habit I had when playing draug ^ I would ponder each possibility, and then when I was about to nio ^ would call out, "Qhipu!" -- which means'T strike!" -- and then move
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 397
pee Don found this frustrating and he called me Qhipu more in irri- ^ion than in amity.
Don and I played in many tournaments, and even if he won, he would
roine back within a few minutes, challenging me to another match. Don -dwavs wanted to play draughts, and did not seem satisfied until I responded.
Soon I was spending so much time playing with Don that my
other pursuits languished. When I once failed to pass an exam in my
studies, a few colleagues asked me why, and I responded, to much laughter,
"Don Davis!"
Our amateur drama society made its yearly offering at Christmas. My
thespian career, which had lain dormant since I played John Wilkes Booth
while at Fort Hare, had a modest revival on Robben Island. Our productions
were what might now be called minimalist: no stage, no scenery,
no costumes. All we had were the words of the play.
I only performed in a few dramas, but I had one memorable role: that
of Creon, the king of Thebes, in Sophocles' Antigone. I had read some
of the classic Greek plays in prison, and found them enormously elevating.
What I took out of them was that character was measured by facing up
to difficult situations and that a hero was a man who would not break
even under the most trying circumstances.
When Antigone was chosen as the play, I volunteered my services, and
was asked to play Creon, an elderly king fighting a civil war over the
throne of his beloved city-state. At the outset of the play, Creon is sincere
and patriotic, and there is wisdom in his early speeches when he suggests
that experience is the foundation of leadership and that obligations to
the people take precedence over loyalty to an individual.
Of course you cannot know a man completely,
"is character, his principles, sense of judgment, "of till he's shown his colors, ruling the people, making laws. Experience, there's the test.
But Creon deals with his enemies mercilessly. He has decreed that the w! ofPolynices, Antigone's brother, who had rebelled against the city,
oes not deserve a proper burial. Antigone rebels, on the grounds that ere is a higher law than that of the state. Creon will not listen to
. 'S0^, nor does he listen to anyone but his own inner demons. His Ability and blindness ill become a leader, for a leader must temper ct- vvith mercy. It was Antigone who symbolized our struggle; she ' 'n her own way, a freedom fighter, for she defied the law on the ^"nds that it was unjust.
398	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
72
SOME OF THE WARDERS began to engage us in conversation T
never initiated conversations with warders, but if they addressed a questin
to me, I tried to answer. It is easier to educate a man when he wants tn
learn. Usually, these questions were posed with a kind of exasperation- "All right, Mandela, what is it you really want?" Or, "Look, you have a
roof over your head and enough food, why are you causing so much
trouble?" I would then calmly explain our policies to the warders. I wanted
to demystify the ANC for them, to peel away their prejudices.
In 1969 a young warder arrived who seemed particularly eager to get
to know me. I had heard rumors that our people on the outside were
organizing an escape for me, and had infiltrated a warder onto the island
who would assist me. Gradually, this fellow communicated to me that he
was planning my escape.
In bits and pieces he explained the plan: one night, he would drug the
warders on duty at the lighthouse to allow for the landing of a boat on
the beach. He would furnish me with a key to get out of our section so
that I could meet the boat. On the boat I was to be equipped with
underwater diving gear, which I would use to swim into the harbor at
Cape Town. From Cape Town, I would be taken to a local airport and
flown out of the country.
I listened to the plan in its entirety and did not communicate to him
how far-fetched and unreliable it sounded. I consulted with Walter, and
we agreed that this fellow was not to be trusted. I never told him that I
would not do it, but I never took any of the actions required to implement
the plan. He must have gotten the message, for he was soon transferred
off the island.
As it turned out, my mistrust was justified, for we later learned that
the warder was an agent of the Bureau of State Security (BOSS), Sou
Africa's secret intelligence agency. The plot was that I was to be successfully
taken off the island, but killed in a dramatic shootout with securlt- forces at the airport as I tried to leave the country. The entire plan
been dreamed up by BOSS, even the rumors that reached me about
ANC's planning an escape. It was not the last time they would tt) eliminate me.
The term of a commanding officer was usually no more than three v ^ and we had been through several by 1970. That year, Robben Is a
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 399
rninanding officer was Colonel Van Aarde, a rather amiable, harmless
f-llo\v \\ h° ^Ut^^i us ^rcc rem- ^ut at the cn(^ of the year, the authorities
oncludcd that they wanted a different atmosphere on the island, and rolonel Piet Badenhorst was named the new C.O. ofRobben Island.
This was an ominous development. Badenhorst was reputed to be one
of the m081 brutal and authoritarian officers in the entire prison service.
His appointment indicated one thing: the government believed that discipline
on the island was too lax, and that a strong hand was needed to
Iceep us in line. Badenhorst would supposedly make us yearn for the days
of Suitcase.
Whenever a new commanding officer was appointed, I requested a
meeting with him. I did this in order to impress upon him the seriousness
of our cause and also to evaluate his character. I requested a meeting with
Colonel Badenhorst and was turned down. He was the first commanding
officer to spurn such a meeting.
We felt the effects of his regime before we ever saw him. A number
of the newer regulations regarding study and free time were immediately
rescinded. It was obvious that he intended to roll back every privilege we
had won over the years. Our old warders were transferred off the island
and replaced by Badenhorst's handpicked guards. They were younger,
coarser men who enforced every niggling regulation, whose job was to
harass and demoralize us. Within days of Badenhorst's appointment, our
cells were raided and searched; books and papers were confiscated; meals
were suspended without warning; and men were jostled on the way to
the quarry.
Badenhorst attempted to turn back the clock to the way the island was "i the early i96os. The answer to every question was always no. Prisoners
who requested to see their lawyers were given solitary confinement instead.
Complaints were completely ignored. Visits were canceled without
explanation. The food deteriorated. Censorship increased.
About a week after Badenhorst arrived, we were working at the quarry one "lorning when, without introduction or fanfare, Badenhorst and his
^er pulled up in the commander's car. He got out and surveyed us on! a distance. We paused to look at our new commander. Badenhorst cturned my glance and called out, "Mandela, Jy nwetjou vinger uit jou
,. reK (You must pull your finger out of your arse). I did not care for
is expression at all, and without thinking, I started advancing toward ^a enhorst. He was still a distance away, and before I got close he had
turnea to his car and driven away.
'"from his car, Badenhorst radioed a command to his staff, and within
Utes a truck had arrived to transport us back to Section B. We were ^ded to be silent in the truck, and when we arrived at the courtyard,
400 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
we were ordered to stand at attention. Badenhorst appeared in fro us, pacing back and forth. He seemed incapable of uttering a sent without including an oath or swearword. "/om mase nwer," was his fav e expression. "Your mother is a woer" -- moer being a vulgar term fn
intimate part of a woman's anatomy.
In his guttural voice, he told us he was disgusted to have observed n
laziness at the quarry. As a result, he said, he was arbitrarily dropping all
of our classifications by one notch. Though we despised the classification
system, most of the men had by that time risen to at least C level where
they were permitted to study. D level prisoners were not allowed to studv
The authorities rued the fact that they had allowed us study privileges
and Badenhorst was determined to rectify that mistake.
Later, after my anger abated, I realized that Badenhorst's crude remark
to me at the quarry was a calculated one. He had been brought to Robben
Island to restore order, and he had singled out the individual he assumed
was the source of the disorder. Like a teacher who takes over a rowdy class, he sought to discipline the student he regarded as the principal
troublemaker.
73
IN LATE MAY of 1971, a number of men from SWAPO (the SouthWest
African People's Organization), an ally of the ANC fighting for
independence in Namibia, were brought to the isolation section. They
were led by Andimba Toivo ja Toivo, a founder of SWAPO and a formidable
freedom fighter. We learned that they had embarked on a hunger
strike to protest their isolation, and we immediately decided to join in.
This angered Badenhorst and the authorities who regarded this as unacceptable
insubordination.
Late on the night of May 28, we were awakened by shouts and fierce
knocking on our cell doors. "Get up! Get up!" the warders yelled. We
were ordered to strip and then line up against the wall of the courtyar
The warders were obviously drunk and were yelling and taunting us. 1 L were led by a sadistic fellow named Fourie, whom we privately cs e Gangster.
It was a bitterly cold night, and for the next hour, while we stood a
attention naked and shivering, our cells were searched one by one. Wan. kept up their abuse for the entire time. Toward the end of the hour,
experienced severe chest pains and collapsed. This seemed to scare to
and he ordered us to return to our cells. ^
The warders searched high and low, and found nothing. But the s
401
yemed only an excuse for Fourie's sadistic impulses. Only later did we
l arn that Fourie was reputed to have molested prisoners in the general
ction. The following day we discovered that the warders had brutally beaten some general prisoners before they came to us, and afterward,
assaulted Toivo ja Toivo, who hit back and knocked down the warder who .yas beating him. Toivo was severely punished for this.
We filed a formal complaint about our treatment, but it was ignored.
The incident stands out in my memory, but it was by no means unique;
incidents like it were the rule rather than the exception during Badenhorst's
command.
\Ve were determined not to let conditions deteriorate entirely under Badenhorst.
We smuggled messages to our people on the outside to agitate
for his dismissal. At the same time, we resolved to create a delegation
among ourselves to see Badenhorst. We discussed this for months and
gradually decided on its composition; Walter and I represented the ANC,
and each of the other parties had two representatives as well.
Badenhorst agreed to meet us, and at our parley we threatened work
stoppages, go-slows, hunger strikes -- every weapon at our disposal --
unless he reformed his ways and restored many of the privileges that he
had rescinded. He merely said he would take what we said under consideration.
We regarded this confrontation as a victory, for he was wary of
us and knew that we had alerted people on the outside of our complaints.
These efforts soon produced a response.
A few weeks later, we knew an important visit must be imminent
because when it rained that day at the quarry we were allowed to take
shelter instead of continuing to work. The following day we were inronned
that a troika of judges were coming to the island. The authorities "ked us to nominate a spokesman to express our grievances, and I was
diosen.
As I was preparing for my meeting with the judges, I was informed
y a reliable source that a prisoner in the general section had recently
en severely beaten by a guard. The three judges were Justices Jan Steyn,
, -' Theron, and Michael Corbett of the Cape provincial division of
supreme Court. They were escorted by the commissioner of prisons, ^eral Steyn, and accompanied by Colonel Badenhorst. I met them that a\ ""telde, where we were working.
cneral Steyn introduced me to the judges and explained that I had n ^elected to represent the other prisoners. The judges then indicated I l as a "matter of course they would talk with me privately. I replied that ^ nothing to hide and that in fact I welcomed the presence of General
k ^^ the ^lonel. I could see that they were taken aback by my
kU
402 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
statement, and I added that it would be only proper for them to have
opportunity to reply to my charges. The judges reluctantly acquiesc d e
I began by recounting the recent assault in the general section I r u
them the details that had been reported to me, the viciousness of rh
beating, and the cover-up of the crime. I had barely begun to speak wh
I noticed Badenhorst shifting uncomfortably. When I had finished d
scribing the incident, Badenhorst interjected in a gruff, aggressive manne
"Did you actually witness this assault?" I replied calmly that I had nor but that I trusted the people who had told me of it. He snorted and
wagged his finger in my face. "Be careful, Mandela," he said. "If you talk
about things you haven't seen, you will get yourself in trouble. You know
what I mean."
I ignored Badenhorst's remarks and turned to the judges and said
"Gentlemen, you can see for yourselves the type of man we are dealing, with as commanding officer. If he can threaten me here, in your presence
you can imagine what he does when you are not here." Judge Corbctt
then turned to the others and said, "The prisoner is quite right."
I spent the remainder of the meeting enumerating complaints about
our diet, work, and studying. Inwardly Badenhorst must have been fuming,
but outwardly he seemed chastened. At the end of the session, the
judges thanked me, and I bade them goodbye.
I have no idea what the judges said or did after the meeting, but over
the next few months, Badenhorst seemed to have his hands tied. The
harshness abated, and within three months of the judges' visit, we received
word that Badenhorst was to be transferred.
A few days before Badenhorst's departure, I was called to the main office.
General Steyn was visiting the island and wanted to know if we had any
complaints. Badenhorst was there as I went through a list of demands.
When I had finished, Badenhorst spoke to me directly. He told me that
he would be leaving the island, and added, "I just want to wish you people
good luck." I do not know if I looked dumbfounded, but I was amazed _ He spoke these words like a human being, and showed a side of himse
we had never seen before. I thanked him for his good wishes, and wishe
him luck in his endeavors.
I thought about this moment for a long time afterward. Badenhor
j- ffirer ^'e had perhaps been the most callous and barbaric commanding ohilc
had had on Robben Island. But that day in the office, he had reveal that there was another side to his nature, a side that had been obscure but that still existed. It was a useful reminder that all men, even tw
r- 1 " h^ilft l
seemingly cold-blooded, have a core of decency, and that if their
touched, they are capable of changing. Ultimately, Badenhorst w
j ^ ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 403
.1. his inhumanity had been foisted upon him by an inhuman system.
 behaved like a brute because he was rewarded for brutish behavior.
74
IT WAS ANNOUNCED that Colonel Willemse would succeed Colonel
Badenhorst as commanding officer. I requested a meeting with the colonel
after his appointment and visited with him shortly after his arrival. While
he was obviously not a progressive man, he was courteous and reasonable,
in marked contrast to his predecessor. Badenhorst's tenure, we hoped,
would simply be a dip on the graph of the steady improvement of our
conditions.
The aggressive young warders departed with Badenhorst as well, and
we quickly resumed our customary behavior at the quarry and in our
section. Willemse may have been a reasonable man, but when he saw that
we spent more time at the quarry talking than working, he was shocked.
He had been on the island for only a few weeks when I was summoned
to his office for a meeting. "Mandela," he said frankly, "you must help
me." I asked him how. "Your men are not working. They don't listen to
orders. They only do what they want to do. This is a prison. There must
be some discipline. It is not only good for us but good for you. We must
have some order or they will bring back someone like the previous head
of prison."
What the colonel said made sense. I listened and told him that his
request was a legitimate one, but before I could respond to him, I would
need to meet with all my men. At that time, a meeting of all prisoners
'" the single cells was something that was expressly forbidden. By asking
h^ to permit such a meeting, I was asking him for a significant extension
01 the rules. He knew this as well as I did, and he wanted some time to
Insider ir.
Within days, I received a communication from Willemse saying he
^uld allow it. All of us met one afternoon in the courtyard, without
boards watching over us. I told the men what Willemse said, and noted
by compromising a bit now, we would be making our conditions
^r in the long run. We decided that we would at least appear to be
, -'"g, but what work we did would be at a pace that suited us. From
°^ that is what we did, and we heard no more complaints from the
Lauding officer.
'"g the early part of Willemse's tenure, in 1971-2, there was a steady
^^_1 captured MK soldiers. These men had seen combat, and were
With my grandson
Bambata. (Peter Magubanc
r
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 405
75
ONE MORNING, instead of walking to the quarry, we were ordered
into the back of a truck. It rumbled off in a new direction, and fifteen
minutes later we were ordered to jump out. There in front of us, glinting
in the morning light, we saw the ocean, the rocky shore, and in the
distance, winking in the sunshine, the glass towers of Cape Town. Although
it was surely an illusion, the city, with Table Mountain looming
behind it, looked agonizingly close, as if one could almost reach out and
grasp it.
The senior officer explained to us that we had been brought to the
shore to collect seaweed. We were instructed to pick up the large pieces
that had washed up on the beach, and wade out to collect seaweed attached
to rocks or coral. The seaweed itself was long and slimy and brownishgreen
in color. Sometimes the pieces were six to eight feet in length and
thirty pounds in weight. After fishing out the seaweed from the shallows,
we lined it up in rows on the beach. When it was dry, we loaded it into
the back of truck. We were told it was then shipped to Japan, where it
was used as a fertilizer.
The work did not seem too taxing to us that day, but in the coming
weeks and months, we found it could be quite strenuous. But that hardly
mattered because we had the pleasures and distractions of such a panoramic
tableau: we watched fishing ships trawling, stately oil tankers moving
slowly across the horizon; we saw gulls spearing fish from the sea and ^als cavorting on the waves; we laughed at the colony of penguins, which resembled a brigade of clumsy, flat-footed soldiers; and we marveled at tte daily drama of the weather over Table Mountain, with its shifting
canopy of clouds and sun.
h the summer, the water felt wonderful, but in winter, the icy Benguela ^rrents made wading out into the waves a torture. The rocks on and "^und die shore were jagged, and we often cut and scraped our legs as
6 worked. But we preferred the sea to the quarry, although we never spent "^ore than a few days there at a time.
e ocean proved to be a treasure chest. I found beautiful pieces of coral
sidborate shells, which I sometimes brought back to my cell. Once
r eonc discovered a bottle of wine stuck in the sand that was still corked.
tal t0^lr taste(^ ^e vinegar. JeffMasemola of the PAC was an extremely
"ted artist and sculptor, and the authorities allowed him to harvest
406 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
pieces of driftwood, which he carved into fantastic figures, some of\vh'
the warders offered to buy. He constructed a bookcase for me wh' h ^
used for many years. The authorities told visitors that they had prov'rl a
me with it.
The atmosphere at the shore was more relaxed than at the quarrv W
also relished the seaside because we ate extremely well there. Each mornin
when we went to the shore, we would take a large drum of fresh wate
Later, we would bring along a second drum, which we would use to make
a kind of Robben Island seafood stew. For our stew we would pick un
clams and mussels. We also caught crayfish, which hid themselves in the
crevices of rocks. Capturing a crayfish was tricky; one had to grab it firmly
between its head and tail or it would wiggle free.
Abalone, or what we call perlemoen, was my favorite dish. Abalones are
mollusks that cling tenaciously to rocks, and one has to pry them loose.
They are stubborn creatures, difficult to open, and if they are the slightest
bit overcooked, they are too tough to eat.
We would take our catch and pile it into the second drum. Wilton
Mkwayi was the chef among us and he would concoct the stew. When it
was ready, the warders would join us and we would all sit down on the
beach and have a kind of picnic lunch. In 1973, in a smuggled newspaper,
we read about the wedding of Princess Anne and Mark Phillips, and the
story detailed the bridal luncheon of rare and delicate dishes. The menu
included mussels, crayfish, and abalone, which made us laugh; we were
dining on such delicacies every day.
One afternoon, we were sitting on the beach eating our stew when
Lieutenant Terblanche, who was then head of prison, made a surprise
visit. We quickly pretended to be working, but we had not fooled him.
He soon discovered the second drum containing a mussel stew bubbling
over the fire. The lieutenant opened the pot and looked inside. He then
speared a mussel, ate it, and pronounced it "Smaaklik," Afrikaans tor
"tasty."
76
IN THE STRUGGLE, Robben Island was known as the University
This is not only because of what we learned from books, or bee
prisoners studied English, Afrikaans, art, geography, and mathem_ ^
or because so many of our men, such as Billy Nair, Ahmed Kathrada,
Dingake, and Eddie Daniels, earned multiple degrees. Robben Islan ^
known as the University because of what we learned from each otti 
became our own faculty, with our own professors, our own curric
, ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 407
! o\vn courses. We made a distinction between academic studies, which
were official, and political studies, which were not.
Our university grew up partly out of necessity. As young men came
to the island, we realized that they knew very little about the history of
the ANC. Walter, perhaps the greatest living historian of the ANC, began
to tell them about the genesis of the organization and its early days. His
teaching was wise and full of understanding. Gradually, this informal
history grew into a course of study, constructed by the High Organ,
which became known as Syllabus A, involving two years of lectures on
the ANC and the liberation struggle. Syllabus A included a course taught
by Kathv, "A History of the Indian Struggle." Another comrade added
a history of the Coloured people. Mac, who had studied in the German
Democratic Republic, taught a course in Marxism.
Teaching conditions were not ideal. Study groups would work together
on the quarry and station themselves in a circle around the leader of the
seminar. The style of teaching was Socratic in nature; ideas and theories
were elucidated through the leaders asking and answering questions.
It was Walter's course that was at the heart of all the education on the
island. Many of the young ANC members who came to the island had
no idea that the organization had even been in existence in the ipzos and
1930s. Walter guided them from the founding of the ANC in 1912 through
to the present day. For many of these young men, it was the only political
education they had ever received.
As these courses became known in the general section, we began to
get queries from our men on the other side. This started what became a
kind of correspondence course with the prisoners in the general section.
The teachers would smuggle lectures over to them and they would respond
with questions and comments.
This was beneficial for us as well as for them. These men had little
rormal education, but a great knowledge of the hardships of the world.
Their concerns tended to be practical rather than philosophical. If one of "^ lectures stated that a tenet of socialism is "From each according to 15 ^ility and to each according to his need," we might receive a question ^k that said, "Yes, but what does that mean in practice? If I have land
d no money, and my friend has money but no land, which of us has a yeater need?" Such questions were immensely valuable and forced one 0 think hard about one's views.
if
or a num^er or years, I taught a course in political economy. In it, I srnpted to trace the evolution of economic man from the earliest times
°tue present, sketching out the path from ancient communal societies
udahsm to capitalism and socialism. I am by no means a scholar and ^^"lucn of a teacher, and I would generally prefer to answer questions
408 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
than to lecture. My approach was not ideological, but it was biased
favor of socialism, which I saw as the most advanced staee of pc^,, ,. , , , . & '-'-onorruc
lire then evolved by man.
In addition to my informal studies, my legal work continued. I sornetim
considered hanging a shingle outside my cell, because I was spendi
many hours a week preparing judicial appeals for other prisoners though
this was forbidden under prison service regulations. Prisoners from all
different political stripes sought my help.
South African law does not guarantee a defendant the right to legal
representation, and thousands upon thousands of indigent men and
women went to prison every year for lack of such representation. Few
Africans could afford a lawyer, and most had no choice but to accept
whatever verdict the court handed down. Many men in the general section
had been sentenced without benefit of counsel, and a number of them
sought me out to make an appeal. For most of these men, it was the first
time they had ever dealt with an attorney.
I would receive a smuggled note from a prisoner in IF or G asking for
help. I would then request the particulars of the case, the charge, the
evidence, and the testimony. Because of the clandestine nature of these
exchanges, information would come slowly in bits and pieces. A consultation
that would last no more than half an hour in my old Mandela and
Tambo office might take a year or more on the island.
I advised my "clients" to write a letter to the registrar of the Supreme
Court asking for a record of their case. I told the prisoner to inform
the registrar that he had limited funds and would like the record at no
charge. Sometimes the registrars were kind enough to supply that material
gratis.
Once I had the record of the case, I could put together an appeal,
usually based on some judicial irregularity such as bias, incorrect procedure,
or insufficient evidence. I drafted a letter to the judge or magistrate
in my own handwriting, and then sent it to the other side. Because it
was a violation of regulations for me to prepare a man's case, I would
instruct the prisoner to copy the document in his own hand. If he cou
not write, and many prisoners could not, I told him to find sorneo"0 who could.
I enjoyed keeping my legal skills sharp, and in a few cases verdicts we
overturned and sentences reduced. These were gratifying victories; pr' is contrived to make one feel powerless, and this was one of the few
to move the system. Often I never met the men I worked for, and so
times, out of the blue, a man who was serving us pap for lunch we
whisper a thank-you to me for the work I had done on his behal1
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 409
77
THE OPPRESSION of my wife did not let up. In 1972, security policemen
kicked down the door of 8115 Orlando West. Bricks were hurled
through the window. Gunshots were fired at the front door. In 1974,
Winnie was charged with violating her banning orders, which restricted
her from having any visitors apart from her children and her doctor. She
was then working at a lawyer's office, and a friend brought Zeni and
Zindzi to see her during her lunch hour. For this, Winnie was charged
and then sentenced to six months' imprisonment. She was put in Kroonstad
Prison, in the Orange Free State, but her experience there was not
as horrendous as her previous stay in Pretoria. Winnie wrote to me that
she felt liberated in prison this time, and it served to reaffirm her commitment
to the struggle. The authorities permitted Zindzi and Zcni to
visit her on Sundays.
When Winnie was released in 1975, we managed, through letters and
communications with our lawyers, to work out a plan for me to see Zindzi.
Prison regulations stated that no child between the ages of two and sixteen
may visit a prisoner. When I went to Robben Island, all my children were
in this legal limbo of age restrictions. The reasoning behind the rule is
not pernicious: the lawmakers presumed that a prison visit would negatively
affect the sensitive psyches of children. But the effect on prisoners
was perhaps equally damaging. It is a source of deep sorrow not to be
able to sec one's children.
In 1975, Zindzi turned fifteen. The plan was for her mother to alter
Zindzi's birth documents to show that the girl was turning sixteen, not "fteen, and therefore able to see me. Birth records are not kept in a very "niform or organized way for Africans, and Winnie found that it was not
"ard to modify her documents to show that Zindzi was born a year earlier. "he applied for a permit, and it was approved.
few weeks before Zindzi's scheduled visit in December, I had a pre- 'ously arranged visit with Winnie's mother. When I was seated across ron! her in the visiting area, I said to her, "Well, Ma, I'm very excited ^use I'm going to see Zindzi." My mother-in-law, who was a former ^r, regarded me with some surprise and then said in a rather peevish
i ' ^ln(lzi cannot come and see you because she is not yet sixteen."
Th re e<^ ^mediately that no one had told her about our gambit.
o\. re was a war(leI" behind each of us, and I decided I would simply gloss r ^hat she had said, and mumbled, "Ah, well, Ma, it is nothing."
410 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
But my mother-in-law is a stubborn woman and she did not let ir
"Well, Mkonyanisi" -- an affectionate term for son-in-law in Xhosa v/r s is what she always called me -- "you have made a serious error be
Zindzi is only fifteen."
I widened my eyes in a gesture of alarm and she must have gotten rh
message because she did not mention Zindzi again.
I had not seen Zindzi since she was three years old. She was a dauehr who knew her father from old photographs rather than memory I ni r
on a fresh shirt that morning, and took more trouble than usual with my
appearance: it is my own vanity, but I did not want to look like an old
man for my youngest daughter.
I had not seen Winnie for over a year, and I was gratified to find that
she looked well. But I was delighted to behold what a beautiful woman
my youngest daughter had become and how closely she resembled her
equally beautiful mother.
Zindzi was shy and hesitant at first. I am sure it was not easy for her
finally to see a father she had never really known, a father who could love
her only from a distance, who seemed to belong not to her but to the
people. Somewhere deep inside her she must have harbored resentment
and anger for a father who was absent during her childhood and adolescence.
I could see right away that she was a strong and fiery young
woman like her own mother had been when she was Zindzi's age.
I knew she would be feeling uncomfortable, and I did my best to
lighten the atmosphere. When she arrived I said to her, "Have you met
my guard of honor?," gesturing to the warders who followed me everywhere.
I asked her questions about her life, her schooling, and her friends,
and then tried to take her back to the old days that she barely remembered.
I told her how I often recalled Sunday mornings at home when I dandled
her on my knee while Mum was in the kitchen making a roast. I recollected
small incidents and adventures in Orlando when she was a baby, and how
she had rarely cried even when she was small. Through the glass, 1 co1" see her holding back her tears as I talked.
The one tragic note of the visit was when I learned from Winnie tha
Bram Fischer had died of cancer shortly after being let out of pr150
Bram's death affected me deeply. Although the government left n°
gerprints on Bram's body, it was the state's relentless harassment of
that brought on the final illness that took him too soon. They houn
him even after death -- the state confiscated his ashes after his crerna
Bram was a purist, and after the Rivonia Trial, he decided he c° ^ best serve the struggle by going underground and living the li^ °
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 411
ntla\\'. It burdened him that the men whom he was representing in court were go^g to pr^o" while he lived freely. During the trial, I advised
Bram not to take this route, stressing that he served the struggle best in
the courtroom, where people could see this Afrikaner son of a judge president fighting for the rights of the powerless. But he could not let
others suffer while he remained free. Like the general who fights side by
side with his troops at the front, Bram did not want to ask others to
make a sacrifice that he was unwilling to make himself.
Bram went underground while out on bail and was captured in 1965,
and sentenced to life imprisonment for conspiracy to commit sabotage.
I had tried to write him in prison, but regulations forbade prisoners from
corresponding with each other. After he had been diagnosed with cancer,
a newspaper campaign calling for his release on humanitarian grounds
had influenced the government. It was just a few weeks after the authorities
released him, still under house arrest, to his brother's house in Bloemfontein
that he died.
In many ways, Bram Fischer, the grandson of the prime minister of
the Orange River Colony, had made the greatest sacrifice of all. No matter
what I suffered in my pursuit of freedom, I always took strength from
the fact that I was fighting with and for my own people. Bram was a free
man who fought against his own people to ensure the freedom of others.
A month after this visit I received word from Winnie that her most recent
request for a visit had been turned down by the authorities on the absurd
grounds that I did not wish to see her. I immediately made an appointment
with Lieutenant Prins, who was then head of prison, to lodge a protest.
Prins was not what one would call a sophisticated man. When I went in to see him I explained the situation evenly and without animosity. But
I said the situation as it stood was unacceptable and my wife must be
permitted to visit.
Prins did not appear to be listening, and when I had finished he said,
"g, Mandela, your wife is only seeking publicity." I told him that I "esented his remark, and before I had even finished, he uttered something 80 "fffinsive and uncomplimentary about my wife that I immediately lost "V temper.
1 rose from my chair and started to move around the desk toward the ^tenant. Prins began to retreat, but I soon checked myself. Instead of vaulting him with my fists, as I felt like doing, I pummeled him with
rus- I am not a man who approves of oaths or curses, but that day I 0 ated my own principle. I finished by telling him that he was a con-
Ptible man without honor, and that if he ever repeated those same ^os I would not hold myself back as I had that day.
412 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
When I had finished, I turned and stormed out of his office. As T
leaving, I saw Kathy and Eddie Daniels outside but I did not even as them as I walked back to my cell. Even though I had silenced Print i^ had caused me to violate my self-control and I consider that a defe 't
the hands of my opponent.
After breakfast the following morning, two warders entered my cell a d
said I was wanted at the Head Office. When I reached the office I \v
surrounded by a half-dozen armed warders. Off to one side was Lieutenant
Prins and in the center of this circle was a warrant officer who was the
prison prosecutor. The atmosphere was tense.
"Well, Mandela," the prosecutor said, "I hear you had yourself a nice
time yesterday, but today will not be so pleasant. I am charging you for
having insulted and threatened the head of prison. It is a grave charge."
He then handed me the summons.
"Do you have anything to say?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "You can speak with my attorney." I then asked to be
taken back to my cell. Prins did not say a word.
I knew immediately what I would do: prepare a countersuit charging
everyone from the lieutenant all the way up to the minister of justice with
misconduct. I would indict the prison system as a whole as a racist institution
that sought to perpetuate white supremacy. I would make the
case a cause celebre, and make them regret they had ever charged me in
the first place.
I asked George Bizos to represent me, and a meeting was soon arranged.
Before George's visit I informed the authorities that I would be
giving him written instructions. They asked me why and I replied frankly
that I assumed the consultation room was bugged. The authorities then
refused permission for me to give a written statement; I must make an
oral one. I told them that they had no right to withhold permission, and
the fact that they did only confirmed my suspicions.
The truth was that the authorities were afraid George would leak a
written statement to the press. This was indeed part of our strategy. ^ut\ were also concerned that I was using George as a conduit to communicate
with Oliver in Lusaka, and assumed that the written statement wou
contain sensitive information. I had previously used George tor s
purposes, but the document in question did not contain such matcria
A date was set for the island's disciplinary court, and a magistrate r
Cape Town was assigned. A day before the hearing, I was told that ^ attorney would be arriving the following day and I would be free to g
him my written statement. I met George at the head office in the mor
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 413
,d \ve briefly consulted before court was called into session. But the
, ,a;-ine had no sooner started than the prosecutor announced that the
rison was withdrawing its case. The judge gaveled the session to a close
and abruptly left the room. George and I looked at each other in surprise,
and congratulated one another on an apparent victory. I was putting away
my papers when another warrant officer came over and, pointing to my
written statement, said, "Hand me that file."
I refused, saying it was a confidential matter between myself and my
attorney. I called over the prosecutor and said: "Inform this man that
these documents are protected by attorney-client privilege, and that I do
not have to turn them over." The prosecutor replied that they were, but
that the case was over, court was no longer in session, and the only
authority in the room was that of the warrant officer. The officer plucked
the document off the table. There was nothing I could do to stop him.
I believe the authorities dropped the case simply to get hold of that
document  which, as they discovered, contained nothing they did not
already know.
As unlikely a prospect as it may have seemed, I nevertheless thought about
escape the entire time I was on the island. Mac Maharaj and Eddie Daniels,
both brave and resourceful men, were always hatching plans and discussing
possibilities. Most were far too dangerous, but that did not stop us from
considering them.
We had made certain advances. JeffMasemola, our master craftsman,
had managed to make a passkey that unlocked most of the doors in and
around our section. One day, a warder had left his key on the desk in the
office at the end of our corridor. Jeff took a piece of soap and made an
imprint of the key. Using that outline, he took a piece of metal and filed
"' into the shape of the key. This key gave us access to some of the
storerooms behind our cells as well as to the isolation section. But we
"ever used it to leave our section. It was the sea, after all, that was the
"ncrossable moat around Robben Island.
In 1974^ Mac had an idea how to cross that barrier. He had recently
ecn ^ken to the dentist in Cape Town and discovered that the dentist
irnself was related by marriage to a well-known political prisoner. The
. ^tist was sympathetic; he had refused to treat Mac unless Mac's leg
ons were first removed. Mac had also noticed that the window in the
"list's second-floor waiting room was just a short drop to a small sidere'1
^ere we might make a run for it.
hen Mac returned, he met with a few of us and urged us to make
PPointments at the dentist. We did so, and learned that a day had been
^w for Mac, Wilton Mkwayi, me, and one other prisoner to go to
414 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Cape Town. The three of us were willing to make the attempt, but wh
Mac contacted the fourth man, he refused. We had doubts about l? man's loyalty, and it concerned me that he knew what we were plann is
The three of us were taken by boat to Cape Town and then to rl^ dentist's office under heavy guard. All three of us had trained as soldi
and we probably had the best chance of actually executing an escape M
was also carrying a knife, and was prepared to use it. At the dentist'
office, the guards first cleared away all the other patients. We demander) to have our leg irons removed, and with the support of the dentist
guards took them off.
Mac led us over to the window and pointed out the street that was
our escape route. But something about the street bothered Mac as soon
as he saw it: we were in the center of Cape Town in the middle of the
day, and yet the street was empty. When he had been here before, the
street had been filled with traffic. "It's a setup," Mac whispered. I too
had the sense that something was not right, and I agreed with Mac.
Wilton, whose adrenaline was flowing, said Mac was talking nonsense.
"Madiba, you're losing your nerve," he said. But I agreed with Mac, and
the three of us simply ended up having our teeth examined. The dentist
was curious as to why I had come, because my teeth were fine.
While Mac considered the most practical escape plans, Eddie Daniels
hatched the most imaginative ones. During the early years, airplanes were
not permitted to fly over the island. But by the mid-ipyos, we noticed
that not only were planes flying over our heads, but helicopters on their
way to and from the tankers that sailed off the coast. Eddie came to me
with a plan that would involve the organization using a helicopter, painted
with the South African military colors, to pick me up on the island and
then deposit me on the roof of a friendly foreign embassy in Cape Town
where I would seek asylum. It was not an ill-conceived plan, and I told
Eddie he should smuggle out the suggestion to Oliver in Lusaka. Eddie
did manage to get his idea to Lusaka, but we never received a response.
78
BIRTHDAY CELEBRATIONS were bare-bones affairs on Robben
Island. In lieu of cake and gifts, we would pool our food and present
extra slice of bread or cup of coffee to the birthday honoree. Fikile D and I were born on the same date, July 18, and I would save a few swe
that I had purchased at Christmas for the two of us to share on our mu
anniversary. My fiftieth birthday had passed without much no" in I9
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 415
h it in i975i when I turned fifty-seven, Walter and Kathy approached me ,,rh a long-term plan that would make my sixtieth birthday more memorable.
One of the issues that always concerned us was how to keep the idea
of the struggle before the people. During the previous decade, the government i^d silenced most of the radical press, and there remained a
nrohibirioii on publishing the words or pictures of any banned or imprisoned
individuals. An editor could go to jail and his newspaper be
shuttered for publishing so much as a snapshot of me or my colleagues.
One day, Kathy, Walter, and myself were talking in the courtyard when they suggested that I ought to write my memoirs. Kathy noted that the
perfect rime for such a book to be published would be on my sixtieth
birthday. Walter said that such a story, if told truly and fairly, would serve
to remind people of what we had fought and were still fighting for. He
added that it could become a source of inspiration for young freedom
fighters. The idea appealed to me, and during a subsequent discussion,
I agreed to go ahead.
When I decide to do something, I like to start immediately, and I threw
myself into this new project. I adopted a rather unorthodox work schedule:
I would write most of the night and sleep during the day. During the
first week or two, I would take a nap after dinner, awake at ten o'clock,
and then write until it was time for breakfast. After working at the quarry,
I would then sleep until dinner, and the process would begin again. After
a few weeks of this, I notified the authorities that I was not feeling well and would not be going to the quarry. They did not seem to care, and
from then on I was able to sleep most of the day.
We created an assembly line to process the manuscript. Each day I
passed what I wrote to Kathy, who reviewed the manuscript, and then read it to Walter. Kathy then wrote their comments in the margins. Walter ^d Kathy have never hesitated to criticize me, and I took their suggestions to heart, often incorporating their changes. This marked-up manuscript ^'as then given to Laloo Chiba, who spent the next night transferring my biting to his own almost microscopic shorthand, reducing ten pages of
°°lscap to a single small piece of paper. It would be Mac's job to smuggle the manuscript to the outside world.
^hc warders grew suspicious. They went to Mac and said, "What is
' -"idela up to? Why is he sitting up late at night?" But Mac merely
^Sged his shoulders and said he had no idea. I wrote rapidly, com- '"g a draft in four months. I did not hesitate over choosing a word
Pnrase. I covered the period from my birth through the Rivonia Trial, ^ded with some notes about Robben Island.
^ived my experiences as I wrote about them. Those nights, as I
416 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
wrote in silence, I could once again experience the sights and sound my youth in Qunu and Mqhekezweni; the excitement and fear ofco
to Johannesburg; the tempests of the Youth League; the endless del ^ of the Treason Trial; the drama of Rivonia. It was like a waking dre
and I attempted to transfer it to paper as simply and truthfully a t
could.
Mac ingeniously hid the transcribed version of the manuscript inside th
binding of a number of notebooks he used for his studies. In this way
he was able to safeguard the entire text from the authorities and smuggle
it out when he was released in 1976. The arrangement was that Mac would
secretly communicate when the manuscript was safely out of the country- only then would we destroy the original. In the meantime, we still had
to dispose of a five-hundred-page manuscript. We did the only thing we
could do: we buried it in the garden in the courtyard. Surveillance in the
courtyard had become careless and sporadic. The warders usually sat in
an office at the northern end talking among themselves. From that office,
they could not see the southern end next to the isolation area where there
was a small garden. I had casually inspected this area on my early morning
walks, and it was there that I decided to bury the manuscript.
In order not to have to dig a great hole, we decided to bury the
manuscript in three separate places. We divided it into two smaller segments
and one larger one, wrapped each in plastic, and placed them inside
empty cocoa containers. The work would have to be done quickly, and I
asked Jeff Masemola to fashion some digging tools. Within a few days I
was equipped with several sharp iron stakes.
One morning, after breakfast, Kathy, Walter, Eddie Daniels, and I
drifted over to the garden at the southern end of the courtyard where we
appeared to be having a political discussion. We were each hiding portions
of the manuscript in our shirts. At a signal from me, we dropped down
and began digging. I dug in the center, near a manhole cover that led to
a drainpipe. When I reached the pipe, I carved out a space beneath it,
and it was there that I placed the largest of the three containers. The
others dug two shallower holes for their portions. .
We finished just in time to line up for our march to the quarry.
walked that morning, I felt a sense of relief that the manuscript was sa e
hidden. I then thought no more about it.
A few weeks later, just after our wake-up call, I heard a sound in
courtyard that made me uneasy: it was the thud of picks and sho\e
the ground. When we were allowed out of our cells for wash-up. ^ to the front of the corridor and managed to peer out the door and ar
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 417
I the corner. There, at the south end of the courtyard, was a work crew
from the general section. To my alarm, they were digging in the area
where the manuscript was buried.
The authorities had decided to build a wall in front of the isolation
section because they had discovered that the prisoners in isolation were
able to communicate with us in the courtyard. The work crew was digging a shallow trench for the concrete foundation of the wall.
While washing up I managed to inform Walter and Kathy about the
digging outside. Kathy thought that the main part of the manuscript,
which was buried under the pipe, would probably be safe, but that the
other two were vulnerable. When the drums of breakfast porridge were
wheeled into the courtyard, the warders commanding the work crew
ordered the men out of the yard. This was done to prevent any fraternization
with the political prisoners.
With our bowls of porridge in hand, I led Walter and Kathy over to
the south end of the courtyard as though I wanted to confer with them
privately. The beginnings of the trench were already perilously close to
the two smaller containers. At the same time, we were joined by Eddie
Daniels, who immediately recognized the problem.
There was only one thing to do: as inconspicuously as possible, the
four of us began digging in the area where the two smaller pieces of
manuscript would be. We managed to unearth the two containers rather
quickly, and covered the area again with soil. To rescue the chunk of
manuscript under the pipe would require more time, but we were confident
that they would not find the manuscript because they would not
dislodge the pipe in order to build the wall.
We hid the manuscript in our shirts as we walked back to our cells.
Eddie was not going to the quarry that day, and we gave the containers
to him, instructing him to destroy them as soon as possible. At great
personal risk, Eddie agreed to do so. I breathed easier knowing that we
had salvaged the two containers, and tried not to dwell on the remaining
p'gcc of manuscript as I worked that day.
hen we returned from the quarry that afternoon, instead of washing "Pi which I normally did, I strolled over to the far end of the courtyard. Wempted to appear as casual as possible, but I was alarmed by what I aw. The prisoners had dug a trench that ran parallel to the wall of the 0 anon section and had actually removed the pipe altogether. They could
"-ip but have uncovered the manuscript.
. "lust have flinched or reacted in some way that was noticeable. Un5  n to me, I was being watched by a number of warders, who later ^at my reaction confirmed that I knew a manuscript had been there.
418 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I returned to the corridor to wash up and told Walter and Kathv rh
suspected the manuscript had been discovered. Eddie had meanwh'i
successfully disposed of the other two pieces.
Early the next morning, I was summoned to the office to see rh
commanding officer. Next to him stood a high prison official who had
just arrived from Pretoria. Without any greeting whatsoever, the corn manding officer announced: "Mandela, we have found your manuscriot"
I did not reply. The commanding officer then reached behind his desk
and produced a sheaf of papers.
"This is your handwriting, is it not?" he demanded. Again, I remained
silent.
"Mandela," the commander said in some exasperation. "We know this
is your work."
"Well," I replied, "you must produce some proof of that." They scoffed
at this, and said they knew the notations in the margin were made by
Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada. Again, I said that they must furnish
evidence if they were going to impose any penalties.
"We do not need evidence," the commander said. "We have the evidence."

Although he did not impose a penalty that day, a short while later,
Walter, Kathy, and I were called before General Rue, the deputy commissioner
of prisons, who told us that we had abused our study privileges
in order to illegally write the manuscript. For that offense, our study
privileges were being suspended indefinitely. As it turned out, we lost
study privileges for four years.
After Mac was released in December, he sent the notebooks overseas to
England. He spent the next six months under house arrest in South Africa
before slipping out of the country and going first to Lusaka to see Oliver,
and then to London. He stayed there for six months; with a typist he
reconstructed the manuscript and put together a typescript. He then
returned to Lusaka and presented Oliver with a copy.
From there, the trail grows cold. I heard nothing from Lusaka about
the manuscript and still do not know precisely what Oliver did with it. Although it was not published while I was in prison, it forms the spii^ of this memoir.
79
La
IN 1976, I RECEIVED an extraordinary visit: Jimmy Kruger, ^ minister of prisons, a prominent member of the prime minister s
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 419
net came to see me. Kruger was not only influential about prisons polry
but lie was critical to the government's handling of the liberation
struggle-
I had an inkling as to why he had come. The government was then
engaged in a massive effort to make a success of its separate development
policy, and "quasi-independent" homelands. The showpiece of separate
development was the Transkei, led by my nephew and one-time benefactor,
K. D. Matanzima, who had successfully repressed almost all legitimate
opposition to his rule. I recalled that the commanding officer had recently
said to me in a bantering way, "Mandela, you ought to retire to the
Transkei and take a good long rest."
As it turned out, that was precisely what Jimmy Kruger was proposing
as well. He was a stout, blunt man, not nearly as polished as I would have
expected from a cabinet minister. I approached the meeting as another
opportunity to present our grievances, and at first he seemed content to
listen. I began by reminding him of the letter we had sent him in 1969,
which had gone unanswered. He merely shrugged. I then detailed the
poor conditions on the island, reiterating once more that we were political
prisoners, not criminals, and expected to be treated as such. But Kruger
scoffed at this, saying, "Nah, you are all violent Communists!"
I then began to tell him a bit about the history of our organization
and why we had turned to violence. It was clear that he knew almost
nothing about the ANC, and what he did know was gleaned from the
propaganda of the right-wing press. When I told him the organization
was far older than the National Party, he was dumbfounded. I said that
if he considered us Communists he should reread the Freedom Charter.
He looked at me blankly. He had never heard of the Freedom Charter. I
found it extraordinary that a cabinet minister should be so uninformed. w I should not have been surprised; Nationalist politicians routinely Wndemned what they didn't understand.
1 raised the question of our release and reminded him of the case of the 1914 Afrikaner rebels, who had resorted to violence though they were ^presented in Parliament, could hold meetings, and could even vote. Even ^ough General de Wet and Major Kemp had led a force of twelve thouo
and occupied towns and caused many deaths, they were both released
n after their convictions for high treason. I mentioned the case of
°bey Leibbrandt, who set up an underground organization during the ^cond World War to oppose South Africa's support for the Allies; he ^ntenced to life imprisonment but soon pardoned. Kruger seemed
gnorant of these episodes in the history of his own people as he was
nn ^ ^cdom Charter. It is difficult to negotiate with those who do
snare the same frame of reference.
420 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Kruger waved all of this aside. "That is ancient history," he said u
came armed with a specific offer. Despite his reputation for brusaue e
he made his proposal in a deferential manner. He stated the matter sim i
if I recognized the legitimacy of the Transkei government and was will
to move there, my sentence would be dramatically reduced.
I listened respectfully until he had finished. First, I said, I wholl
rejected the bantustan policy, and would do nothing to support if and
second, I was from Johannesburg, and it was to Johannesburg that T
would return. Kruger remonstrated with me, but to no avail. A month
later he returned with the same proposal, and again I turned him down
It was an offer only a turncoat could accept.
80
AS DILIGENT AS WE WERE in gathering news and information
our knowledge of current events was always sketchy. Happenings in the
outside world were muffled by the fact that we heard of them first through
rumor; only later might they be confirmed by a newspaper account or an
outside visitor.
In June of 1976, we began to hear vague reports of a great uprising in
the country. The whispers were fanciful and improbable: the youth of
Soweto had overthrown the military and the soldiers had dropped their
guns and fled. It was only when the first young prisoners who had been
involved in the June 16 uprising began to arrive on Robben Island in
August that we learned what truly happened.
On June 16, 1976, fifteen thousand schoolchildren gathered in Soweto
to protest the government's ruling that half of all classes in secondary
schools must be taught in Afrikaans. Students did not want to learn and
teachers did not want to teach in the language of the oppressor. Pleadings
and petitions by parents and teachers had fallen on deaf ears. A detachment
of police confronted this army of earnest schoolchildren and without
warning opened fire, killing thirteen-year-old Hector Pieterson and maw
others. The children fought with sticks and stones, and mass chaos ensue '
with hundreds of children wounded, and two white men stoned to dea 
The events of that day reverberated in every town and township
South Africa. The uprising triggered riots and violence across the cou
try. Mass funerals for the victims of state violence became national ra
ing points. Suddenly the young people of South Africa were fired \\
the spirit of protest and rebellion. Students boycotted schools all acr
the country. ANC organizers joined with students to actively supp°
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 421
nrotest. Bantu Education had come back to haunt its creators, for these ynarv ind audacious young people were its progeny.
rn September, the isolation section was filled with young men who had
been arrested in the aftermath of the uprising. Through whispered conversations
in an adjacent hallway we learned firsthand what had taken place. My comrades and I were enormously cheered; the spirit of mass
protest that had seemed dormant through the i96os was erupting in the
1970s. Many oftheseyoung people had left the country to join our own
military movement, and then smuggled themselves back home. Thousands
of them were trained in our camps in Tanzania, Angola, and Mozambique.
There is nothing so encouraging in prison as learning that the people
outside are supporting the cause for which you are inside.
These young men were a different breed of prisoner than we had ever
seen before. They were brave, hostile, and aggressive; they would not take
orders, and shouted "Amandia!" at every opportunity. Their instinct was
to confront rather than cooperate. The authorities did not know how to
handle them, and they turned the island upside down. During the Rivonia
Trial, I remarked to a security policeman that if the government did not
reform itself, the freedom fighters who would take our place would someday
make the authorities yearn for us. That day had indeed come on
Robben Island.
In these young men we saw the angry revolutionary spirit of the times.
I had had some warning. At a visit with Winnie a few months before,
she had managed to tell me through our coded conversation that there
was a rising class of discontented youth who were militant and Africanist
in orientation. She said they were changing the nature of the struggle
and that I should be aware of them.
The new prisoners were appalled by what they considered the barbaric wnditions of the island, and said they could not understand how we tould live in such a way. We told them that they should have seen the
"land in 1964. But they were almost as skeptical of us as they were of the suthorities. They chose to ignore our calls for discipline and thought our ^vice feeble and unassertive.
It was obvious that they regarded us, the Rivonia Trialists, as mod- rat:es- After so many years of being branded a radical revolutionary, to
Perceived as a moderate was a novel and not altogether pleasant feeling. gw that I could react in one of two ways: I could scold them for their
pg' anence or I could listen to what they were saying. I chose the latter.
v\ hen some of these men, such as Strini Moodley of the South African writs' Organization and Saths Cooper of the Black People's Conven-
422 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
tion, came into our section, I had them give us papers on their mov
and philosophy. I wanted to know what had brought them to the str ^ what motivated them, what their ideas were for the future. e'
Shortly after their arrival on the island, the commanding officer
to me and asked me as a favor to address the young men. He wanted
to tell them to restrain themselves, to recognize the fact that they w
in prison and to accept the discipline of prison life. I told him that I
not prepared to do that. Under the circumstances, they would have re
garded me as a collaborator of the oppressor.
These fellows refused to conform to even basic prison regulations. One
day I was at the Head Office conferring with the commanding officer
As I was walking out with the major, we came upon a young prisoner
being interviewed by a prison official. The young man, who was no more
than eighteen years old, was wearing his prison cap in the presence of
senior officers, a violation of regulations. Nor did he stand up when the
major entered the room, another violation.
The major looked at him and said, "Please, take off your cap." The
prisoner ignored him. Then in an irritated tone, the major said, "Take off your cap." The prisoner turned and looked at the major, and said, "What for?"
I could hardly believe what I had just heard. It was a revolutionary
question: What for? The major also seemed taken aback, but managed a
reply. "It is against regulations," he said. The young prisoner responded,
"Why do you have this regulation? What is the purpose of it?" This
questioning on the part of the prisoner was too much for the major, and
he stomped out of the room, saying, "Mandela, you talk to him." But I
would not intervene on his behalf, and simply bowed in the direction or the prisoner to let him know that I was on his side.
This was our first exposure to the Black Consciousness Movement. With
the banning of the ANC, PAC, and Communist Party, the Black Consciousness Movement helped fill a vacuum among young people. Blac
Consciousness was less a movement than a philosophy and grew out o
the idea that blacks must first liberate themselves from the sense of psy
chological inferiority bred by three centuries of white rule. Only
could the people rise up in confidence and truly liberate themselves r
repression. While the Black Consciousness Movement advocated a
racial society, they excluded whites from playing a role in achieving
society. .,^, These concepts were not unfamiliar to me: they closely mirrore 1 ^ I myself held at the time of the founding of the ANC Youth Leagu
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 423
,1-t-n century before. We, too, were Africanists; we, too, stressed ethnic
' ^ and racial self-confidence; we, too, rejected white assistance in the
rru^s^- ^n ""'^y ways> Black Consciousness represented the same renonse
co the same problem that had never gone away.
gut just as we had outgrown our Youth League outlook, I was confident that these young men would transcend some of the strictures of Black
Consciousness. While I was encouraged by their militancy, I thought that
their philosophy, in its concentration on blackness, was exclusionary, and
represented an intermediate view that was not fully mature. I saw my role
as an elder statesman who might help them move on to the more inclusive
ideas of the Congress Movement. I knew also that these young men would
eventually become frustrated because Black Consciousness offered no program
of action, no outlet for their protest.
Although we viewed the ranks of the BCM as a fertile ground for the
ANC, we did not attempt to recruit these men. We knew that this would
alienate both them and the other parties on the island. Our policy was
to be friendly, to take an interest, to compliment them on their achievements,
but not to proselytize. If they came to us and asked questions -- 'What is the ANC policy on the bantustans?" "What does the Freedom
Charter say about nationalization?" -- we would answer them -- and a
great many of them did come to us with questions.
I myself contacted some of these men through smuggled notes. I spoke
with some who were from the Transkei and asked questions about my
old home. Some of the men who arrived were already well known in the
struggle. I had heard reports of the bravery of Patrick "Terror" Lekota,
a leader of the South African Students' Association, and sent him a note
of welcome to Robben Island.
Terror's nickname comes from his prowess on the soccer field, but he ^s just as formidable in a debate. He disagreed with some of his col- ^agues on the issue of racial exclusiveness and inched closer to the ideas 01 Ae ANC. Once on the island. Terror decided that he wanted to join us! but we discouraged him -- not because we did not want him but ^causc \\ c thought such a maneuver would create tensions in the general Action.
°ut Icnor would not take no for an answer and publicly switched his fiance to the ANC. One day, not long afterward, he was assaulted ltn a garden fork by disgruntled BE members. After he was treated, the
, '"^I'lrics charged the attackers and planned to put them on trial. But "ie inraest of harmony, we advised Terror not to lodge a complaint. ^reed, and refused to testify against those who had hurt him. The th e \\as ^' 'W^- Such a trial, I felt, would only play into the hands of ^thorides. I wanted these young men to see that the ANC was a
424 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
great tent that could accommodate many different views and affiliaf
After that incident, the floodgates seemed to open and dozens of Rr
men decided to join the ANC, including some of those who had plan
the attack on Terror. Terror rose to the top of the ANC hierarchy in th
general section, and was soon teaching ANC policies to other prisone
The courage and vision of men like Lekota confirmed to us that our view
remained potent, and still represented the best hope for unifying fh
liberation struggle as a whole.
Political feuding continued in IF and G. We learned of a clash among the
ANC, the PAC, and the BCM in the general section. A number of ANC
people had been beaten. A large number of ANC members were charged
by the authorities, and a trial was set for the island's administrative court
The ANC men brought in an outside lawyer to handle the case. Although
I had not witnessed the fight, I was asked to be a character witness. This
was a troubling prospect. While I was more than willing to give testimonials
for my comrades, I did not want to take any action that would
heighten the bitterness between the ANC, the PAC, and the BCM.
I regarded my role in prison not just as the leader of the ANC, but
as a promoter of unity, an honest broker, a peacemaker, and I was reluctant
to take a side in this dispute, even if it was the side of my own organization.
If I testified on behalf of the ANC, I would jeopardize my chances of
bringing about reconciliation among the different groups. If I preached
unity, I must act like a unifier, even at the risk of perhaps alienating some
of my own colleagues.
I decided not to testify. This disappointed some of my colleagues, but
I thought the issue was serious enough to risk their displeasure. It was
more important to show the young Black Consciousness men that the
struggle was indivisible and that we all had the same enemy.
81
IN THEIR ANXIOUSNESS to deal with these young lions, the wthorities
more or less let us fend for ourselves. We were in the secon
year of a go-slow strike at the quarry, demanding a complete end to
manual labor. Our requirement was for the right to do something use with our days, like studying or learning a trade. We no longer even ^ through the motions of working at the quarry; we simply talked am
ourselves. In early 1977, the authorities announced the end or ma
labor. Instead, we could spend our days in our section. They arra &
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 425
some tvpc of work for us to do in the courtyard, but it was merely a fig
leaf to hide their capitulation.
This victory was the combined result of our own unceasing protests
and simple logistics. The authorities normally preferred to have a ratio
of one warder for every three prisoners. Even before the arrival of the
nost-Soweto prisoners, there was a shortage of warders, and the rebellious young men required even greater supervision. They were so bold that
each man seemed to require his own warder. If we remained in our section,
we required less supervision.
The end of manual labor was liberating. I could now spend the day
reading, writing letters, discussing issues with my comrades, or formulating
legal briefs. The free time allowed me to pursue what became two
of my favorite hobbies on Robben Island: gardening and tennis.
To survive in prison, one must develop ways to take satisfaction in
one's daily life. One can feel fulfilled by washing one's clothes so that
they are particularly clean, by sweeping a hallway so that it is empty of
dust, by organizing one's cell to conserve as much space as possible. The
same pride one takes in more consequential tasks outside of prison one
can find in doing small things inside prison.
Almost from the beginning of my sentence on Robben Island, I asked
the authorities for permission to start a garden in the courtyard. For years,
they refused without offering a reason. But eventually they relented, and
we were able to cut out a small garden on a narrow patch of earth against
the far wall.
The soil in the courtyard was dry and rocky. The courtyard had been
constructed over a landfill, and in order to start my garden, I had to
excavate a great many rocks to allow the plants room to grow. At the
toic, some of my comrades jested that I was a miner at heart, for I spent "y days at the quarry and my free time digging in the courtyard.
The authorities supplied me with seeds. I initially planted tomatoes, Allies, and onions -- hardy plants that did not require rich earth or Instant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The ^thorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began 0 nourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes ^d onions.
Vhile I have always enjoyed gardening, it was not until I was behind ar;> that I was able to tend my own garden. My first experience in the
rucn was at Fort Hare where, as part of the university's manual labor
^ui-cnrienc, I worked in one of my professors' gardens and enjoyed the
itacr with the soil as an antidote to my intellectual labors. Once I was
k I
426 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
in Johannesburg studying and then working, I had neither the tim
the space to cultivate a garden. or
I began to order books on gardening and horticulture. I studied differ
gardening techniques and types of fertilizer. I did not have many of rh
materials that the books discussed, but I learned through trial and errn
For a time, I attempted to grow peanuts, and used different soils anrl fertilizers, but finally I gave up. It was one of my only failures.
A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control
To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a
simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this
small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom.
In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of
my life. A leader must also tend his garden; he, too, plants seeds, and
then watches, cultivates, and harvests the result. Like the gardener, a leader
must take responsibility for what he cultivates; he must mind his work
try to repel enemies, preserve what can be preserved, and eliminate what
cannot succeed.
I wrote Winnie two letters about a particularly beautiful tomato plant,
how I coaxed it from a tender seedling to a robust plant that produced
deep red fruit. But, then, either through some mistake or lack of care,
the plant began to wither and decline, and nothing I did would bring it
back to health. When it finally died, I removed the roots from the soil,
washed them, and buried them in a corner of the garden.
I narrated this small story at great length. I do not know what she
read into that letter, but when I wrote it I had a mixture of feelings: I
did not want our relationship to go the way of that plant, and yet I felt
that I had been unable to nourish many of the most important relationships
in my life. Sometimes there is nothing one can do to save something
that must die.
One unanticipated result of ending manual labor was that I began to gain
weight. Though we were doing barely enough labor at the quarry to work
up a sweat, the walk there and back was enough to keep me trim.
I have aways believed that exercise is not only a key to physical he
but to peace of mind. Many times in the old days I unleashed my ange
and frustration on a punching bag rather than taking it out on a comra
or even a policeman. Exercise dissipates tension, and tension is the ene . of serenity. I found that I worked better and thought more clearly v> I was in good physical condition, and so training became one o
inflexible disciplines of my life. In prison, having an outlet for °
frustrations was absolutely essential.
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 427
Even on the island, I attempted to follow my old boxing routine of
doing roadwork and muscle-building from Monday through Thursday
nd then resting for the next three days. On Monday through Thursday,
t ^yould do stationary running in my cell in the morning for up to fortyfive
minutes. I would also perform one hundred fingertip push-ups, two
hundred sit-ups, fifty deep knee-bends, and various other calisthenics.
In my letters to my children, I regularly urged them to exercise, to play some fast-moving sport like basketball, soccer, or tennis to take their
mind off whatever might be bothering them. While I was not always
successful with my children, I did manage to influence some of my more
sedentary colleagues. Exercise was unusual for African men of my age
and generation. After a while, even Walter began to take a few turns
around the courtyard in the morning. I know that some of my younger
comrades looked at me and said to themselves, "If that old man can do
it, why can't I?" They too began to exercise.
From the very first meetings I had with outside visitors and the International Red Cross, I stressed the importance of having the time and
facilities for proper exercise. Only in the mid-ipyos, under the auspices
of the International Red Cross, did we begin to receive things like volleyball
equipment and a Ping-Pong table.
At roughly the same time we finished working at the quarry, one of
the warders had the idea of converting our courtyard into a tennis court.
Its dimensions were perfect. Prisoners from the general section painted
the cement surface green and then fashioned the traditional configuration
of white lines. A few days later a net was put up and suddenly we had
our own Wimbledon in our front yard.
1 had played a bit of tennis when I was at Fort Hare, but I was by no "leans an expert. My forehand was relatively strong, my backhand regrettably
weak. But I pursued the sport for exercise, not style; it was the "^t and only replacement for the walks to and from the quarry. I was one of the first in our section to play regularly. I was a back-court player,
°^y rushing the net when I had a clean slam.
^e manual labor ended, I had much more time for reading, but the ^s I had been using were now out-of-bounds. When my studies were ^led, I was still in the midst of pursuing my LL.B. at the University
^ [ ondon. I had started studying for the LL.B. during the Rivonia Trial we suspension of study privileges for four years would undoubtedly
th re rnŁ "^^ university record for the most number of years pursuing degree.
^the suspension of study privileges had an unintended benefit, and
428 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
that was that I began to read books that I would not otherwise have
Instead of poring over tomes about contract law, I was now absorb rl k
novels.
I did not have an unlimited library to choose from on Robben Isl ri
We had access to many unremembered mysteries and detective novels ri
all the works of Daphne du Maurier, but little more. Political books w
off-limits. Any book about socialism or communism was definitely 01
A request for a book with the word red in the tide, even if it was Litti
Red Riding Hood, would be rejected by the censors. War of the Worlds by
H. G. Wells, though it is a work of science fiction, would be turned down
because the word war appeared in its tide.
From the first, I tried to read books about South Africa or by South
African writers. I read all the unbanned novels ofNadine Gordimer and
learned a great deal about the white liberal sensibility. I read many American
novels, and recall especially John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, in
which I found many similarities between the plight of the migrant workers
in that novel and our own laborers and farmworkers.
One book that I returned to many times was Tolstoy's great work. War
and Peace. (Although the word war was in the tide, this book was permitted.)
I was particularly taken with the portrait of General Kutuzov,
whom everyone at the Russian court underestimated. Kutuzov defeated
Napoleon precisely because he was not swayed by the ephemeral and
superficial values of the court, and made his decisions on a visceral understanding
of his men and his people. It reminded me once again that
to truly lead one's people one must also truly know them.
82
IN THE WAKE of the Soweto student uprising, I learned that Winnie,
along with my old friend and physician. Dr. Nthatho Modana, had become
involved with the Black Parents Association, an organization o
concerned local professionals and church leaders who acted as a guiding
hand and intermediary for the students. The authorities seemed to be ^ wary of the parents association as of the young rebels. In August,
than two months after the student revolt, Winnie was detained under
Internal Security Act and imprisoned without charge in the Fort in
hannesburg, where she was held for five months. During that time, \ ^ able to write to her and my daughters, who were at boarding sc o ^ Swaziland, expressing support and solidarity. I was greatly distress ^ her imprisonment, though she was apparently not mistreated this
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 429
nd emerged from jail in December even firmer in her commitment to
the struggle.
Though banned, Winnie picked up where she left off, and the aurhoriries
were dismayed about her popularity with the young radicals of
Soweto. They were determined to lessen her influence and did it with a
brazen and shameless act: they sent her into internal exile. On the night
ofMav 16, 1977, police cars and a truck pulled up outside of the house
in Orlando West and began loading furniture and clothing into the back
of the truck. This time Winnie was not being arrested, or detained, or
interrogated; she was being banished to a remote township in the Free
State called Brandfort. I discovered the details from Kathy, who had been
given the information from a visiting Hindu priest.
Brandfort is about two hundred fifty miles southwest of Johannesburg,
just north of Bloemfontein, in the Free State. After a long and rough ride, Winnie, Zindzi, and all their possessions were dumped in front of
a three-room tin-roofed shack in Brandfort's bleak African township, a
desperately poor and backward place where the people were under the
thumb of the local white farmers. Winnie was regarded with wariness
and trepidation. The local language was Sesotho, which Winnie did not
speak.
Her new circumstances saddened and angered me. At least when she
was home in Soweto, I could picture her cooking in the kitchen or reading
in the lounge, I could imagine her waking up in the house I knew so
well. That was a source of comfort to me. In Soweto, even if she was
banned, there were friends and family nearby. In Brandfort she and Zindzi
would be alone.
I had passed through this township once on my way to Bloemfontein, ^d took no notice of it. There was nothing memorable in its all too typical poverty and desolateness. I did not know at the time how familiar w address -- house number 802, Brandfort -- would one day become to me- Once again, I felt as though Winnie and I were in prison at the ^e time.
^fe in Brandfort was hard, as I learned from Winnie's letters. They had 0 heat, no toilet, no running water. The township had no shops and the "res in town were hostile to African customers. The whites for the most
rt were Afrikaans-speaking and deeply conservative.
'Vinnic and Zindzi were under constant police surveillance and in- 'Truttenr harassment. Within a few months Zindzi--who was not
. nt;c* ~- was upset by the security police's intimidation. In September, me help of Winnie's lawyers, I brought an urgent application for
430 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
an interdict against the local Brandfort security police to restrain h from harassing my daughter. Affidavits filed before the judge desr 'k
policemen bursting into the house and threatening Zindzi. The n rl ruled that Zindzi could receive visitors in peace. be
Winnie is a resilient person, and within a relatively short time she h r\ won over the people of the township, including some sympathetic whit
in the vicinity. She supplied food to the people in the township with ih
help of Operation Hunger, started a creche or nursery school for rh
township's children, and raised funds to create a medical clinic in a plac
where few people had ever seen a doctor.
In 1978, Zeni, my second-youngest daughter and my first child with Win- me , married Prince Thumbumuzi, a son of King Sobhuza of Swaziland
They had met while Zeni was away at school. Being in prison, I was not
able to fulfill the father's traditional duties. In our culture, the father of
the bride must interview the prospective groom and assess his prospects.
He must also determine lobola, the brideprice, which is paid by the groom
to the bride's family. On the wedding day itself, the father gives away his
daughter. Although I had no doubts about the young man, I asked my
friend and legal adviser George Bizos to be a stand-in for me. I instructed
George to interview the prince about how he intended to look after my
daughter.
George met with the prince in his office and then arranged to consult
with me on Robben Island. Because Zeni was under twenty-one
years of age, it was necessary for me to give my legal consent for her
to marry. I met George in the consulting room and he was surprised to
find a warder in the consulting room with us. I explained that this was
according to regulations because this was considered a family visit not a
legal one. I jestingly reassured George by saying that I had no secrets
from my guards.
George reported how much the two children loved one another and
the bright prospects of my future son-in-law. His father. King Sobhuza.
was an enlightened traditional leader and also a member of the ANC.
George relayed to me some of the requirements made by the young man family, he was at pains to point out that the boy was a Swazi prince.
told George to tell the young man that he was getting a Thembu prince5
There was a tremendous advantage in Zeni's becoming a member o
Swazi royal family: she was immediately granted diplomatic pr1^1 r and could visit me virtually at will. That winter, after she and
bumuzi were married, they came to see me, along with their new
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 431
h^by daughter. Because of the prince's status, we were allowed to meet
one another in the consulting room, not the normal visiting area where
one is separated from one's family by thick walls and glass. I waited for (pern with some nervousness.
It was a truly wondrous moment when they came into the room. I
stood up, and when Zeni saw me, she practically tossed her tiny daughter
to her husband and ran across the room to embrace me. I had not held
my now-grown daughter virtually since she was about her own daughter's
age. It was a dizzying experience, as though time had sped forward in a
science fiction novel, to suddenly hug one's fully grown child. I then
embraced my new son and he handed me my tiny granddaughter whom
I did not let go of for the entire visit. To hold a newborn baby, so
vulnerable and soft in my rough hands, hands that for too long had held
only picks and shovels, was a profound joy. I don't think a man was ever
happier to hold a baby than I was that day.
The visit had a more official purpose and that was for me to choose a
name for the child. It is a custom for the grandfather to select a name,
and the one I had chosen was Zaziwe -- which means "Hope." The name
had special meaning for me, for during all my years in prison hope never
left me -- and now it never would. I was convinced that this child would
be a part of a new generation of South Africans for whom apartheid
would be a distant memory -- that was my dream.
83
I DO NOT KNOW whether it was the upheaval inside the prison after
the Sowcto uprising or the upheaval in my family's life outside of prison,
but in the year or two following 1976 I was in a dreamy, nostalgic state
or mind. In prison, one has time to review the past, and memory becomes
both friend and foe. My memory transported me into moments
of both great joy and sadness. My dream life became very rich, and I
^emcd to pass entire nights reliving the high and low times of the old
days.
I had one recurring nightmare. In the dream, I had just been released "'from prison -- only it was not Robben Island, but a jail in Johannesburg. ^Iked outside the gates into the city and found no one there to meet e- In tact, there was no one there at all, no people, no cars, no taxis. I
°uid then set out on foot toward Soweto. I walked for many hours
tore arriving in Orlando West, and then turned the corner toward 8115. 'lally^ i would see my home, but it turned out to be empty, a ghost
432 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
house, with all the doors and windows open, but no one at all there
But not all my dreams of release were so dark. In 1976 I wrote r Winnie of a happier vision.
The night of 24 February, I dreamt arriving at 8115 finding the house
full of youth dancing away to a mixture of jive and infiba. I caught all
of them by surprise as I walked in unexpectedly. Some greeted me
warmly, whilst others simply melted away shyly. I found the bedroom
equally full with members of the family and close friends. You were
relaxing in bed, with Kgatho [my son Makgatho], looking young and
sleeping against the opposite wall.
Perhaps in that dream I was recalling the two weeks in December
1956 when he was six and when I left Makhulu [Evelyn's mother] alone
in the house. He was living with his mother in O.E. [Orlando East]
then, but a few days before I came back he joined Makhulu and slept
in my bed. He was missing me very much and using the bed must have
relieved the feeling of longing a bit.
While I took joy from dwelling on happy moments, I rued the pain I
had often caused my family through my absence. Here is another letter
from 1976.
As I woke up on the morning of 25 February 1 was missing you and
the children a great deal as always. These days I spend quite some time
thinking of you both as Dadewethu [Sister], Mum, pal and mentor.
What you perhaps don't know is how I often think and actually picture
in my mind all that makes you up physically and spiritually -- the loving
remarks which came daily and the blind eye you've always turned against
those numerous irritations that would have frustrated another
woman. ... I even remember a day when you were bulging with Zindzi,
struggling to cut your nails. I now recall those incidents with a sense
of shame. I could have done it for you. Whether or not I was conscious
of it, my attitude was: I've done my duty, a second brat is on the way,
the difficulties you are now facing as a result of your physical condition
are all yours. My only consolation is the knowledge that I then led a
life where I'd hardly enough time even to think. Only I wonder what
it'll be like when I return. . . .
Your beautiful photo still stands about two feet above my left shoulder
as I write this note. I dust it carefully every morning, for to do so
gives me the pleasant feeling that I'm caressing you as in the old days.
I even touch your nose with mine to recapture the electric current t
used to flush through my blood whenever I did so. Nolitha stands o
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 433
rhc table directly opposite me. How can my spirits ever be down when
t cniov the fond attentions of such wonderful ladies.
Nolid^ was ^\c one Person wn0 was not a member of the family whose
ohofo I kept. I revealed the secret of her identity to my daughter Zindzi
in another letter from 1976.
By the way, has Mum ever told you about Nolitha, the other lady in my cell from the Andaman Islands? She keeps you, Zeni, Ndindi and
Nandi, Mandia [these last three are grandchildren], Maki and Mum
company. It's one matter over which Mum's comments are surprisingly
economic. She regards the pygmy beauty as some sort of rival and
hardiv suspects that I took her picture out of the National Geographic.
I thought continually of the day when I would walk free. Over and
over, I fantasized about what I would like to do. This was one of the
pleasantest ways to pass the time. I put my daydreams on paper, again in
1976.
I wish I could drive you on a long, long journey just as I did on
12/6/58, with the one difference that this time I'd prefer us to be alone.
I've been away from you for so long that the very first thing I would
like to do on my return would be to take you away from that suffocating
atmosphere, drive you along carefully, so that you could have the opportunity
of breathing fresh and clean air, seeing the beauty spots of
South Africa, its green grass and trees, colourful wild flowers, sparkling
streams, animals grazing in the veld and be able to talk to the simple
people we meet along the road. Our first stop would be to the place
where Ma Radebe and CK [Winnie's mother and father] sleep. I hope
they lie next to each other. Then I would be able to pay my respects to
those who have made it possible for me to be as happy and free as I
ani now. Perhaps the stories I've so much wanted to tell you all these
years would begin there. The atmosphere should probably sharpen your Ears and restrain me to concentrate on those aspects which are tasty,
edifying and constructive. Thereafter, we would adjourn and resume next to Mphakanyiswa and Nosekeni [my parents] where the environment
would be similar. I believe we would then be fresh and solid as ^ drive back to 8115.
"hen the authorities began to allow us to receive photographs of ""^late family members in the early ipyos, Winnie sent me an album.
ch enever ^ received a photograph of Winnie, the children, or the grand- rpn 11 would carefully paste it in. I cherished this album; it was the ^at I could see those I loved whenever I wanted.
434 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
But in prison no privilege comes without some accompanying im
iment. Though I was permitted to receive pictures and to keep the alh
warders would often search my cell and confiscate pictures of Wi
Eventually, however, the practice of seizing pictures ceased, and I hi
up my album so that it was thick with pictures of my entire family
I do not remember who first asked to borrow my photo album h
it was undoubtedly someone in my section. I happily loaned had
someone else asked, and then someone else. Soon it became so widel' known that I possessed a photo album that I was receiving requests from
men in IF and G.
The men of IF and G rarely received visitors or even letters and it
would have been ungenerous to deny them this window on the world
But before long I found that my precious photo album was in tatters
and that many of my irreplaceable photographs had been removed. These
men were desperate to have something personal in their cells and could
not help themselves. Each time this happened, I resolved to build up my
album once more.
Sometimes men would just ask me for a photograph rather than the
album. I recall one day a young BE fellow from the general section who
was bringing us food took me aside and said, "Madiba, I would like a
photograph." I said fine, I would send him one. "When?" he said rather
brusquely. I replied that I would try to send it that weekend. This seemed
to satisfy him, and he began to walk away, but suddenly he turned round
and said, "Look, don't send me a photograph of the old lady. Send me
one of the young girls, Zindzi or Zeni -- remember, not the old lady!"
84
IN 1978, after we had spent almost fifteen years agitating for the right
to receive news, the authorities offered us a compromise. Instead of permitting
us to receive newspapers or listen to radio, they started their own
radio news service, which consisted of a daily canned summary of the
news read over the prison's intercom system.
The broadcasts were far from objective or comprehensive. Several ^ the island's censors would compile a brief news digest from other
radio bulletins. The broadcasts consisted of good news for the governine
and bad news for all its opponents. .^
The first broadcast opened with a report about the death of V° Sobukwe. Other early reports concerned the victories of lan Sin
troops in Rhodesia and detentions of government opponents in
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 435
Africa- Despite the slanted nature of the news, we were glad to have it,
nd prided ourselves on reading between the lines and making educated
guesses based on the obvious omissions.
That vear, we learned via the intercom that P. W. Botha had succeeded John Vorster as prime minister. What the warders did not tell us was that
Vorsrer resigned as a result of press revelations about the Department of
Information's misuse of government funds. I knew little about Botha
apart from the fact that he had been an aggressive defense minister and
had supported a military strike into Angola in 1975. We had no sense that
he would be a reformer in any way.
I had recently read an authorized biography of Vorster (this was one
of the books the prison library did have) and found that he was a man
willing to pay for his beliefs; he went to prison for his support of Germany
during the Second World War. We were not sorry to see Vorster go. He
had escalated the battle against freedom to new heights of repression.
But even without our expurgated radio broadcast, we had learned what
the authorities did not want us to know. We learned of the successful
liberation struggles in Mozambique and Angola in 1975 and their emergence
as independent states with revolutionary governments. The tide
was turning our way.
In keeping with the increased openness on the island, we now had our
own cinema. Almost every week, we watched films on a sheet in a large
room adjacent to our corridor. Later, we had a proper screen. The films
were a wonderful diversion, a vivid escape from the bleakness of prison
life.
The first films we saw were silent, black- and-white Hollywood action movies and westerns that were even before my time. I recall one of the
first ones was the The Mark of Zorro, with the swashbuckling Douglas
Fairbanks, a movie that was made in 1920. The authorities seemed to have a weakness for historical films, particularly ones with a stern moral mes- ^ge. Among the early films we saw -- now in color, with dialogue -- ^re The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston as Moses, The King llnci I, with Yul Brynner, and Cleopatra, with Richard Burton and Eliz^th
Taylor.
We were intrigued by The King and I, for to us it depicted the clash
tween the values of East and West, and seemed to suggest that the West a rnud-i to learn from the East. Cleopatra proved controversial; many rr'}' comrades took exception to the fact that the queen of Egypt was
picted by a raven-haired, violet-eyed American actress, however beau- The detractors asserted that the movie was an example of Western
436 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
propaganda that sought to erase the fact that Cleopatra \vas an Af
woman. I related how on my trip to Egypt I saw a splendid sculor lcan a young, ebony-skinned Cleopatra. L
Later, we also saw local South African films with black stars who all knew from the old days. On those nights, our little makeshift rh
echoed with the shouts, whistles, and cheers that greeted the appear
of an old friend on screen. Later, we were permitted to select docum
taries -- a form that I preferred -- and I began to skip the convention l
films. (Although I would never miss a movie with Sophia Loren in ir ^ The documentaries were ordered from the state library and usually se
lected by Ahmed Kathrada, who was our section's librarian. I was particularly
affected by a documentary we saw about the great naval battles
of World War II, which showed newsreel footage of the sinking of
the H.M.S. Prince of Wales by the Japanese. What moved me most was a
brief image ofWinston Churchill weeping after he heard the news of the
loss of the British vessel. The image stayed in my memory a long time and demonstrated to me that there are times when a leader can show
sorrow in public, and that it will not diminish him in the eyes of his
people.
One of the documentaries we watched concerned a controversial American
motorcycle group, the Hell's Angels. The film depicted the Hell's Angels
as reckless, violent, and antisocial, and the police as decent, upstanding,
and trustworthy. When the film ended, we immediately began to discuss
its meaning. Almost without exception the men criticized the Hell's
Angels for their lawless ways. But then Strini Moodley, a bright, young
Black Consciousness member, stood up and accused the assembled group
of being out of touch with the times, for the bikers represented the
equivalent of the Soweto students of 1976 who rebelled against the authorities.
He reproached us for being elderly middle-class intellectuals
who identified with the movie's right-wing authorities instead of with
the bikers.
Strini's accusations caused a furor, and a number of men rose to spe
against him, saying the Hell's Angels were indefensible and it was
insult to compare our struggle with this band of amoral sociopaths.
I considered what Strini said, and while I did not agree with him, Icarn to his defense. Even though the Hell's Angels were unsympathetic, . were the rebels against the authorities, unsavory rebels though they w
I was not interested in the Hell's Angels, but the larger question ^ concerned me was whether we had, as Strini suggested, become s
a mind-set that was no longer revolutionary. We had been in pr150
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 437
" ore than fifteen years; I had been in prison for nearly eighteen. The
nrld that we left was long gone. The danger was that our ideas had
heconu frozen in time. Prison is a still point in a turning world, and it
very easy to remain in the same place in jail while the world moves on.
I had always attempted to remain open to new ideas, not to reject a position because it was new or different. During our years on the island
,g kept up a continuing dialogue about our beliefs and ideas; we debated
them, questioned them, and thereby refined them. I did not think we had
staved in one place; I believe we had evolved.
Although Robben Island was becoming more open, there was as yet
still no sign that the state was reforming its views. Even so, I did not
doubt that I would someday be a free man. We may have been stuck in
one place, but I was confident the world was moving toward our position,
not away from it. The movie reminded me once again that on the day I
did walk out of prison, I did not want to appear to be a political fossil
from an age long past.
It took fifteen years, but in 1979, the authorities announced over the
intercom system that the diet for African, Coloured, and Indian prisoners
would henceforth be the same. But just as justice delayed is justice denied,
a reform so long postponed and so grudgingly enacted was hardly worth
celebrating.
All prisoners were to receive the same amount of sugar in the morning:
a spoonful and a half. But instead of simply increasing the African quota,
the authorities reduced the amount of sugar that Coloured and Indian
prisoners received by half a spoonful, while adding that amount for African
prisoners. A while before, African prisoners had begun to receive
bread in the morning, but that made little difference. We had been pooling bread for years.
Our food had already improved in the previous two years, but not "ecause of the authorities. In the wake of the Soweto uprising, the au- "lorities had decided that the island would become the exclusive home 01 wuth Africa's "security prisoners." The number of general prisoners au been drastically reduced. As a result, political prisoners were recruited 0 ^ork in the kitchen for the first time. Once political prisoners were in e kitchen, our diet improved dramatically. This was not because they
re better chefs, but because the smuggling of food immediately stopped. ^Gad of siphoning off food for themselves or to bribe the warders, the w ^ooks used all the food allotted us. Vegetables became more abun- nt' anc^ chunks of meat began to appear in our soups and stews. Only
did we realize we should have been eating such food for years.
438	LONG WALK TO FREEDC
85
IN THE SUMMER OF 1979,1 was playing tennis in the courtyard
when my opponent hit a cross-court shot that I strained to reach As T
ran across the court, I felt a pain in my right heel that was so intense I had to stop playing. For the next few days I walked with a severe limn
I was examined by a doctor on the island who decided I should so to
Cape Town to see a specialist. The authorities had become more solicitous
of our health, afraid that if we died in prison they would be condemned
by the international community.
Although under normal circumstances I and the other men would
relish a visit to Cape Town, going as a prisoner was altogether different.
I was handcuffed and kept in a remote corner of the boat surrounded by
five armed warders. The sea was rough that day, and the boat shuddered
at every wave. About midway between the island and Cape Town, I
thought we were in danger of capsizing. I spied a lifejacket behind two
warders young enough to be my grandsons. I said to myself, "If this boat
goes under, I will commit my last sin on earth and run over those two
boys to get that lifejacket." But in the end, it was unnecessary.
On the docks, we were met by more armed guards and a small crowd.
It is a humiliating experience to watch the fear and disgust on ordinary
citizens' faces when they watch a convict go by. My inclination was to
duck down and hide, but one could not do that.
I was examined by a young surgeon who asked if I had ever before
injured my heel. In fact, I had when I was at Fort Hare. One afternoon,
I was playing soccer when I attempted to steal the ball and felt a searing
pain in my heel. I was taken to the local hospital, the first time in my life
I had ever been to a hospital or seen a doctor. Where I grew up, there
was no such thing as an African doctor, and going to see a white doctor
was unheard of.
The Fort Hare doctor examined my heel and said he would need to
operate. The diagnosis alarmed me, and I abruptly told him that 1 ( not want him to touch me. At that stage in my life I regarded seeing
doctor as unmanly and having a medical procedure seemed even wors ^ "Suit yourself," he said, "but when you are old this thing will worry you-
The Cape Town surgeon X-rayed my heel and discovered bone irag
ments that had probably been there since Fort Hare. He said he co
remove them in a procedure that could be performed with a local
thetic right in his office. I immediately agreed. . . The
surgery went well, and when it was over, the doctor was expw
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 439
nic how to care for my heel. He was abruptly interrupted by the head
u'ardcr, who said that I had to return immediately to Robben Island. The
surgeon was incensed by this and in his most authoritative manner said
that it was necessary for Mr. Mandela to remain in hospital overnight and
that he would not release me under any circumstances. The warder was
intimidated and acquiesced.
My first night in a proper hospital turned out to be quite pleasant.
The nurses fussed over me a good deal. I slept very well, and in the
morning, a group of nurses came in and said that I should keep the
pajamas and dressing gown that I had been given. I thanked them and
told them that I would be the envy of all my comrades.
I found the trip instructive in another way because in that hospital I
sensed a thawing in the relationship between black and white. The doctor
and nurses had treated me in a natural way as though they had been
dealing with blacks on a basis of equality all their lives. This was something
new and different to me, and an encouraging sign. It reaffirmed my longheld
belief that education was the enemy of prejudice. These were men
and women of science, and science had no room for racism.
My only regret was that I did not have the opportunity to contact
Winnie before I went into hospital. Rumors had appeared in newspapers
that I was at death's door and she had become quite concerned. But when
I returned, I wrote to her to dispel her fears.
In 1980, we were granted the right to buy newspapers. This was a victory,
but as always, each new privilege contained within it a catch. The new
regulation stated that A Group prisoners were granted the right to buy
one English-language newspaper and one Afrikaans newspaper a day. But
the annoying caveat was that any A Group prisoner found sharing his "ewspapcr with a non--A Group prisoner would lose his newspaper privileges.
We protested against this restriction, but to no avail.
We received two daily newspapers: the Cape Times and Die Burger. "oth were conservative papers, especially the latter. Yet prison censors ^nt through each of those newspapers every day with scissors, clipping ""tides that they deemed unsafe for us to see. By the time we received "lern, they were filled with holes. We were soon able to supplement these Papers with copies of the Star, the Rand Daily Mail, and the Sunday lms' but these papers were even more heavily censored.
e -icory I was certainly not able to read was in the Johannesburg Sunday 05t in March 1980. The headline was "FREE MANDELA!" Inside was
PStition that people could sign to ask for my release and that of my
o\v political prisoners. While newspapers were still barred from print440 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ing my picture or any words I had ever said or written, the Post's camn '
ignited a public discussion of our release. "
The idea had been conceived in Lusaka by Oliver and the anc
the campaign was the cornerstone of a new strategy that would our cause in the forefront of people's minds. The ANC had decided to o sonalize the quest for our release by centering the campaign on a sinpl figure. There is no doubt that the millions of people who subsequently became supporters of this campaign had no idea of precisely who Nelson
Mandela was. (I am told that when "Free Mandela" posters went up in
London, most young people thought my Christian name was Free.) There
were a handful of dissenting voices on the island who felt that personalizing
the campaign was a betrayal of the collectivity of the organization
but most people realized that it was a technique to rouse the people.
The previous year I had been awarded the Jawaharial Nehru Human
Rights Award in India, another bit of evidence of the resurgence of the
struggle. I was of course refused permission to attend the ceremony, as
was Winnie, but Oliver accepted the award in my absence. We had a sense
of a reviving ANC. Umkhonto we Sizwe was stepping up its sabotage
campaign, which had become far more sophisticated. In June, MK set
off bombs at the vast Sasolburg refinery just south of Johannesburg. MK
was orchestrating an explosion a week at some strategic site or another.
Bombs exploded at power stations in the eastern Transvaal, at police
stations in Germiston, Daveyton, New Brighton, and elsewhere, and at
the Voortrekkerhoogte military base outside Pretoria. These were all strategically
significant locations, places that would attract attention and
worry the state. The defense minister. General Magnus Malan, backed by
P. W. Botha, introduced a policy known as "total onslaught," which was
a militarization of the country to combat the liberation struggle.
The Free Mandela campaign had its lighter side as well. In 1981, ( learned that the students at the University of London had nominated me
as a candidate for the honorific post of university chancellor. This was a
wonderful honor, to be sure, and my rivals were none other than Princess
Anne and the trade union leader Jack Jones. In the end, I polled 7^99
votes and lost to the daughter of the queen. I-wrote to Winnie in Brandfort
that I hoped the voting might have for a moment turned her hunib e
shack into a castle, making its tiny rooms as grand as the ballroom
Windsor. ,
The campaign for our release rekindled our hopes. During the ha
days of the early 1970S, when the ANC seemed to sink into the shadow ^ we had to force ourselves not to give into despair. In many ways, ^ miscalculated; we had thought that by the 1970s we would be living
democratic, nonracial South Africa. Yet as we entered the new deca
& ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 441
hopes for that South Africa rose once again. Some mornings I walked
nut in1'0 ^ courtyard and every living thing there, the seagulls and wagtails, the small trees, and even the stray blades of grass seemed to ..rnilc and shine in the sun. It was at such times when I perceived the
heautv of even this small, closed-in corner of the world, that I knew that
sonu'dav my people and I would be free.
86
LIKE MY FATHER BEFORE ME, I had been groomed to be a
counselor to the king of the Thembu. Although I had chosen a different
path, I tried in my own fashion to live up to the responsibilities of the
role for which I had been schooled. From prison, I did my best to remain
in contact with the king and advise him as best I could. As I grew older,
my thoughts turned more and more often to the green hills of the Transkei.
Although I would never move there under the government's auspices, I
dreamed of one day returning to a free Transkei. Thus, it was with great
dismay that I learned in 1980 that the king, Sabata Dalindyebo, the paramount chief of the Thembu, had been deposed by my nephew, K. D.
Matanzima, the prime minister of the Transkei.
A group of Thembu chiefs requested an urgent visit with me, which
was approved by the authorities, who were usually willing to countenance
visits by traditional leaders -- believing that the more involved I was in
tribal and Transkei matters, the less committed I would be to the struggle.
The government promoted the power of traditional leaders as a counterpoint
to the ANC. While many of my comrades thought we should
disavow those leaders, my inclination was to reach out to them. There is
no contradiction between being a traditional leader and a member of the
ANC. This spurred one of the longest and most delicate debates we had
°n the island: whether or not the ANC should participate in government- ^onsored institutions. Many of the men considered this collaborationist. ^nce again, I thought it necessary to draw a distinction between principle 111(1 tactics. To me, the critical question was a tactical one: Will our ^ganization emerge stronger through participating in these organizations or by boycotting them? In this case, I thought we would emerge stronger °y Participating.
, CL ^ith the chiefs in a large room in the visiting area, and they explained
elr dilemma. Although their hearts were with Sabata, they feared Ma,
^^a. After listening to their presentation, I advised them to throw
'j--'tfport to Sabata against Matanzima, who was illegally and shame442 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
fully usurping power from the king. I sympathized with their siruar but I could not condone Matanzima's actions. I asked them to convev '
support to Sabata and my disapproval to Matanzima.
Matanzima had also proposed a visit to discuss Sabata and fam'l
matters. As my nephew, he had actually been requesting such a visit if
a number of years. Although Matanzima claimed to want to discuss fam
ily matters, such a visit would have political consequences. From th
moment of Matanzima's first request, I referred the matter to the Hieh
Organ and the ANC men in our section. Some simply shrugged their
shoulders and said, "He's your nephew; he has a right to visit." Raymond
Govan, and Kathy, however, insisted that although such a visit could be
explained away as a family matter, it would be interpreted by many people
inside and outside as a sign of my endorsement of the man and his policies.
That was the reason why Matanzima wanted to visit, and the reason
such a visit was unacceptable.
I understood and in large part agreed with their arguments, but I
wanted to meet with my nephew. I have always had perhaps too high a
regard for the importance of face-to-face meetings and of my own ability in such a meeting to persuade men to change their views. I was hoping
I could convince Matanzima to modify his policies.
Eventually, the ANC men in our section decided not to object to a
visit. In the interests of democracy, we then consulted with our men in IF and G on the matter, and they were adamantly opposed. Steve Tshwete,
who was one of the leading ANC figures in the general section, said such
a visit would help Matanzima politically and was therefore out of the
question. Many of them noted that Matanzima had already tried to coopt
my approval by making Winnie's father, Columbus Madikizela, the minister
of agriculture in his government. This was bad enough, they said,
without Madiba agreeing to see him. I bowed to the views of the membership
in the general section and regretfully informed the authorities
that I would not accept a visit from my nephew.
In March of 1982,1 was told by the prison authorities that my wife had
been in a car accident, and that she was in hospital. They had very little
information, and I had no idea other condition or what her circumstances
were. I accused the authorities of holding back information, and Irna an urgent application for my attorney to visit me. The authorities us
information as a weapon, and it was a successful one. I was preoccup
with my wife's health until I was visited on March 31 by Winnie's attorn , and my friend Dullah Omar.
Dullah quickly eased my mind about Winnie. She had been in a c
ROBBEN ISLAND: BEGINNING TO HOPE 443
that overturned but she was all right. Our visit was brief, and as I was
led back to Section B my mind was still dwelling on Winnie, and I was
niaeued by the feeling of powerlessness and my inability to help her.
I had not been in my cell long when I was visited by the commanding
officer and a number of other prison officials. This was highly unusual;
the commanding officer did not generally pay calls on prisoners in their
cells. I stood up when they arrived, and the commander actually entered
niy cell. There was barely room for the two of us.
"Mandela," he said, "I want you to pack up your things."
I asked him why.
"We are transferring you," he said simply.
Where?
"I cannot say," he replied.
I demanded to know why. He told me only that he had received
instructions from Pretoria that I was to be transferred off the island
immediately. The commanding officer left and went in turn to the cells
of Walter, Raymond Mhlaba, and Andrew Miangeni and gave them the
same order.
I was disturbed and unsettled. What did it mean? Where were we going?
In prison, one can only question and resist an order to a certain point,
then one must succumb. We had no warning, no preparation. I had been
on the island for over eighteen years, and to leave so abruptly?
We were each given several large cardboard boxes in which to pack
our things. Everything that I had accumulated in nearly two decades
could fit in these few boxes. We packed in little more than half an hour.
There was a commotion in the corridor when the other men learned
we were leaving, but we had no time to say a proper good-bye to our
comrades of many years. This is another one of the indignities of prison.
The bonds of friendship and loyalty with other prisoners count for nothing
with the authorities.
Within minutes we were on board the ferry headed for Cape Town. I
looked back at the island as the light was fading, not knowing whether or nor I would ever see it again. A man can get used to anything, and I
"ad grown used to Robben Island. I had lived there for almost two decades arlu while it was never a home -- my home was in Johannesburg -- it au become a place where I felt comfortable. I have always found change 'nicult, and leaving Robben Island, however grim it had been at times, as no exception. I had no idea what to look forward to.
^ the docks, surrounded by armed guards, we were hustled into a ^dowless truck. The four of us stood in the dark while the truck drove
444 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
for what seemed considerably longer than an hour. We passed thrn
various checkpoints, and finally came to a stop. The back doors swi
open, and in the dark we were marched up some concrete steps a rt
through metal doors into another security facility. I managed to ask
guard where we were.
"Pollsmoor Prison," he said.
Part Ten
TALKING WITH
THE ENEMY
87
pOLLSMOOR MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON is located on the
edge °t a prosperous white suburb of green lawns and tidy houses called
Tokai, a few miles southeast of Cape Town. The prison itself is set amidst
the strikingly beautiful scenery of the Cape, between the mountains of
Constantiaberge to the north and hundreds of acres of vineyards to the
south. But this natural beauty was invisible to us behind Pollsmoor's high
concrete walls. At Pollsmoor I first understood the truth of Oscar Wilde's
haunting line about the tent of blue that prisoners call the sky.
Pollsmoor had a modern face but a primitive heart. The buildings,
particularly the ones for the prison staff, were clean and contemporary;
but the housing for the prisoners was archaic and dirty. With the exception
of ourselves, all men at Pollsmoor were common-law prisoners, and their
treatment was backward. We were kept separately from them and treated
differently.
It was not until the next morning that we got a proper sense of our
surroundings. The four of us had been given what was in effect the prison's
penthouse: a spacious room on the third and topmost floor of the prison.
We were the only prisoners on the entire floor. The main room was clean,
modern, and rectangular, about fifty feet by thirty, and had a separate
section with a toilet, urinal, two sinks, and two showers. There were four
proper beds, with sheets, and towels, a great luxury for men who had
^ent much of the last eighteen years sleeping on thin mats on a stone
floor. Compared to Robben Island, we were in a five-star hotel.
We also had our own L-shaped terrace, an open, outdoor section that
^s as long as half a soccer field, where we were allowed out during the
day. It had white concrete walls about twelve feet high, so that we could
^e only the sky, except in one corner where we could make out the ridges
01 the Constantiaberge mountains, in particular a section known as the
'^phant's Eye. I sometimes thought of this bit of mountain as the tip
c\f k 
the iceberg of the rest of the world.
u was greatly disorienting to be uprooted so suddenly and without
, P^oation. One must be prepared for precipitate movements in prison,
1 °"c does not ever get used to them. Though we were now on the
"'"land, we felt more isolated. For us, the island had become the locus
^e struggle. We took solace in each other's company, and spent those
v ^eks speculating on why we had been transferred. We knew the
'^rities had long resented and feared the influence we had on younger
448 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM j
prisoners. But the reason seemed to be more strategic: we believed i-k
authorities were attempting to cut off the head of the ANC on the isia ^ by removing its leadership. Robben Island itself was becoming a sustainin
myth in the struggle, and they wanted to rob it of some of its symbol
import by removing us. Walter, Raymond, and I were members of th
High Organ, but the one piece that did not fit was the presence of
Miangeni. Andrew was not a member of the High Organ and had nor
been in the forefront of the island leadership, although we considered
the possibility that the authorities did not know this. Their intelligence
about the organization was often inexact.
One of our hypotheses seemed to be confirmed a few months later
when we were joined by Kathy, who had indeed been a member of the
High Organ. More important, Kathy had been our chief of communications,
and it was because of his work that we were able to communicate
with new young prisoners.
A few weeks after Kathy arrived, we were also joined by a man we did
not know who had not even come from Robben Island. Patrick Maqubela
was a young lawyer and ANC member from the eastern Cape. He had
been articled to Griffiths Mxenge, a highly respected attorney who had
appeared for many detained ANC men and who had been assassinated
near Durban the year before. Maqubela was serving a twenty-year sentence
for treason and had been transferred to Pollsmoor from Diepkloof in
Johannesburg, where he had made waves by organizing prisoners.
At first, we were skeptical of this new arrival, and wondered if he could
perhaps be a security plant by the authorities. But we soon saw that this
was not the case. Patrick was a bright, amiable, undaunted fellow with
whom we got along very well. It could not have been easy for him bunking
in with a group of old men set in their ways who had been together for
the previous two decades.
We were now in a world of concrete. I missed the natural splendor of
Robben Island. But our new home had many consolations. For one thing,
the food at Pollsmoor was far superior; after years of eating pap three
meals a day, Pollsmoor's dinners of proper meat and vegetables were li e
a feast. We were permitted a fairly wide range of newspapers and mag
azines, and could receive such previously contraband publications as I" magazine and The Guardian weekly from London. This gave us a win "\ on the wider world. We also had a radio, but one that received only 1°^ stations, not what we really wanted: the BBC World Service. We w allowed out on our terrace all day long, except between twelve an
when the warders had their lunch. There was not even a pretense tn ^ had to work. I had a small cell near our large one that functione
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 449
study, with a chair, desk, and bookshelves, where I could read and write
during the day.
On Robben Island I would do my exercises in my own cramped cell,
but now I had room to stretch out. At Pollsmoor, I would wake up at
five and do an hour and a half of exercise in our communal cell. I did my
usual regimen of stationary running, skipping rope, sit-ups, and fingertip
press-ups. My comrades were not early risers and my program soon made
me a 'cry unpopular fellow in our cell.
I was visited by Winnie shortly after arriving at Pollsmoor and was
pleased to find that the visiting area was far better and more modern than
the one on Robben Island. We had a large glass barrier through which
one could see the visitor from the waist up and far more sophisticated
microphones so that we did not have to strain to hear. The window gave
at least the illusion of greater intimacy, and in prison, illusions can offer
comfort.
It was far easier for my wife and family to get to Pollsmoor than Robben
Island, and this made a tremendous difference. The supervision of visits
also became more humane. Often, Winnie's visits were overseen by Warrant
Officer James Gregory, who had been a censor on Robben Island. I
had not known him terribly well, but he knew us, because he had been
responsible for reviewing our incoming and outgoing mail.
At Pollsmoor I got to know Gregory better and found him a welcome
contrast to the typical warder. He was polished and soft-spoken, and
treated Winnie with courtesy and deference. Instead of barking, "Time
up!" he would say, "Mrs. Mandela, you have five more minutes."
The Bible tells us that gardens preceded gardeners, but that was not the ^se at Pollsmoor, where I cultivated a garden that became one of my
happiest diversions. It was my way of escaping from the monolithic concrete
world that surrounded us. Within a few weeks of surveying all the
empty space we had on the building's roof and how it was bathed in sun ^e whole day, I decided to start a garden and received permission to do s0 from the commanding officer. I requested that the prison service supply rnc with sixteen 44-gallon oil drums that I had them slice in half. The ^thorities then filled each half with rich, moist soil, creating in effect "liny-two giant flowerpots.
I grew onions, eggplant, cabbage, cauliflower, beans, spinach, carrots, Lumbers, broccoli, beetroot, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries,
10 rnuch more. At its height, I had a small farm with nearly nine hundred
^ts; ,1 garden far grander than the one I had on Robben Island. "on-ic of the seeds I purchased and some -- for example, broccoli and
rrots -- were given to me by the commanding officer. Brigadier Munro,
450 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
who was particularly fond of these vegetables. Warders also gave me s
of vegetables they liked, and I was supplied with excellent manure to
as fertilizer.
Each morning, I put on a straw hat and rough gloves and worked '
the garden for two hours. Every Sunday, I would supply vegetables r the kitchen so that they could cook a special meal for the common-law
prisoners. I also gave quite a lot of my harvest to the warders, who used
to bring satchels to take away their fresh vegetables.
At Pollsmoor, our problems tended to be less consequential than those
we experienced on Robben Island. Brigadier Munro was a decent, helpful
man, who took extra pains to make sure we had what we wanted. Nevertheless,
small problems sometimes got blown out of proportion. In 1983
during a visit with Winnie and Zindzi, I mentioned to my wife that I
had been given shoes that were a size too small and were pinching my toe. Winnie was concerned, and I soon learned that there were press
reports that I was having a toe amputated. Because of the difficulty of
communication, information from prison often becomes exaggerated in
the outside world. If I had simply been able to telephone my wife and
tell her that my foot was fine, such confusion would not have happened.
A short while later, Helen Suzman was permitted to visit, and she inquired
about my toe. I thought the best answer was a demonstration: I took off
my socks, held my bare foot up to the glass, and wiggled my toes.
We complained about the dampness in our cell, which was causing us
to catch colds. Later, I heard reports that South African newspapers were
writing that our cell was flooded. We asked for contact with other prisoners,
and in general made the same basic complaint that we always had:
to be treated as political prisoners.
In May of 1984,1 found some consolation that seemed to make up for
all the discomforts. At a scheduled visit from Winnie, Zeni, and her
youngest daughter, I was escorted down to the visiting area by Sergeant
Gregory, who instead of taking me to the normal visiting area, ushered
me into a separate room where there was only a small table, and no
dividers of any kind. He very softly said to me that the authorities had
made a change. That day was the beginning of what were known as
"contact" visits. .
He then went outside to see my wife and daughter and asked to spe
to Winnie privately. Winnie actually got a fright when Gregory took her
aside, thinking that I was perhaps ill. But Gregory escorted her aroun
the door and before either of us knew it, we were in the same room a
in each other's arms. I kissed and held my wife for the first time 1" these many years. It was a moment I had dreamed about a thousand a
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 451
It was as if I were still dreaming. I held her to me for what seemed like
an eternity. We were still and silent except for the sound of our hearts. I
did not want to let go of her at all, but I broke free and embraced my
daughter and then took her child into my lap. It had been twenty-one
years since I had even touched my wife's hand.
88
AT POLLSMOOR, we were more connected to outside events. We
were aware that the struggle was intensifying, and that the efforts of the
enemy were similarly increasing. In 1981, the South African Defense Force
launched a raid on ANC offices in Maputo, Mozambique, killing thirteen
of our people, including women and children. In December 1982, MK
set off explosions at the unfinished Koeberg nuclear power plant outside
Cape Town and placed bombs at many other military and apartheid targets
around the country. That same month, the South African military again
attacked an ANC outpost in Maseru, Lesotho, killing forty-two people,
including a dozen women and children.
In August of 1982, activist Ruth First was opening her mail in Maputo,
where she was living in exile, when she was murdered by a letter bomb.
Ruth, the wife of Joe Slovo, was a brave anti-apartheid activist who had
spent a number of months in prison. She was a forceful, engaging woman
whom I first met when I was studying at Wits, and her death revealed
the extent of the state's cruelty in combating our struggle.
MK's first car bomb attack took place in May of 1983, and was aimed
at an air force and military intelligence office in the heart of Pretoria.
This was an effort to retaliate for the unprovoked attacks the military had
launched on the ANC in Maseru and elsewhere and was a clear escalation
of the armed struggle. Nineteen people were killed and more than two
hundred injured.
The killing of civilians was a tragic accident, and I felt a profound
horror at the death toll. But as disturbed as I was by these casualties, I
"nc^ that such accidents were the inevitable consequence of the decision
to embark on a military struggle. Human fallibility is always a part of
ar! and the price for it is always high. It was precisely because we knew
3t such incidents would occur that our decision to take up arms had
een s() srave and reluctant. But as Oliver said at the time of the bombing,
e ai-n-icd struggle was imposed upon us by the violence of the apartheid
^ginic.
°orh me government and the ANC were working on two tracks:
^ary and political. On the political front, the government was pursuing
iL
452 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
its standard divide-and-rule strategy in attempting to separate Afr
from Coloureds and Indians. In a referendum of November iosi i, white electorate endorsed P. W. Botha's plan to create a so-called tricarn
Parliament, with Indian and Coloured chambers in addition to the wh
Parliament. This was an effort to lure Indians and Coloureds into rh
system, and divide them from Africans. But the offer was merely a "t
telephone," as all parliamentary action by Indians and Coloureds was subject to a white veto. It was also a way of fooling the outside world
into thinking that the government was reforming apartheid. Botha's ruse
did not fool the people, as more than 80 percent of eligible Indian and
Coloured voters boycotted the election to the new houses of Parliament
in 1984.
Powerful grassroots political movements were being formed inside the
country that had firm links to the ANC, the principal one being the
United Democratic Front, of which I was named a patron. The UDF had
been created to coordinate protest against the new apartheid constitution
in 1983, and the first elections to the segregated tricameral Parliament in
1984. The UDF soon blossomed into a powerful organization that united
over six hundred anti-apartheid organizations -- trade unions, community
groups, church groups, student associations.
The ANC was experiencing a new birth of popularity. Opinion polls
showed that the Congress was far and away the most popular political
organization among Africans even though it had been banned for a quarter
of a century. The anti-apartheid struggle as a whole had captured the
attention of the world; in 1984, Bishop Desmond Tutu was awarded the
Nobel Peace Prize. (The authorities refused to send Bishop Tutu my letter
of congratulations.) The South African government was under growing
international pressure, as nations all across the globe began to impose
economic sanctions on Pretoria.
The government had sent "feelers" to me over the years, beginning with
Minister Kruger's efforts to persuade me to move to the Transkei. These
were not efforts to negotiate, but attempts to isolate me from my organization.
On several other occasions, Kruger said to me: "Mandela, we
can work with you, but not your colleagues. Be reasonable." Althougn
did not respond to these overtures, the mere fact that they were talking
rather than attacking could be seen as a prelude to genuine negotiations^
The government was testing the waters. In late 1984 and early xp^ had visits from two prominent Western statesmen. Lord Nicholas Bet e '
a member of the British House of Lords and the European Parliament and Samuel Dash, a professor of law at Georgetown University an
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 453
former counsel to the U.S. Senate Watergate Committee. Both visits were
authorized by the new minister of justice, Kobie Coetsee, who appeared
to be a new sort of Afrikaner leader.
I met Lord Bethell in the prison commander's office, which was dominated
by a large photograph of a glowering President Botha. Bethell was
a jovial, rotund man and when I first met him, I teased him about his
stoutness. "You look like you are related to Winston Churchill," I said as
we shook hands, and he laughed.
Lord Bethell wanted to know about our conditions at Pollsmoor and
I told him. We discussed the armed struggle and I explained to him it
was not up to us to renounce violence, but the government. I reaffirmed
that we aimed for hard military targets, not people. "I would not want
our men to assassinate, for instance, the major here," I said, pointing
to Major Fritz van Sittert, who was monitoring the talks. Van Sittert
was a good-natured fellow who did not say much, but he started at my
remark.
In my visit with Professor Dash, which quickly followed that of Lord
Bethell, I laid out what I saw as the minimum for a future nonracial
South Africa: a unitary state without homelands; nonracial elections for
the central Parliament; and one-person-one-vote. Professor Dash asked
me whether I took any encouragement from the government's stated
intention of repealing the mixed-marriage laws and certain other apartheid
statutes. "This is a pinprick," I said. "It is not my ambition to marry a
white woman or swim in a white pool. It is political equality that we
want." I told Dash quite candidly that at the moment we could not defeat
the government on the battlefield, but could make governing difficult for
them.
I had one not-so-pleasant visit from two Americans, editors of the
conservative newspaper the Washington Times. They seemed less intent
°n finding out my views than on proving that I was a Communist and a terrorist. All of their questions were slanted in that direction, and when 1 reiterated that I was neither a Communist nor a terrorist, they attempted
to show that I was not a Christian either by asserting that the Reverend "wrtin Luther King never resorted to violence. I told them that the ^nditions in which Martin Luther King struggled were totally different "^m my own: the United States was a democracy with constitutional
c^arantces of equal rights that protected nonviolent protest (though there as still prejudice against blacks); South Africa was a police state with a ""stitution that enshrined inequality and an army that responded to
°nvio]cnce with force. I told them that I was a Christian and had always
en a (Christian. Even Christ, I said, when he was left with no alternative,
i E
454 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
used force to expel the moneylenders from the temple. He was not a
of violence, but had no choice but to use force against evil. I do not rh' \r I persuaded them.
Faced with trouble at home and pressure from abroad, P. W. Botha offer li a tepid, halfway measure. On January 31,1985, in a debate in Parliament. the state president publicly offered me my freedom if I "unconditionallv
rejected violence as a political instrument." This offer was extended to all
political prisoners. Then, as if he were staking me to a public challenge
he added, "It is therefore not the South Africa government which now
stands in the way of Mr. Mandela's freedom. It is he himself."
I had been warned by the authorities that the government was going
to make a proposal involving my freedom, but I had not been prepared
for the fact that it would be made in Parliament by the state president.
By my reckoning, it was the sixth conditional offer the government had
made for my release in the past ten years. After I listened to the speech
on radio, I made a request to the commander of the prison for an urgent
visit by my wife and my lawyer, Ismail Ayob, so that I could dictate my
response to the state president's offer.
Winnie and Ismail were not given permission to visit for a week, and
in the meantime I wrote a letter to the foreign minister, Pik Botha,
rejecting the conditions for my release, while also preparing a public
response. I was keen to do a number of things in this response, because
Botha's offer was an attempt to drive a wedge between me and my colleagues
by tempting me to accept a policy the ANC rejected. I wanted to
reassure the ANC in general and Oliver in particular that my loyalty
to the organization was beyond question. I also wished to send a message
to the government that while I rejected its offer because of the conditions
attached to it, I nevertheless thought negotiation, not war, was the path
to a solution.
Botha wanted the onus of violence to rest on my shoulders and 1
wanted to reaffirm to the world that we were only responding to the
violence done to us. I intended to make it clear that if I emerged from
prison into the same circumstances in which I was arrested, I would
forced to resume the same activities for which I was arrested.
I met with Winnie and Ismail on a Friday; on Sunday, a UDF ra \ was to be held in Soweto's Jabulani Stadium, where my response wou
be made public. Some guards with whom I was not familiar supervi
the visit, and as we began discussing my response to the state presi _
one of the warders, a relatively young fellow, interrupted to say that .^ family matters were permitted to be discussed. I ignored him, an
returned minutes later with a senior warder whom I barely kn^-
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 455
warder said that I must cease discussing politics, and I told him that I .yas dealing with a matter of national importance involving an offer from
the state president. I warned him that if he wanted to halt the discussion
he must get direct orders from the state president himself. "If you are pot willing to telephone the state president to get those orders," I said
coldly, "then kindly do not interrupt us again." He did not.
I gave Ismail and Winnie the speech I had prepared. In addition to
responding to the government, I wanted to thank publicly the UDF for
its fine work and to congratulate Bishop Tutu on his prize, adding that
his award belonged to all the people. On Sunday, February 10, 1985, my
daughter Zindzi read my response to a cheering crowd of people who
had not been able to hear my words legally anywhere in South Africa for
more than twenty years.
Zindzi was a dynamic speaker like her mother, and said that her father
should be at the stadium to speak the words himself. I was proud to know
that it was she who spoke my words.
I am a member of the African National Congress. I have always been
a member of the African National Congress and I will remain a member
of the African National Congress until the day I die. Oliver Tambo is
more than a brother to me. He is my greatest friend and comrade for
nearly fifty years. If there is any one amongst you who cherishes my
freedom, Oliver Tambo cherishes it more, and I know that he would
give his life to see me free. . . .
I am surprised at the conditions that the government wants to impose
on me. I am not a violent man. ... It was only then, when all other
forms of resistance were no longer open to us, that we turned to armed
struggle. Let Botha show that he is different to Malan, Strijdom and
Verwocrd. Let him renounce violence. Let him say that he will dismantle
apartheid. Let him unban the people's organization, the African National
Congress. Let him free all who have been imprisoned, banished
or exiled for their opposition to apartheid. Let him guarantee free
political activity so that people may decide who will govern them.
I cherish my own freedom dearly, but I care even more for your
rreedom. Too many have died since I went to prison. Too many have Offered for the love of freedom. I owe it to their widows, to their "tphans, to their mothers, and to their fathers who have grieved and ^pt tor them. Not only I have suffered during these long, lonely, ^stcd years. I am not less life-loving than you are. But I cannot sell rnv birthright, nor am I prepared to sell the birthright of the people
to be free. . . .
"hat freedom am I being offered while the organization of the
I I
456 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
people remains banned? What freedom am I being offered when I m
be arrested on a pass offense? What freedom am I being offered to liv
my life as a family with my dear wife who remains in banishment in
Brandfort? What freedom am I being offered when I must ask for
permission to live in an urban area? . . . What freedom am I beine offered when my very South African citizenship is not respected?
Only free men can negotiate. Prisoners cannot enter into contracts.
... I cannot and will not give any undertaking at a time when
I and you, the people, are not free. Your freedom and mine cannot be
separated. I will return.
89
IN 1985 after a routine medical examination with the prison doctor, I was
referred to a urologist, who diagnosed an enlarged prostate gland and
recommended surgery. He said the procedure was routine. I consulted
with my family and decided to go ahead with the operation.
I was taken to Volks Hospital in Cape Town, under heavy security.
Winnie flew down and was able to see me prior to the surgery. But I had
another visitor, a surprising and unexpected one: Kobie Coetsee, the
minister of justice. Not long before, I had written to Coetsee pressing
him for a meeting to discuss talks between the ANC and the government.
He did not respond. But that morning, the minister dropped by the
hospital unannounced as if he were visiting an old friend who was laid
up for a few days. He was altogether gracious and cordial, and for the
most part we simply made pleasantries. Though I acted as though this
was the most normal thing in the world, I was amazed. The government,
in its slow and tentative way, was reckoning that they had to come to
some accommodation with the ANC. Coetsee's visit was an olive
branch.
Although we did not discuss politics, I did bring up one sensitive issuc^ and that was the status of my wife. In August, shortly before I entere
the hospital, Winnie had gone to Johannesburg to receive medical trea
ment. The only trips she was permitted from Brandfort were to visit either
me or her doctor. While in Johannesburg, her house in Brandfort
the clinic behind it were firebombed and destroyed. Winnie had no p a'- in which to reside, and she decided to remain in Johannesburg dcsp the fact that the city was off-limits to her. Nothing happened for a
weeks, and then the security police wrote to inform her that the
in Brandfort had been repaired and she must return. But she refuse
do so. I asked Coetsee to allow Winnie to remain in Johannesburg
r
^' TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 457
not force her to return to Brandfort. He said he could promise nothing,
hut h<-' would indeed look into it. I thanked him.
t spent several days in hospital recuperating from the surgery. When I
was discharged, I was fetched at the hospital by Brigadier Munro. Commanding
officers do not usually pick up prisoners at the hospital, so my
suspicions were immediately aroused.
On the ride back. Brigadier Munro said to me in a casual way, as
though he were simply making conversation, "Mandela, we are not taking
you back to your friends now." I asked him what he meant. "From now
on, you are going to be alone." I asked him why. He shook his head. "I
don't know. I've just been given these instructions from headquarters."
Once again, there was no warning and no explanation.
Upon my return to Pollsmoor I was taken to a new cell on the ground
floor of the prison, three floors below and in an entirely different wing.
I was given three rooms, and a separate toilet, with one room to be used
for sleeping, one across the hall for studying, and another for exercise.
By prison standards, this was palatial, but the rooms were damp and
musty and received very little natural light. I said nothing to the brigadier,
for I knew the decision had not been his. I wanted time to consider the
ramifications of the move. Why had the state taken this step?
It would be too strong to call it a revelation, but over the next few
days and weeks I came to a realization about my new circumstances. The
change, I decided, was not a liability but an opportunity. I was not happy
to be separated from my colleagues and I missed my garden and the sunny
terrace on the third floor. But my solitude gave me a certain liberty, and
I resolved to use it to do something I had been pondering for a long
while: begin discussions with the government. I had concluded that the toe had come when the struggle could best be pushed forward through "egotiations. If we did not start a dialogue soon, both sides would be
plunged into a dark night of oppression, violence, and war. My solitude
would give me an opportunity to take the first steps in that direction,
without the kind of scrutiny that might destroy such efforts.
"e had been fighting against white minority rule for three-quarters 01 a century. We had been engaged in the armed struggle for more than t\v0 decades. Many people on both sides had already died. The enemy as ^rong and resolute. Yet even with all their bombers and tanks, they ^t have sensed they were on the wrong side of history. We had right
°ur side, but not yet might. It was clear to me that a military victory
, a distant if not impossible dream. It simply did not make sense for
u\ ^des to lose thousands if not millions of lives in a conflict that was "Pessary. They must have known this as well. It was time to talk.
458 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
This would be extremely sensitive. Both sides regarded discussions a sign of weakness and betrayal. Neither would come to the table urn-'i
the other made significant concessions. The government asserted over anri over that we were a terrorist organization of Communists, and that th
would never talk to terrorists or Communists. This was National Panv
dogma. The ANC asserted over and over that the government was fascisric
and racist and that there was nothing to talk about until they unbanned
the ANC, unconditionally released all political prisoners, and removed
the troops from the townships.
A decision to talk to the government was of such import that it should
only have been made in Lusaka. But I felt that the process needed to
begin, and that I had neither the time nor the means to communicate
fully with Oliver. Someone from our side needed to take the first step
and my new isolation gave me both the freedom to do so and the assurance
at least for a while, of the confidentiality of my efforts.
I was now in a kind of splendid isolation. Though my colleagues were
only three floors above me, they might as well have been in Johannesburg.
In order to see them, I had to put in a formal request for a visit, which
had to be approved by the Head Office in Pretoria. It often took weeks
to receive a response. If it was approved, I would then meet them in the
visiting area. This was a novel experience: my comrades and fellow prisoners
were now official visitors. For years, we had been able to talk for
hours a day; now we had to make official requests and appointments, and
our conversations were monitored.
After I had been in my new cell for a few days, I asked the commanding
officer to arrange such a meeting. He did so, and the four of us discussed
the issue of my transfer. Walter, Kathy, and Ray were angry that we had
been separated. They wanted to lodge a strong protest, and demand that
we be reunited. My response was not what they expected. "Look, chaps,
I said, "I don't think we should oppose this thing." I mentioned that my
new accommodations were superior, and maybe this would set a precedent
for all political prisoners. I then added somewhat ambiguously, "Perhaps
something good will come of this. I'm now in a position where
government can make an approach to us." They did not care too niu
for this latter explanation, as I knew they would not.
I chose to tell no one of what I was about to do. Not my colleagu
upstairs or those in Lusaka. The ANC is a collective, but the governine^ had made collectivity in this case impossible. I did not have the secu ^ or the time to discuss these issues with my organization. I knew tha ^ colleagues upstairs would condemn my proposal, and that would k1 ^ initiative even before it was born. There are times when a leader
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 459
-We out ahead of the flock, go off in a new direction, confident that he
is leading his people the right way. Finally, my isolation furnished my
oreanization with an excuse in case matters went awry: the old man was
alone and completely cut off, and his actions were taken by him as an
individual, not a representative of the ANC.
90
WITHIN A FEW WEEKS of my move, I wrote to Kobie Coetsee to
propose talks about talks. As before, I received no response. I wrote once
more, and again there was no response. I found this peculiar and demoralizing,
and I realized I had to look for another opportunity to be
heard. That came in early 1986.
At a meeting of the British Commonwealth in Nassau in October 1985,
the leaders could not reach agreement on whether to participate in international
sanctions against South Africa. This was mainly because British
Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was adamantly opposed. To resolve
the deadlock, the assembled nations agreed that a delegation of "eminent
persons" would visit South Africa and report back on whether sanctions
were the appropriate tool to help bring about the end of apartheid. In
early 1986, the seven-member Eminent Persons Group, led by General
Olusegun Obasanjo, the former military leader of Nigeria, and former
Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Eraser, arrived in South Africa on
their fact-finding mission.
In February, I was visited by General Obasanjo to discuss the nature
of the delegation's brief. He was eager to facilitate a meeting between me Md the full group. With the government's permission, such a meeting w^ scheduled for May. The group would be talking with the cabinet Wer they saw me, and I viewed this as a chance to raise the subject of ^goriations.
The government regarded my session with the group as something ^traordmary. Two days before the meeting I was visited by Brigadier "ninro, who had brought along a tailor. "Mandela," the commander said,
e want you to see these people on an equal footing. We don't want
u to wear those old prison clothes, so this tailor will take your mea^ments
and outfit you with a proper suit." The tailor must have been
'- kind of wizard, for the very next day I tried on a pinstriped suit
at fit me like a glove. I was also given a shirt, tie, shoes, socks, and
, ^rwear. The commander admired my new attire. "Mandela, you look a prime minister now, not a prisoner," he said and smiled.
L * * . I I
460 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
At the meeting between myself and the Eminent Persons Group \ve
joined by two significant observers: Kobie Coetsee and Lieutenant C eral W. H. Willemse, the commissioner of prisons. Like the tailor ch
two men were there to take my measure. But, curiously, they left shn l
after the session started. I pressed them to remain, saying I had nothi to hide, but they left anyway. Before they took their leave, I told the
the time had come for negotiations, not fighting, and that the government and the ANC should sit down and talk.
The Eminent Persons Group had come with many questions involvine
the issues of violence, negotiations, and international sanctions. At the
outset, I set the ground rules for our discussions. "I am not the head of
the movement," I told them. 'The head of the movement is Oliver Tambo
in Lusaka. You must go and see him. You can tell him what my views
are, but they are my personal views alone. They don't even represent the
views of my colleagues here in prison. All that being said, I favor the
ANC beginning discussions with the government.'"
Various members of the group had concerns about my political ideology
and what a South Africa under ANC leadership might look like. I
told them I was a South African nationalist, not a Communist, that
nationalists came in every hue and color, and that I was firmly committed
to a nonracial society. I told them I believed in the Freedom Charter, that
the charter embodied principles of democracy and human rights, and that it was not a blueprint for socialism. I spoke of my concern that the white
minority feel a sense of security in any new South Africa. I told them I
thought many of our problems were a result of lack of communication
between the government and the ANC and that some of these could be
resolved through actual talks.
They questioned me extensively on the issue of violence, and while I
was not yet willing to renounce violence, I affirmed in the strongest
possible terms that violence could never be the ultimate solution to the
situation in South Africa and that men and women by their very nature
required some kind of negotiated understanding. While I once again
reiterated that these were my views and not those of the ANC, I suggests that if the government withdrew the army and the police from the tov" ships, the ANC might agree to a suspension of the armed struggis a prelude to talks. I told them that my release alone would not stem
violence in the country or stimulate negotiations. ,
After the group finished with me, they planned to see both Owci Lusaka and government officials in Pretoria. In my remarks, I ha
messages to both places. I wanted the government to see that un cr ^.
right circumstances we would talk and I wanted Oliver to know
position and his were the same.
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 461
In May, the Eminent Persons Group was scheduled to see me one
i .c tin '" I was optimistic as they had been to both Lusaka and Pretoria,
nd I i' ^pcd Aat the seed of negotiations had been planted. But the day
before 'we were to meet, the South African government took a step that
sabotaged whatever goodwill had been engendered by the Commonwealth
visitors. On the day the Eminent Persons Group was scheduled
to meet with cabinet ministers, the South African Defense Force, under ^ orders of President Botha, launched air raids and commando attacks
on ANC bases in Botswana, Zambia, and Zimbabwe. This utterly poisoned
the talks, and the Eminent Persons Group immediately left South
Africa. Once again, I felt my efforts to move negotiations forward had
stalled.
Oliver Tambo and the ANC had called for the people of South Africa to
render the country ungovernable, and the people were obliging. The state
of unrest and political violence was reaching new heights. The anger of
the masses was unrestrained; the townships were in upheaval. International
pressure was growing stronger every day. On June 12,1986, the government
imposed a State of Emergency in an attempt to keep a lid on protest. In
every outward way, the time seemed inauspicious for negotiations. But
often, the most discouraging moments are precisely the time to launch
an initiative. At such times people are searching for a way out of their
dilemma. That month I wrote a very simple letter to General Willemse,
the commissioner of prisons. In it, I merely said, "I wish to see you on
a matter of national importance." I handed the letter to Brigadier Munro
on a Wednesday.
That weekend, I was told by the commanding officer to be prepared
to see General Willemse, who was coming down from Pretoria. This "acting was not treated in the usual fashion. Instead of conferring with ^e general in the visiting area, I was taken to his residence on the grounds
°fPollsmoor itself.
Willemse is a direct fellow and we got down to business immediately. told him I wanted to see Kobie Coetsee, the minister of justice. He ^ked me why. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to discuss political Otters with a prison official. But I responded with frankness: "I want 0 ^e the minister in order to raise the question of talks between the ^emment and the ANC."
. ^c pondered this for a moment, and then said, "Mandela, as you ow, I am not a politician. I cannot discuss such issues myself, for they e beyond my authority." He then paused, as if something had just
. ^""ed to him. "It just so happens," he said, "that the minister of justice in Cape Town. Perhaps you can see him. I will find out."
462 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
The general then telephoned the minister and the two spoke for a if
moments. After putting down the phone, the general turned to me a rl said, "The minister said, 'Bring him round.'" Minutes later, we left rh
general's residence in his car bound for the minister's house in Cape Tow
Security was light; only one other car accompanied the general's vehici
The ease and rapidity with which this meeting was set up made me suspect that the government might have planned this rendezvous ahead of time
Whether they had or not was immaterial; it was an opportunity to take
the first step toward negotiations.
At his official residence in the city, Coetsee greeted me warmly and
we settled down on comfortable chairs in his lounge. He apologized that
I had not had a chance to change out of my prison clothes. I spent three
hours in conversation with him and was struck by his sophistication and
willingness to listen. He asked knowledgeable and relevant questions _
questions that reflected a familiarity with the issues that divided the
government and the ANC. He asked me under what circumstances would
we suspend the armed struggle; whether or not I spoke for the ANC as
a whole; whether I envisioned any constitutional guarantees for minorities
in a new South Africa. His questions went to the heart of the issues
dividing the government and the ANC.
After responding in much the same way as I did to the Eminent Persons
Group, I sensed that Coetsee wanted some resolution. What is the next
step? he asked. I told him I wanted to see the state president and the
foreign minister, Pik Botha. Coetsee noted this on a small pad he had
kept beside him, and said he would send my request through the proper
channels. We then shook hands, and I was driven back to my solitary cell
on the ground floor of Pollsmoor prison.
I was greatly encouraged. I sensed the government was anxious to
overcome the impasse in the country, that they were now convinced they
had to depart from their old positions. In ghostly outline, I saw the
beginnings of a compromise.
I told no one of my encounter. I wanted the process to be under way
before I informed anyone. Sometimes it is necessary to present ones
colleagues with a policy that is already a fait accompli. I knew that one
they examined the situation carefully, my colleagues at Pollsmoor and in
Lusaka would support me. But again, after this promising start, nothing
happened. Weeks and then months passed without a word from Coetse
In some frustration, I wrote him another letter.
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 463
91
ALTHOUGH I DID NOT GET a direct response from Kobie Coetsee,
there were other signs that the government was preparing me for a different
kind of existence. On the day before Christmas, Lieutenant Colonel
Gawie Marx, the deputy commander of Pollsmoor, wandered by my cell
after breakfast and said quite casually, "Mandela, would you like to see
the city?" I was not exactly certain what he had in mind, but I thought
there was no harm in saying yes. Good, he said, come along. I walked
with the colonel through the fifteen locked metal doors between my cell
and the entrance, and when we emerged, I found his car waiting for us.
We drove into Cape Town along the lovely road that runs parallel to
the coast. He had no destination in mind and simply meandered around
the city in a leisurely fashion. It was absolutely riveting to watch the
simple activities of people out in the world: old men sitting in the sun,
women doing their shopping, people walking their dogs. It is precisely
those mundane activities of daily life that one misses most in prison. I
felt like a curious tourist in a strange and remarkable land.
After an hour or so. Colonel Marx stopped the car in front of a small
shop on a quiet street. "Would you like a cold drink?" he asked me. I
nodded, and he disappeared inside the shop. I sat there alone. For the
first few moments, I did not think about my situation, but as the seconds
ticked away, I became more and more agitated. For the first time in twentytwo
years, I was out in the world and unguarded. I had a vision of opening
the door, jumping out, and then running and running until I was out of
sight. Something inside was urging me to do just that. I noticed a wooded irea near the road where I could hide. I was extremely tense and began
to perspire. Where was the colonel? But then I took control of myself;
^ch an action would be unwise and irresponsible, not to mention dangerous.
It was possible that the whole situation was contrived to try to
get me to escape, though I do not think that was the case. I was greatly '"elieved a few moments later when I saw the colonel walking back to the ^r with two cans of Coca-Cola.
As it turned out, that day in Cape Town was the first of many excursions.
^r the next few months, I went out again with the colonel not only 0 Cape Town but to some of the sights around the city, its beautiful
^nes and lovely cool mountains. Soon, more junior officers were per- "^tted to take me around. One of the places I regularly visited with these
-uor officers was known as the "gardens," a series of small holdings on
^dge of the prison grounds where crops were grown for the prison's
464 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
kitchen. I enjoyed being out in nature, being able to see the horizon a feel the sun on my shoulders.
One day I went to the gardens with a captain, and after walking i the fields we strolled over to the stables. There were two young whit- men in overalls working with the horses. I walked over to them praised one of the animals, and said to the fellow, "Now, what is this horse's name?" The young man seemed quite nervous and did not look at me
He then mumbled the name of the horse, but to the captain, not me I
then asked the other fellow in turn what the name of his horse was and
he had precisely the same reaction.
As I was walking back to the prison with the captain, I commented
on what I thought was the curious behavior of the two young men. The
captain laughed. "Mandela, don't you know what those two chaps were?"
I said I did not. "They were white prisoners. They had never been questioned
by a native prisoner in the presence of a white officer before."
Some of the younger warders took me quite far afield, and we would
walk on the beach and even stop at a cafe and have tea. At such places, I
often tried to see if people recognized me, but no one ever did; the last
published picture of me had been taken in 1962.
These trips were instructive on a number of levels. I saw how life had
changed in the time I had been away, and because we mainly went to
white areas, I saw the extraordinary wealth and ease that whites enjoyed.
Though the country was in upheaval and the townships were on the brink
of open warfare, white life went on placidly and undisturbed. Their lives
were unaffected. Once, one of the warders, a very pleasant young man
named Warrant Officer Brand, actually took me to his family's flat and
introduced me to his wife and children. From then on, I sent his children
Christmas cards every year.
As much as I enjoyed these little adventures, I well knew that the
authorities had a motive other than keeping me diverted. I sensed that
they wanted to acclimatize me to life in South Africa and perhaps at the
same time, get me so used to the pleasures of small freedoms that I migM be willing to compromise in order to have complete freedom.
92
IN 1987,1 RESUMED CONTACT with Kobie Coetsee. I had several
private meetings with him at his residence, and later that year the g
ernment made its first concrete proposal. Coetsee said the governm
would like to appoint a committee of senior officials to conduct pr1'1
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 465
discussions with me. This would be done with the full knowledge of the
state president, Coetsee said. Coetsee himself would be head of the committee,
and it would include General Willemse, the commissioner of prisons;
Panic van der Merwe, the director general of the Prisons Department;
and Dr. Niel Barnard, a former academic who was then head of the National Intelligence Service. The first three individuals were associated with the prison system, so if talks foundered or were leaked to the press,
both sides would be able to cover up and say we were discussing prison
conditions and nothing more.
The presence of Dr. Barnard, however, disturbed me. He was the head
of South Africa's equivalent of the CIA, and was also involved with
military intelligence. I could justify to my organization discussions with
the other officials, but not Barnard. His presence made the talks more
problematic and suggested a larger agenda. I told Coetsee that I would
like to think about the proposal overnight.
That night I considered all the ramifications. I knew that P. W. Botha
had created something called the State Security Council, a shadowy secretariat
of security experts and intelligence officials. He had done this,
according to the press, to circumvent the authority of the cabinet and
increase his own power. Dr. Barnard was a key player in this inner council
and was said to be a protege of the president. I thought that my refusing
Barnard would alienate Botha, and I decided that such a tack was too
risky. If the state president was not brought on board, nothing would
happen. In the morning, I sent word to Coetsee that I accepted his offer.
I knew that I had three crucial matters that I needed to address: first,
I wanted to sound out my colleagues on the third floor before I proceeded
any further; second, it was essential to communicate with Oliver in Lusaka
about what was occurring; and finally, I intended to draft a memorandum
to P. W. Botha laying out my views and those of the ANC on the vital
issues before the country. This memorandum would create talking points
for any future discussion.
1 requested a meeting with my colleagues, and to my surprise, the suthorities summarily refused. This was remarkable, and I assumed it ^nected a great deal of nervousness about the prospect of secret talks ttwecn myself and the government. I took my complaints to more senior "icials. Finally, the request was approved, with the proviso that I could see my colleagues one by one, not together.
{met them in the visiting area. I had resolved to leave out a few details;
^ouid seek their counsel about the idea of having talks with the gov- Went without mentioning that an actual committee had been formed. wr Was first. I told him about my letter to the commissioner of prisons
466 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and my meeting with Coetsee. I said that I had discussed with Copt
the idea of beginning talks with the government and that the eovernm
seemed interested. What were his views on the matter?
I have been through thick and thin with Walter. He was a man if reason and wisdom, and no man knew me better than he did. There w
no one whose opinion I trusted or valued more. Walter considered wh t
I told him. I could see he was uncomfortable, and at best, lukewarm "I
principle," he said, "I am not against negotiations. But I would have
wished that the government initiated talks with us rather than us initiatine
talks with them."
I replied that if he was not against negotiations in principle, what did
it matter who initiated them? What mattered was what they achieved not
how they started. I told Walter that I thought we should move forward
with negotiations and not worry about who knocked on the door first.
Walter saw that my mind was made up and he said he would not stop
me, but that he hoped I knew what I was doing.
Next was Raymond Mhlaba. I explained the entire situation to him
as I had to Walter. Ray was always a man of few words, and for several
moments he digested what I had said. He then looked at me and
said, "Madiba, what have you been waiting for? We should have started
this years ago." Andrew Miangeni's reaction was virtually the same as
Ray's. The last man was Kathy. His response was negative; he was as
resolutely against what I was suggesting as Raymond and Andrew were
in favor. Even more strongly than Walter, he felt that by initiating talks
it would appear that we were capitulating. Like Walter, he said he was
not in principle against negotiations, and I responded exactly as I had
with Walter. But Kathy was adamant; he felt I was going down the
wrong path. But, despite his misgivings, he said he would not stand in
my way.
Not long after this I received a note from Oliver Tambo that was smuggled
in to me by one of my lawyers. He had heard reports that I was having
secret discussions with the government and he was concerned. He sai
he knew I had been alone for some time and separated from my colleague He must have been wondering: What is going on with Mandela? Ouve
note was brief and to the point: What, he wanted to know, was I discussing
with the government? Oliver could not have believed that I was sel S
out, but he might have thought I was making an error in judgment.
fact, the tenor of his note suggested that. .
I replied to Oliver in a very terse letter saying that I was talking to
government about one thing and one thing only: a meeting between
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 467
Tslational Executive Committee of the ANC and the South African governniei11-
I would not spell out the details, for I could not trust the
-Q^fidentiality of the communication. I simply said the time had come
for such talks and that I would not compromise the organization in any
way.
Although the ANC had called for talks with the government for decades, we had never been confronted with the actual prospect of such talks.
It is one thing to consider them in theory, and quite another to engage
in them. As I was writing my response to Oliver, I was also beginning
to draft my memorandum to P. W. Botha. I would make sure that Oliver
saw this as well. I knew that when Oliver and the National Executive read
my memo, their fears that I had gone off the road would be allayed.
93
THE FIRST FORMAL MEETING of the secret working group rook
place in May 1988, at a posh officers' club within the precincts ofPollsmoor.
While I knew both Coetsee and Willemse, I had never before met van
der Mcrwe and Dr. Barnard. Van der Merwe was a quiet, levelheaded
man who spoke only when he had something important to say. Dr. Barnard
was in his mid-thirties and was exceedingly bright, a man of controlled
intelligence and self-discipline.
The initial meeting was quite stiff, but in subsequent sessions we were
able to talk more freely and directly. I met with them almost every week
for a few months, and then the meetings occurred at irregular intervals,
sometimes not for a month, and then suddenly every week. The meetings
were usually scheduled by the government, but sometimes I would request a session.
During our early meetings, I discovered that my new colleagues, with Ae exception of Dr. Barnard, knew little about the ANC. They were all ^phisticated Afrikaners, and far more open-minded than nearly all of wir brethren. But they were the victims of so much propaganda that it was necessary to straighten them out about certain facts. Even Dr. Bar-
"ard, who had made a study of the ANC, had received most of his
, p ' 7
. '""nation from police and intelligence files, which were in the main '"accurate and sullied by the prejudices of the men who had gathered ^ He could not help but be infected by the same biases.
1 i>pent some time in the beginning sketching out the history of the
C and then explaining our positions on the primary issues that di- eu the organization from the government. After these preliminaries, we
U
468 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
focused on the critical issues: the armed struggle, the ANC's alliance w' h the Communist Party, the goal of majority rule, and the idea of rar i
reconciliation.
The first issue to arise was in many ways the most crucial, and that
was the armed struggle. We spent a number of months discussing it. They
insisted that the ANC must renounce violence and give up the armed
struggle before the government would agree to negotiations -- and before
I could meet President Botha. Their contention was that violence was
nothing more than criminal behavior that could not be tolerated by the
state.
I responded that the state was responsible for the violence and that it
is always the oppressor, not the oppressed, who dictates the form of the
struggle. If the oppressor uses violence, the oppressed have no alternative
but to respond violently. In our case it was simply a legitimate form of
self-defense. I ventured that if the state decided to use peaceful methods,
the ANC would also use peaceful means. "It is up to you," I said, "not
us, to renounce violence."
I think I advanced their understanding on this point, but the issue
soon moved from a philosophical question to a practical one. As Minister
Coetsee and Dr. Barnard pointed out, the National Party had repeatedly
stated that it would not negotiate with any organization that advocated
violence: therefore, how could it suddenly announce talks with the ANC
without losing its credibility? In order for us to begin talks, they said,
the ANC must make some compromise so that the government would
not lose face with its own people.
It was a fair point and one that I could well understand, but I would
not offer them a way out. "Gentlemen," I said, "it is not my job to resolve
your dilemma for you." I simply told them that they must tell their people
that there can be no peace and no solution to the situation in South
Africa without sitting down with the ANC. People will understand,
I said.
The ANCs alliance with the Communist Party seemed to trouble them
almost as much as the armed struggle. The National Party accepted thi most hidebound ofi95os cold war ideology and regarded the Soviet Unio
as the evil empire and communism as the work of the devil. There w
nothing that one could do to disabuse them of this notion. They rn
tained that the Communist Party dominated and controlled the ANC
that in order for negotiations to begin we must break with the party.
First of all, I said, no self-respecting freedom fighter would take or
from the government he is fighting against or jettison a longtirnfi y, the interest of pleasing an antagonist. I then explained at great Was>
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 469
that the party and the ANC were separate and distinct organizations that
shared the same short-term objectives, the overthrow of racial oppression
and the birth of a nonracial South Africa, but that our long-term interests
were not the same.
This discussion went on for months. Like most Afrikaners, they
thought that because many of the Communists in the ANC were white
or Indian, they were controlling the blacks in the ANC. I cited many
occasions when the ANC and the CP had differed on policy and the
ANC had prevailed, but this did not seem to impress them. Finally, in
exasperation, I said to them, "You gentlemen consider yourselves intelligent,
do you not? You consider yourselves forceful and persuasive, do
you not? Well, there are four of you and only one of me, and you cannot
control me or get me to change my mind. What makes you think the
Communists can succeed where you have failed?"
They were also concerned about the idea of nationalization, insisting that
the ANC and the Freedom Charter supported blanket nationalization for
the South African economy. I explained that we were for a more even
distribution of the rewards of certain industries, industries that were
already monopolies, and that nationalization might occur in some of those
areas. But I referred them to an article I wrote in 1956 for Liberation in
which I said that the Freedom Charter was not a blueprint for socialism
but for African-style capitalism. I told them I had not changed my mind
since then.
The other main area of discussion was the issue of majority rule. They
felt that if there was majority rule, the rights of minorities would be
trampled. How would the ANC protect the rights of the white minority?
they wanted to know. I said that there was no organization in the history
of South Africa to compare with the ANC in terms of trying to unite
all the people and races of South Africa. I referred them to the preamble
of the Freedom Charter: "South Africa belongs to all who live in it, black
and white." I told them that whites were Africans as well, and that in any
hiture dispensation the majority would need the minority. We do not
want to drive you into the sea, I said.
1 94
^ie MEETINGS had a positive effect: I was told in the winter of 1988
at President Botha was planning to see me before the end of August. he country was still in turmoil. The government had reimposed a State Emergency in both 1987 and 1988. International pressure mounted,
470 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
More companies left South Africa. The American Congress had pass i\
a sweeping sanctions bill.
In 1987, the ANC celebrated its seventy-fifth anniversary and held
conference at the end of the year in Tanzania attended by delegates from
more than fifty nations. Oliver declared that the armed struggle would
intensify until the government was prepared to negotiate the abolition of
apartheid. Two years before, at the ANC's Kabwe conference in Zambia
marking the thirtieth anniversary of the Freedom Charter, members of
other races were elected to the National Executive Committee for the first
time, and the NEC pledged that no discussions with the government
could be held until all ANC leaders were released from prison.
Although violence was still pervasive, the National Party had never
been stronger. In the white general election of May 1987, the Nationalists
won an overwhelming majority. Worse still, the liberal Progressive Federal
Party had been replaced as the official opposition by the Conservative
Party, which was to the right of the Nationalists and campaigned on the
theme that the government was too lenient with the black opposition.
Despite my optimism about the secret talks, it was a difficult time. I
had recently had a visit from Winnie and I learned that 8115 Orlando West,
the house in which we had been married and which I considered home,
had been burned down by arsonists. We had lost invaluable family records,
photographs, and keepsakes  even the slice of wedding cake Winnie was
saving for my release. I had always thought that someday when I left
prison I would be able to recapture the past when looking over those
pictures and letters, and now they were gone. Prison had robbed me of
my freedom but not my memories, and now I felt some enemies of the
struggle had tried to rob me of even those.
I was also suffering from a bad cough that I could not seem to shake,
and I often felt too weak to exercise. I had continued to complain about
the dampness of my cell, but nothing had been done about it. One day,
during a meeting in the visiting area with my attorney, Ismail Ayob, I felt
ill and vomited. I was taken back to my cell, examined by a doctor, and
I soon recovered. A few days later, however, I was in my cell after dinner
when a number of warders and a doctor arrived. The physician gave me
a cursory examination, and then one of the warders told me to get dresse
"We are taking you to hospital in Cape Town," I was told. Security was
tight; I went in a convoy of cars and military vehicles accompanied by a
least a dozen warders.
I was taken to Tygerberg Hospital, on the campus of the University
Stellenbosch, in a rich and verdant area of the Cape. As I later discovers ^
they had nearly chosen a different facility because the authorities te31"
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 471
I rnighf attract sympathetic attention at a university hospital. The warders \venr in first and cleared everyone out of the entrance area. I was then
escorted up to a floor that had been entirely emptied. The hall of the
floor was lined with more than a dozen armed guards.
While sitting on a table in the examining room, I was looked at by a
young and amiable doctor who was also a professor at the university
medical school. He inspected my throat, tapped my chest, took some
cultures, and in no time pronounced me fit. 'There is nothing wrong
with you," he said with a smile. "We should be able to release you tomorrow."
I was anxious not to be diverted from my talks with the government,
so I was pleased with his diagnosis.
After the examination, the doctor asked me if I would like some tea.
I said I would and a few minutes later, a tall young Coloured nurse came
in with a tray. The presence of all the armed guards and warders so
frightened her that she dropped the tray on my bed, spilling the tea,
before rushing out.
I spent the night in the empty ward under heavy guard. The first thing
the next morning, even before I had breakfast, I was visited by an older
doctor who was head of internal medicine at the hospital. He was a nononsense
fellow and had far less of a bedside manner than the cordial
young physician of the night before. Without any preliminaries, he tapped
me roughly on my chest and then said gruffly, "There is water in your
lung." I told him that the previous doctor had done tests and said I was
fine. With a hint of annoyance, he said, "Mandela, take a look at your
chest." He pointed out that one side of my chest was actually larger than
the other, and said that it was probably filled with water.
He asked a nurse to bring him a syringe, and without further ado he
Poked it into my chest and drew out some brownish liquid. "Have you
had breakfast?" he said. No, I replied. "Good," he said, "we are taking you to the operating theater immediately." He told me I had a great deal
°f water on my lung and he wanted to draw it out right away.
In me operating room I was given anesthesia, and the next thing I ^called was waking up in a room with the doctor present. I was groggy, but I concentrated on what he said: he had removed two liters of water Join rny chest and when the liquid was analyzed, a tuberculosis germ sd been discovered. He said it was in the very early stages of the illness, anc! that the germ had done no damage to the lung. While full-blown
"erciilosis normally took six months to cure, he said, I should be better
^o months. The doctor agreed that it was probably the damp cell 'at had helped cause my illness.
472 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I spent the next six weeks at Tygerberg recuperating and receiving- rr
ment. In December, I was moved to the Constantiaberge Clinic a h,
rious facility near Pollsmoor that had never had a black patient befo
My first morning there, I had an early visit from Kobie Coetsee who w
accompanied by Major Marais, a deputy commander responsible for look
ing after me. We had barely exchanged greetings when the orderly brought in my breakfast.
Because of my recent illness and my history of high blood pressure I
had been put on a strict low-cholesterol diet. That order had apparently not yet been conveyed to the clinic's kitchen, for the breakfast tray contained
scrambled eggs, three rashers of bacon, and several pieces of buttered
toast. I could not remember the last time I had tasted bacon and
eggs, and I was ravenous. Just as I was about to take a delicious forkful
of egg. Major Marais said, "No, Mandela, that is against the orders of
your physician," and he reached over to take the tray. I held it tightly,
and said, "Major, I am sorry. If this breakfast will kill me, then today I
am prepared to die."
Once I was ensconced at Constantiaberge, I again began to meet with
Kobie Coetsee and the secret committee. While I was still at the clinic
Coetsee said he wanted to put me in a situation that was halfway between
confinement and freedom. While he did not spell out what this meant, I
had a notion of what he was talking about, and I merely nodded. I would
not be so naive as to consider his proposal to be freedom, but I knew
that it was a step in that direction.
In the meantime, the clinic was extremely comfortable and for the first
time I actually enjoyed a hospital convalescence. The nurses -- who were
white or Coloured, no black nurses were permitted -- spoiled me; they
brought extra desserts and pillows and were constantly visiting, even
during their time off.
One day, one of the nurses came to me and said, "Mr. Mandela, we
are having a party tonight and we would like you to come." I said I'd be
honored to attend, but that the authorities would undoubtedly have something
to say about it. The prison authorities refused permission for me to go, which nettled the nurses, and as a result, they decided to hold their
party in my room, insisting they could not have their party without me-
That night, a dozen or so of these young ladies in party frocks e scended on my room with cake and punch and gifts. The guards seenu
befuddled, but they could hardly consider these vivacious young gi1"s security risk. In fact, when one of the guards attempted to prevent so
of the nurses from entering my room, I jestingly accused him or bei
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 473
jealous of an old man receiving so much attention from such beautiful young ladies.
95
IN EARLY DECEMBER 1988, security on my ward was tightened and
the officers on duty were more alert than usual. Some change was imminent.
On the evening of December 9, Major Marais came into my
room, and told me to prepare myself to leave. Where to? I asked him. He
could not say. I packed my things and looked around for some of my loyal
nurses; I was disappointed at not being able to thank them and bid them
farewell.
We left in a rush, and after about an hour on the road we entered a
prison whose name I recognized: Victor Verster. Located in the lovely
old Cape Dutch town ofPaarl, Victor Verster is thirty-five miles northeast
of Cape Town in the province's wine-growing region. The prison had the
reputation of being a model facility. We drove through the entire length
of the prison, and then along a winding dirt road through a rather wild,
wooded area at the rear of the property. At the end of the road we came
to an isolated, whitewashed one-story cottage set behind a concrete wall
and shaded by tall fir trees.
I was ushered into the house by Major Marais and found a spacious
lounge, next to a large kitchen, with an even larger bedroom at the back
of the house. The place was sparsely but comfortably furnished. It had
not been cleaned or swept before my arrival, and the bedroom and living
room were teeming with all kinds of exotic insects, centipedes, monkey
spiders, and the like, some of which I had never seen before. That night,
I swept the insects off my bed and windowsill and slept extremely well
in what was to be my new home.
The next morning I surveyed my new abode and discovered a swimming
pool in the backyard, and two smaller bedrooms. I walked outside ^d admired the trees that shaded the house and kept it cool. The entire
place felt removed, isolated. The only thing spoiling the idyllic picture ^s that the walls were topped with razor wire, and there were guards ^ the entrance to the house. Even so, it was a lovely place and situation;
a halfway house between prison and freedom.
That afternoon I was visited by Kobie Coetsee, who brought a case 1 Cape wine as a housewarming gift. The irony of a jailer bringing his
Pnsoner such a gift was not lost on either of us. He was extremely "ucitous and wanted to make sure that I liked my new home. He surveyed
474 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the house himself, and the only thing he recommended was that the wall
outside the house be raised -- for my privacy, he said. He told me th r the cottage at Victor Verster would be my last home before becoming free man. The reason behind this move, he said, was that I should have
a place where I could hold discussions in privacy and comfort.
The cottage did in fact give one the illusion of freedom. I could eo
to sleep and wake up as I pleased, swim whenever I wanted, eat when I
was hungry -- all were delicious sensations. Simply to be able to eo
outside during the day and take a walk when I desired was a moment of
private glory. There were no bars on the windows, no jangling keys no
doors to lock or unlock. It was altogether pleasant, but I never forgot
that it was a gilded cage.
The prison service provided me with a cook. Warrant Officer Swart, a
tall, quiet Afrikaner who had once been a warder on Robben Island. I
did not remember him, but he said he Sometimes drove us to the quarry
and purposely steered the truck over bumps to give us a rocky ride. "I
did that to you," he said sheepishly, and I laughed. He was a decent,
sweet-tempered fellow without any prejudice and he became like a younger
brother to me.
He arrived at seven in the morning and left at four, and would make
my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I had a diet outlined by my physician
and he would follow it in his preparations. He was a lovely cook, and
when he went home at four, he would leave me supper to heat up in the
microwave oven, a device that was new to me.
Warrant Officer Swart baked bread, made home-brewed ginger beer
and assorted other delicacies. When I had visitors, which was increasingly
often, he would prepare gourmet meals. They always praised the food
and I daresay my chef was the envy of all my visitors. When the authorities
began to permit some of my ANC comrades and members of the United
Democratic Front (UDF) and the Mass Democratic Movement (MDM)
to visit me, I accused them of coming only for the food.
One day, after a delicious meal prepared by Mr. Swart, I went into the
kitchen to wash the dishes. "No," he said, "that is my duty. You must
return to the sitting room." I insisted that I had to do something, and
that if he cooked, it was only fair for me to do the dishes. Mr. Swart
protested, but finally gave in. He also objected to the fact that I would
make my bed in the morning, saying it was his responsibility to do so.
But I had been making my own bed for so long it had become a renex.
We also traded off in another respect. Like many Afrikaansspeakmg
warders, he was keen to improve his English. I was always looking
ways to improve my Afrikaans. We made an agreement: he would spe
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 475
to me in English and I would answer in Afrikaans, and in that way we
both practiced the language at which we were weakest.
I would occasionally ask him to make certain dishes for me. I sometimes
requested samp and beans, which I used to eat as a boy. One day, I said
to him, "You know, I would like you to cook me some brown rice." To my astonishment, he said, "What is brown rice?" Swart was a young man,
and I explained to him that brown rice was the unrefined rice kernel, and
we used to eat it during the war when white rice was unavailable. I said
it was far healthier than white rice. He was skeptical, but managed to
find me some. He cooked it and I enjoyed it very much. But Mr. Swart
could not abide the taste and vowed that if I ever wanted it again, I would
have to cook it myself.
Even though I was not a drinker, I wanted to be a proper host and
serve wine to my guests. I would occasionally take a sip of wine in order
to make my guests feel comfortable, but the only wine I can stomach is
a South African semisweet wine, which is actually very sweet.
Before my guests came I would ask Mr. Swart to get a certain type of
Nederburg wine, which I had tasted before and knew was a semisweet.
One day, I was expecting my friends and lawyers for lunch, Dullah Omar,
George Bizos, and Ismail Ayob, and asked Mr. Swart to purchase some
Nederburg wine should George Bizos, not a Muslim, want some with
his meal. I noticed that he grimaced when I said this, and asked him what
was wrong.
"Mr. Mandela," he said. "I always buy that wine for you because you
ask me to, but it is cheap stuff and not very nice." I reminded him that
I did not like dry wines and I was sure George could not tell the difference
anyway. Mr. Swart smiled at this and proposed a compromise: he would
go out and buy two bottles, a dry wine and my Nederburg, and then he
would ask my guest which wine he preferred. "Fine," I said, "let us try
your experiment."
When all four of us were seated for lunch. Swart came out holding Ac two bottles and turned to the guests and said, "Gentlemen, which
wine would you like?" Without even looking at me, George pointed to Ac bottle of dry white. Warrant Officer Swart just smiled.
96
he MEETINGS with the committee continued, and we stalled on tlle same issues that had always prevented us from moving forward: the Oncd struggle, the Communist Party, and majority rule. I was still press476 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ing Coetsee for a meeting with P. W. Botha. By this time, the authorir'
permitted me to have rudimentary communications with my comrades Pollsmoor and Robben Island and also the ANC in Lusaka. Although T
knew I was going out ahead of my colleagues, I did not want to go ton
far ahead and find that I was all alone.
In January 1989, I was visited by my four comrades from Pollsmoor
and we discussed the memorandum I was planning to send to the state
president. The memorandum reiterated most of the points I had made
in our secret committee meetings, but I wanted to make sure the state
president heard them directly from me. He would see that we were not
wild-eyed terrorists, but reasonable men.
"I am disturbed," I wrote to Mr. Botha in the memorandum, sent to
him in March, "as many other South Africans no doubt are, by the specter
of a South Africa split into two hostile camps -- blacks on one side
and whites on the other, slaughtering one another." To avert this and
prepare the groundwork for negotiations, I proposed to deal with the
three demands made of the ANC by the government as a precondition
to negotiations: renouncing violence; breaking with the SACP; and abandoning
the call for majority rule.
On the question of violence I wrote that the refusal of the ANC to
renounce violence was not the problem: 'The truth is that the government
is not yet ready. . . for the sharing of political power with blacks." I
explained our unwillingness to cast aside the SACP, and reiterated that
we were not under its control. "Which man of honour," I wrote, "will
desert a lifelong friend at the insistence of a common opponent and still
retain a measure of credibility with his people?" I said the rejection of
majority rule by the government was a poorly disguised attempt to preserve
power. I suggested he must face reality. "Majority rule and internal
peace are like the two sides of a single coin, and white South Africa simply
has to accept that there will never be peace and stability in this country
until the principle is fully applied."
At the end of the letter, I offered a very rough framework for
negotiations.
Two political issues will have to be addressed; firstly, the demand for
majority rule in a unitary state, secondly, the concern of white South
Africa over this demand, as well as the insistence of whites on structural
guarantees that majority rule will not mean domination of the white
minority by blacks. The most crucial tasks which will face the government
and the ANC will be to reconcile these two positions.
I proposed that this be done in two stages, the first being a discussio
to create the proper conditions for negotiations, the second being
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 477
actual negotiations themselves. "I must point out that the move I have
taken provides you with the opportunity to overcome the current deadlock,
and to normalize the country's political situation. I hope you will
seize it without delay."
gut delay there was. In January, P. W. Botha suffered a stroke. While it
did not incapacitate the president, it did weaken him and, according to
his cabinet, made him even more irascible. In February, Botha unexpectedly
resigned as head of the National Party, but kept his position as
state president. This was an unparalleled situation in the country's history:
in the South African parliamentary system, the leader of the majority
partv becomes the head of state. President Botha was now head of state
but not of his own party. Some saw this as a positive development: that
Botha wanted to be "above party politics" in order to bring about true
change in South Africa.
Political violence and international pressure continued to intensify.
Political detainees all across the country had held a successful hunger
strike, persuading the minister of law and order to release over nine
hundred of them. In 1989, the UDF formed an alliance with the Congress
of South African Trade Unions (COSATU) to form the Mass Democratic
Movement (MDM), which then began organizing a countrywide "defiance
campaign" of civil disobedience to challenge apartheid institutions. On the
international front, Oliver held talks with the governments of Great Britain
and the Soviet Union, and in January 1987 met with the U.S. secretary
of state, George Shultz, in Washington. The Americans recognized the
ANC as an indispensable element of any solution in South Africa. Sanctions
against South Africa remained in force and even increased.
Political violence also had its tragic side. As the violence in Soweto
intensified, my wife permitted a group of young men to act as her bodyguards
as she moved around the township. These young men were untrained
and undisciplined and became involved in activities that were "nbccoming to a liberation struggle. Winnie subsequently became legally sntan^ied in the trial of one of her bodyguards who was convicted of "lurdci -ing a young comrade. This situation was deeply disconcerting to 1T1C. h)i such a scandal only served to divide the movement at a time when "nity \\ as essential. I wholly supported my wife and maintained that while
"c had shown poor judgment, she was innocent of any serious charges. 1 har July, for my seventy-first birthday, I was visited at the cottage at
ictor Verster by nearly my entire family. It was the first time I had ever rn\ wife and children and grandchildren all in one place, and it was
^aiid and happy occasion. Warrant Officer Swart outdid himself in [ faring a feast, and he did not even get upset when I permitted some
478 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
of the grandchildren to eat their sweets before their main course Afi- the meal, the grandchildren went into my bedroom to watch a vide
a horror movie while the adults stayed outside gossiping in the loun
It was a deep, deep pleasure to have my whole family around me rt the only pain was the knowledge that I had missed such occasions for
many years.
97
ON JULY 4, I was visited by General Willemse, who informed me that
I was being taken to see President Botha the following day. He described
the visit as a "courtesy call," and I was told to be ready to leave at
5:30 a.m. I told the general that while I was looking forward to the
meeting, I thought it appropriate that I have a suit and tie in which to
see Mr. Botha. (The suit from the visit of the Eminent Persons Group
had long since vanished.) The general agreed, and a short while later, a
tailor appeared to take my measurements. That afternoon I was delivered
a new suit, tie, shirt, and shoes. Before leaving, the general also asked me
my blood type, just in case anything untoward should happen the following
day.
I prepared as best I could for the meeting. I reviewed my memo and
the extensive notes I had made for it. I looked at as many newspapers
and publications as I could to make sure I was up to date. After President
Botha's resignation as head of the National Party, IF. W. de Klerk had
been elected in his place, and there was said to be considerable jockeying
between the two men. Some might interpret Botha's willingness to meet
me as his way of stealing thunder from his rival, but that did not concern
me. I rehearsed the arguments that the state president might make and
the ones I would put in return. In every meeting with an adversary, one
must make sure one has conveyed precisely the impression one intends to.
I was tense about seeing Mr. Botha. He was known as die Oroot
Krokodil -- the Great Crocodile -- and I had heard many accounts of his
ferocious temper. He seemed to me to be the very model of the oldfashioned,
stiff-necked, stubborn Afrikaner who did not so much discuss
matters with black leaders as dictate to them. His recent stroke had ap
parently only exacerbated this tendency. I resolved that if he acted in
finger-wagging fashion with me I would have to inform him that 11°
such behavior unacceptable, and I would then stand up and adjourn
meeting.
* *
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 479
^t precisely 5:30 in the morning. Major Marais, the commander of Victor
Verster, arrived at my cottage. He came into the lounge where I stood in
front of him in my new suit for inspection. He walked around me, and
then shook his head from side to side.
"No, Mandela, your tie," he said. One did not have much use for ties
in prison, and I realized that morning when I was putting it on that I
had forgotten how to tie it properly. I made a knot as best I could and
hoped no one would notice. Major Marais unbuttoned my collar, loosened
and then removed my tie, and then, standing behind me, tied it in a
double Windsor knot. He then stood back to admire his handiwork.
"Much better," he said.
We drove from Victor Verster to Pollsmoor, to the residence of General
Willemse, where we were served breakfast by the general's wife. After
breakfast, in a small convoy, we drove to Tuynhuys, the official presidential
office, and parked in an underground garage where we would not be seen.
Tuynhuys is a graceful, nineteenth-century Cape Dutch-style building,
but I did not get a proper look at it that day. I was essentially smuggled
into the presidential suite.
We took an elevator to the ground floor and emerged in a grand,
wood-paneled lobby in front of the president's office. There we were met
by Kobie Coetsee and Niel Barnard, and a retinue of prison officials. I
had spoken extensively with both Coetsee and Dr. Barnard about this
meeting, and they had always advised me to avoid controversial issues
with the president. While we were waiting. Dr. Barnard looked down
and noticed that my shoelaces were not properly tied and he quickly
kneeled down to tie them for me. I realized just how nervous they were,
and that did not make me any calmer. The door then opened and I walked
in expecting the worst.
From the opposite side of his grand office, P. W. Botha walked toward
"w. He had planned his march perfectly, for we met exactly halfway. He
had his hand out and was smiling broadly, and in fact, from that very
first moment, he completely disarmed me. He was unfailingly courteous,
^fercntial, and friendly.
We very quickly posed for a photograph of the two of us shaking
hands, and then were joined at a long table by Kobie Coetsee, General
-illcmse, and Dr. Barnard. Tea was served and we began to talk. From
th^ first, it was not as though we were engaged in tense political arguments
u! a lively and interesting tutorial. We did not discuss substantive issues,
50 much as history and South African culture. I mentioned that I had
^nrlv read an article in an Afrikaans magazine about the 1914 Afrikaner
^bellion, and I mentioned how they had occupied towns in the Free
480 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
State. I said I saw our struggle as parallel to this famous rebellion a ri
we discussed this historical episode for quite a while. South Afric
history, of course, looks very different to the black man than to the whir man. Their view was that the rebellion had been a quarrel between broth
ers, whereas my struggle was a revolutionary one. I said that it could also be seen as a struggle between brothers who happen to be different
colors.
The meeting was not even half an hour, and was friendly and breezy until the end. It was then that I raised a serious issue. I asked Mr. Botha
to release unconditionally all political prisoners, including myself. That
was the only tense moment in the meeting, and Mr. Botha said that he
was afraid that he could not do that.
There was then a brief discussion as to what we should say if news of
the meeting leaked out. We very quickly drafted a bland statement saying
that we had met for tea in an effort to promote peace in the country.
When this was agreed upon, Mr. Botha rose and shook my hand, saying
what a pleasure it had been. Indeed, it had been. I thanked him, and left
the way we had come.
While the meeting was not a breakthrough in terms of negotiations,
it was one in another sense. Mr. Botha had long talked about the need
to cross the Rubicon, but he never did it himself until that morning at
Tuynhuys. Now, I felt, there was no turning back.
A little more than a month later, in August 1989, P. W. Botha went on
national television to announce his resignation as state president. In a
curiously rambling farewell address, he accused cabinet members of a
breach of trust, of ignoring him and of playing into the hands of the
African National Congress. The following day, IF. W. de Klerk was sworn
in as acting president and affirmed his commitment to change and reform.
To us, Mr. de Klerk was a cipher. When he became head of the National
Party, he seemed to be the quintessential party man, nothing more and
nothing less. Nothing in his past seemed to hint at a spirit of reform. As
education minister, he had attempted to keep black students out of white
universities. But as soon as he took over the National Party, I began to
follow him closely. I read all of his speeches, listened to what he said,
and began to see that he represented a genuine departure from his predecessor.
He was not an ideologue, but a pragmatist, a man who saw change
as necessary and inevitable. On the day he was sworn in, I wrote him
letter requesting a meeting.
In his inaugural address, Mr. de Klerk said his government was com
mitted to peace and that it would negotiate with any other group c0 mitted to peace. But his commitment to a new order was demonstra
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 481
only after his inauguration when a march was planned in Cape Town to
protest police brutality. It was to be led by Archbishop Tutu and the
Reverend Allan Boesak. Under President Botha, the march would have
been banned, marchers would have defied that ban, and violence would
have resulted. The new president lived up to his promise to ease restrictions
on political gatherings and permitted the march to take place, only
asking that the demonstrators remain peaceful. A new and different hand
was on the tiller.
98
EVEN AS DE KLERK became president, I continued to meet with
the secret negotiating committee. We were joined by Gerrit Viljoen, the minister of constitutional development, a brilliant man with a doctorate
in classics, whose role was to bring our discussions into a constitutional
framework. I pressed the government to display evidence of its good
intentions, urging the state to show its bona fides by releasing my fellow
political prisoners at Pollsmoor and Robben Island. While I told the
committee that my colleagues had to be released unconditionally, I said
the government could expect disciplined behavior from them after their
release. That was demonstrated by the conduct of Govan Mbeki, who
had been unconditionally released at the end of 1987.
On October 10,1989, President de Klerk announced that Walter Sisulu
and seven of my former Robben Island comrades, Raymond Mhlaba,
Ahmed Kathrada, Andrew Miangeni, Elias Motsoaledi, Jeff Masemola, Wilton Mkwayi, and Oscar Mpetha, were to be released. That morning,
I had been visited by Walter, Kathy, Ray, and Andrew, who were still at
Pollsmoor, and I was able to say good-bye. It was an emotional moment,
but I knew I would not be too far behind. The men were released five
days later from Johannesburg Prison. It was an action that rightly evoked
praise here and abroad, and I conveyed my appreciation to Mr. de Klerk.
But my gratitude paled compared to my unalloyed joy that Walter and "ie others were free. It was a day we had yearned for and fought for over sc) many years. De Klerk had lived up to his promise, and the men were ^leased under no bans; they could speak in the name of the ANC. It ^as clear that the ban on the organization had effectively expired, a vinicatiori
of our long struggle and our resolute adherence to principle.
De Klerk began a systematic dismantling of many of the building blocks 01 ^artheid. He opened South African beaches to people of all colors,
a stated that the Reservation of Separate Amenities Act would soon
^pealed. Since 1953 this act had enforced what was known as "petty
482 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
apartheid," segregating parks, theaters, restaurants, buses, libraries m
lets, and other public facilities, according to race. In November he an
nounced that the National Security Management System, a secret
structure set up under P. W. Botha to combat anti-apartheid forces would be dissolved.
In early December, I was informed that a meeting with de Klerk was
set for the twelfth of that month. By this time I was able to consult with
my colleagues new and old, and I had meetings at the cottage with my
old colleagues, and the leaders of the Mass Democratic Movement and
the UDF. I received ANC people from all of the regions, as well as
delegates from the UDF and COSATU. One of these young men was
Cyril Ramaphosa, the general secretary of the National Union of Mine
Workers and one of the ablest of the new generation of leadership. I also
had visits from colleagues of mine from Robben Island, including Terror
Lekota and Tokyo Sexwale, who stayed to lunch. They are both men with
large appetites, and the only complaint I heard about them was from
Warrant Officer Swart, who said, "Those fellows will eat us out of house
and home!"
With guidance from a number of colleagues, I then drafted a letter to
de Klerk not unlike the one I had sent to P. W. Botha. The subject was
talks between the government and the ANC. I told the president that the
current conflict was draining South Africa's lifeblood and talks were the
only solution. I said the ANC would accept no preconditions to talks,
especially not the precondition that the government wanted: the suspension
of the armed struggle. The government asked for an "honest commitment
to peace" and I pointed out that our readiness to negotiate was
exactly that.
I told Mr. de Klerk how impressed I was by his emphasis on reconciliation,
enunciated in his inaugural address. His words had imbued
millions of South Africans and people around the world with the hope
that a new South Africa was about to be born. The very first step on the
road to reconciliation, I said, was the complete dismantling of apartheid
and all the measures used to enforce it.
But I said that the spirit of that speech had not been much in evidence
of late. The government's policies were perceived by many as a continuation
of apartheid by other means. The government, I said, had spen
too much time talking with black homeland leaders and others coopte
by the system; these men, I asserted, were the agents of an oppressive
past that the mass of black South Africans rejected.
I reiterated my proposal that talks take place in two stages. I told
I fully supported the guidelines the ANC had adopted in the Harar^ Declaration of 1989, which put the onus on the government to elimi"
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 483
the obstacles to negotiations that the state itself had created. Those demands
included the release of all political prisoners, the lifting of all bans
on restricted organizations and persons, the end to the State of Emergency,
and the removal of all troops from the townships. I stressed that
a mutually agreed-upon cease-fire to end hostilities ought to be the first
order of business, for without that, no business could be conducted. The
day before our meeting the letter was delivered to Mr. de Klerk.
On the morning of December 13, I was again taken to Tuynhuys. I met
de Klerk in the same room where I had had tea with his predecessor. Mr.
de Klerk was accompanied by Kobie Coetsee, General Willemse, Dr.
Barnard, and his colleague Mike Louw. I congratulated Mr. de Klerk on
becoming president and expressed the hope that we would be able to
work together. He was extremely cordial and reciprocated these sentiments.

From the first I noticed that Mr. de Klerk listened to what I had to
say. This was a novel experience. National Party leaders generally heard
what they wanted to hear in discussions with black leaders, but Mr. de
Klerk seemed to be making an attempt to truly understand.
One of the issues I emphasized that day was the National Party's
recently introduced five-year plan, which contained the concept of
"group rights." The idea of "group rights" was that no racial or ethnic
group could take precedence over any other. Although they defined
"group rights" as a way of protecting the freedom of minorities in a new
South Africa, in fact their proposal was a means of preserving white
domination. I told Mr. de Klerk that this was unacceptable to the ANC.
I added that it was not in his interest to retain this concept, for it gave
the impression that he wanted to modernize apartheid without abandoning
it; this was damaging his image and that of the National Party in the
eyes of the progressive forces in this country and around the world. An
oppressive system cannot be reformed, I said, it must be entirely cast sside. I mentioned an editorial that I had recently read in Die Burger, the mouthpiece of the National Party in the Cape, implying that the group tights concept was conceived as an attempt to bring back apartheid
through the back door. I told Mr. de Klerk that if that was how his party's
paper perceived group rights, how did he think we regarded it? I added ihat the ANC had not struggled against apartheid for seventy-five years only to yield to a disguised form of it and that if it was his true intention to preserve apartheid through the Trojan horse of group rights, then he "'d not truly believe in ending apartheid.
^Ir. de Klerk, I saw that day, does not react quickly to things. It was
_iyark of the man that he listened to what I had to say and did not argue
484 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
with me. "You know," he said, "my aim is no different than yours. Your
memo to P. W. Botha said the ANC and the government should work
together to deal with white fears of black domination, and the idea of
'group rights' is how we propose to deal with it." I was impressed with
this response, but said that the idea of "group rights" did more to increase
black fears than allay white ones. De Klerk then said, "We will have to
change it, then."
I then brought up the question of my freedom and said that if he
expected me to go out to pasture upon my release he was greatly mistaken
I reaffirmed that if I was released into the same conditions under which
I had been arrested I would go back to doing precisely those things for
which I had been imprisoned. I made the case to him that the best way to move forward was to unban the ANC and all other political organizations,
to lift the State of Emergency, to release political prisoners, and
to allow the exiles to return. If the government did not unban the ANC,
as soon as I was out of prison I would be working for an illegal organization.
"Then," I said, "you must simply rearrest me after I walk through
those gates."
Again, he listened carefully to what I had to say. My suggestions
certainly came as no surprise to him. He said he would take all that I said
under consideration, but that he would make no promises. The meeting
was an exploratory one and I understood that nothing was going to be
resolved that day. But it was extremely useful, for I had taken the measure
of Mr. de Klerk just as I did with new prison commanders when I was
on Robben Island. I was able to write to our people in Lusaka that Mr.
de Klerk seemed to represent a true departure from the National Party
politicians of the past. Mr. de Klerk, I said, echoing Mrs. Thatcher's
famous description of Mr. Gorbachev, was a man we could do business
with.
99
ON FEBRUARY 2, 1990, E W. de Klerk stood before Parliament to
make the traditional opening speech and did something no other South
African head of state had ever done: he truly began to dismantle the
apartheid system and lay the groundwork for a democratic South Afn^- In dramatic fashion, Mr. de Klerk announced the lifting of the bans on
the ANC, the PAC, the South African Communist Party, and thirty-one
other illegal organizations; the freeing of political prisoners incarcera
for nonviolent activities; the suspension of capital punishment; and
TALKING WITH THE ENEMY 485
lifting °{ various restrictions imposed by the State of Emergency. "The
time fo1" negotiation has arrived," he said.
It was a breathtaking moment, for in one sweeping action he had
virtually normalized the situation in South Africa. Our world had changed
overnight. After forty years of persecution and banishment, the ANC
was now a legal organization. I and all my comrades could no longer be
arrested for being a member of the ANC, for carrying its green, yellow,
and black banner, for speaking its name. For the first time in almost thirty
years, my picture and my words, and those of all my banned comrades,
could freely appear in South African newspapers. The international community
applauded de Klerk's bold actions. Amidst all the good news,
however, the ANC objected to the fact that Mr. de Klerk had not completely
lifted the State of Emergency or ordered the troops out of the
townships.
On February 9, seven days after Mr. de Klerk's speech opening Parliament,
I was informed that I was again going to Tuynhuys. I arrived at
six o'clock in the evening. I met a smiling Mr. de Klerk in his office and
as we shook hands, he informed me that he was going to release me from
prison the following day. Although the press in South Africa and around
the world had been speculating for weeks that my release was imminent,
Mr. de Klerk's announcement nevertheless came as a surprise to me. I
had not been told that the reason Mr. de Klerk wanted to see me was to
tell me that he was making me a free man.
I felt a conflict between my blood and my brain. I deeply wanted to
leave prison as soon as I could, but to do so on such short notice would
not be wise. I thanked Mr. de Klerk, and then said that at the risk of
appearing ungrateful I would prefer to have a week's notice in order that
my family and my organization could be prepared for my release. Simply
to walk out tomorrow, I said, would cause chaos. I asked Mr. de Klerk
to release me a week from that day. After waiting twenty-seven years, I
could certainly wait another seven days.
De Klerk was taken aback by my response. Instead of replying, he
continued to relate the plan for my release. He said that the government Would fly me to Johannesburg and officially release me there. Before he ^nt any further, I told him that I strongly objected to that. I wanted to ^alk out of the gates of Victor Verster and be able to thank those who
tooked after me and greet the people of Cape Town. Though I was from
Johannesburg, Cape Town had been my home for nearly three decades.
^uld make my way back to Johannesburg, but when I chose to, not ^nen the government wanted me to. "Once I am free," I said, "I will '"ok after myself."
I I
486 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
De Klerk was again nonplused. But this time my objections caused
reaction. He excused himself and left his office to consult with others
After ten minutes he returned with a rather long face and said "Mr
Mandela, it is too late to change the plan now." I replied that the plan
was unacceptable and that I wanted to be released a week hence and at
Victor Verster, not Johannesburg. It was a tense moment and, at the time
neither of us saw any irony in a prisoner asking not to be released and
his jailer attempting to release him.
De Klerk again excused himself and left the room. After ten minutes
he returned with a compromise: yes, I could be released at Victor Verster
but, no, the release could not be postponed. The government had already informed the foreign press that I was to be set free tomorrow and felt
they could not renege on that statement. I felt I could not argue with
that. In the end, we agreed on the compromise, and Mr. de Klerk poured
a tumbler of whisky for each of us to drink in celebration. I raised the
glass in a toast, but only pretended to drink; such spirits are too strong
for me.
I did not get back to my cottage until shortly before midnight, whereupon
I immediately sent word to my colleagues in Cape Town that I was
to be released the following day. I managed to get a message to Winnie
and I telephoned Walter in Johannesburg. They would all fly in on a
chartered plane the next day. That evening, a number ofANC people on
what was known as the National Reception Committee came to the cottage
to draft a statement that I would make the following day. They left
in the early hours of the morning, and despite my excitement, I had no
trouble falling asleep.
Part Eleven
FREEDOM
100
I AWOKE ON THE DAY of my release after only a few hours' sleep
at 4:30 a.m. February 11 was a cloudless, cnd-of-summer Cape Town day.
I did a shortened version of my usual exercise regimen, washed, and ate
breakfast. I then telephoned a number of people from the ANC and the
UDF in Cape Town to come to the cottage to prepare for my release and
work on my speech. The prison doctor came by to give me a brief checkup.
I did not dwell on the prospect of my release, but on all the many things
I had to do before then. As so often happens in life, the momentousness
of an occasion is lost in the welter of a thousand details.
There were numerous matters that had to be discussed and resolved
with very little time to do so. A number of comrades from the reception
committee, including Cyril Ramaphosa and Trevor Manuel, were at the
house bright and early. I wanted initially to address the people of Paarl,
who had been very kind to me during my incarceration, but the reception
committee was adamant that that would not be a good idea: it would
Idjok curious if I gave my first speech to the prosperous white burghers
of Paarl. Instead, as planned, I would speak first to the people of Cape
Town at the Grand Parade in Cape Town.
r One of the first questions to be resolved was where I would spend my flat night of freedom. My inclination was to spend the night in the Cape
Flats, the bustling black and Coloured townships of Cape Town, in order
to show my solidarity with the people. But my colleagues and, later, my
wife argued that for security reasons I should stay with Archbishop Des- mond Tutu in Bishop's Court, a plush residence in a white suburb. It
was not an area where I would have been permitted to live before I went
to prison, and I thought it would send the wrong signal to spend my
first night of freedom in a posh white area. But the members of the ^mmittee explained that Bishop's Court had become multiracial under
lutu's tenure, and symbolized an open, generous nonracialism.
The prison service supplied me with boxes and crates for packing. "uring my first twenty or so years in prison, I accumulated very few
P°ssessions, but in the last few years I had amassed enough property -- Mainly books and papers -- to make up for previous decades. I filled over a dozen crates and boxes.
--y actual release time was set for 3 p.m., but Winnie and Walter and the ^er passengers from the chartered flight from Johannesburg did not
I
490 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
arrive until after two. There were already dozens of people at the hoi
and the entire scene took on the aspect of a celebration. Warrant Offl
Swart prepared a final meal for all of us, and I thanked him not ordv if
the food he had provided for the last two years but the companionshin
Warrant Officer James Gregory was also there at the house, and I embraced
him warmly. In the years that he had looked after me from Pollsmoo
through Victor Verster, we had never discussed politics, but our bond
was an unspoken one and I would miss his soothing presence. Men like
Swart, Gregory, and Warrant Officer Brand reinforced my belief in the
essential humanity even of those who had kept me behind bars for the
previous twenty-seven and a half years.
There was little time for lengthy farewells. The plan was that Winnie
and I would be driven in a car to the front gate of the prison. I had told
the authorities that I wanted to be able to say good-bye to the guards
and warders who had looked after me and I asked that they and their
families wait for me at the front gate, where I would be able to thank
them individually.
At a few minutes after three, I was telephoned by a well-known SABC
presenter who requested that I get out of the car a few hundred feet
before the gate so that they could film me walking toward freedom. This
seemed reasonable, and I agreed to do it. This was my first inkling that
things might not go as calmly as I had imagined.
By 3:30, I began to get restless, as we were already behind schedule. I
told the members of the reception committee that my people had been
waiting for me for twenty-seven years and I did not want to keep them
waiting any longer. Shortly before four, we left in a small motorcade from
the cottage. About a quarter of a mile in front of the gate, the car slowed
to a stop and Winnie and I got out and began to walk toward the prison
gate.
At first, I could not really make out what was going on in front of us,
but when I was within one hundred fifty feet or so, I saw a tremendous
commotion and a great crowd of people: hundreds of photographers and
television cameras and newspeople as well as several thousand ww- wishers. I was astounded and a little bit alarmed. I had truly not expecte
such a scene; at most, I had imagined that there would be several dozen
people, mainly the warders and their families. But this proved to be on y
the beginning; I realized we had not thoroughly prepared for all that wa
about to happen.
Within twenty feet or so of the gate, the cameras started clicking^ noise that sounded like some great herd of metallic beasts. ^P01^ started shouting questions; television crews began crowding in;
supporters were yelling and cheering. It was a happy, if slightly disori
FREEDOM 491
ine chaos. When a television crew thrust a long, dark, furry object at me, I recoiled slightly, wondering if it were some newfangled weapon
developed while I was in prison. Winnie informed me that it was a
microphone.
When I was among the crowd I raised my right fist and there was a
roar. I had not been able to do that for twenty-seven years and it gave
me a surge of strength and joy. We stayed among the crowd for only a
few minutes before jumping back into the car for the drive to Cape Town.
Although I was pleased to have such a reception, I was greatly vexed by
the fact that I did not have a chance to say good-bye to the prison staff.
As I finally walked through those gates to enter a car on the other side,
I felt -- even at the age of seventy-one -- that my life was beginning anew.
My ten thousand days of imprisonment were over.
Cape Town was thirty-five miles to the southwest, but because of the
unexpected crowds at the gate, the driver elected to take a different path
to the city. We drove round to the back of the prison, and our convoy
took small roads and byways into town. We drove through beautiful green
vineyards and manicured farms, and I relished the scenery around me.
The countryside was lush and well cared for, but what surprised me
was how many white families were standing beside the road to get a
glimpse of our motorcade. They had heard on the radio that we were
taking an alternate route. Some, perhaps a dozen, even raised their
clenched right fists in what had become the ANC power salute. This
astonished me; I was tremendously encouraged by these few brave souls
from a conservative farming area who expressed their solidarity. At one
point, I stopped and got out of the car to greet and thank one such white
family and tell them how inspired I was by their support. It made me
think that the South Africa I was returning to was far different from the
one I had left.
As we entered the outskirts of the city, I could see people streaming
toward the center. The reception committee had organized a rally at the
Grand Parade in Cape Town, a great open square that stretched out in
front of the old City Hall. I would speak to the crowd from the balcony 01 that building, which overlooked the entire area. We heard sketchy Sports that a great sea of people had been waiting there since morning.
ne plan was for our motorcade to avoid the crowd and drive around to the back of City Hall, where I would quietly enter the building.
The drive to Cape Town took forty-five minutes, and as we neared the
fand Parade we could see an enormous crowd. The driver was meant
turn right and skirt its edges, but instead, he inexplicably plunged
^ight into the sea of people. Immediately the crowd surged forward
492 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
and enveloped the car. We inched forward for a minute or two but wer
then forced to stop by the sheer press of bodies. People began knocking on the windows, and then on the boot and the bonnet. Inside it sounded
like a massive hailstorm. Then people began to jump on the car in their
excitement. Others began to shake it and at that moment I began to
worry. I felt as though the crowd might very well kill us with their love
The driver was even more anxious than Winnie and I, and he was
clamoring to jump out of the car. I told him to stay calm and remain
inside, that others from the cars behind us would come to our rescue
Allan Boesak and others began to attempt to clear a way for our vehicle
and push the people off the car, but with little success. We sat inside _
it would have been futile to even attempt to open the door, so many people were pressing on it -- for more than an hour, imprisoned by
thousands of our own supporters. The scheduled beginning of the speech
had long passed.
Several dozen marshals eventually came to the rescue and managed
slowly to clear an exit path. When we finally broke free, the driver set off
at great speed in the opposite direction from City Hall. "Man, where are
you going?" I asked him in some agitation. "I don't know!" he said, his
voice tense with anxiety. "I've never experienced anything like that before,"
he said, and then continued driving without any destination in mind.
When he began to calm down I gave him directions to the house of
my friend and attorney Dullah Omar, who lived in the Indian area of the
city. We could go there, I said, and relax for a few minutes. This appealed
to him. Fortunately, Dullah and his family were home, but they were
more than a bit surprised to see us. I was a free man for the first time in
twenty-seven years, but instead of greeting me, they said with some concern,
"Aren't you meant to be at the Grand Parade?"
We were able to sip some cold drinks at Dullah's, but we had only
been there a few minutes when Archbishop Tutu telephoned. How he
knew we were there I do not know. He was quite distressed and said,
"Nelson, you must come back to the Grand Parade immediately. The
people are growing restless. If you do not return straightaway I cannot
vouch for what will happen. I think there might be an uprising!" I said
I would return at once.
Our problem was the driver: he was deeply reluctant to return to the
Grand Parade. But I remonstrated with him and soon we were on our
way back to City Hall. The building was surrounded by people on a
sides, but it was not as dense in the back, and the driver managed to m
his way through to the rear entrance. It was almost dusk when I was
up to the top floor of this stately building whose halls had always bee
filled with shuffling white functionaries. I walked out onto the balcony
FREEDOM 493
and saw a boundless sea of people cheering, holding flags and banners,
dapping, and laughing.
I raised my fist to the crowd and the crowd responded with an enormous
cheer. Those cheers fired me anew with the spirit of the struggle. "Amandia!" I called out. "N^awethu!" they responded. "iAfrika!" I yelled;
"Mwibuye!" they answered. Finally, when the crowd had settled down a
bit, I took out my speech and then reached into my breast pocket for my
glasses. They were not there; I had left them at Victor Verster. I knew
Winnie's glasses were a similar prescription and I borrowed hers.
Friends, comrades and fellow South Africans. I greet you all in the
name of peace, democracy and freedom for all! I stand here before you
not as a prophet but as a humble servant of you, the people. Your tireless
and heroic sacrifices have made it possible for me to be here today. I
therefore place the remaining years of my life in your hands.
I spoke from the heart. I wanted first of all to tell the people that I
|yas not a messiah, but an ordinary man who had became a leader because W extraordinary circumstances. I wanted immediately to thank the people
all over the world who had campaigned for my release. I thanked the
people of Cape Town, and I saluted Oliver Tambo and the African National fbngress, Umkhonto we Sizwe, the South African Communist Party, the
1 ?DF, the South African Youth Congress, COSATU, the Mass Demo(Patic
Movement, the National Union of South African Students, and
t ie Black Sash, a group formed by women that had long been a voice of
conscience. I also publicly expressed my gratitude to my wife and family,
sying, "I am convinced that [their] pain and suffering was far greater
tfean my own."
I told the crowd in no uncertain terms that apartheid had no future
in South Africa, and that the people must not let up their campaign of mass action. "The sight of freedom looming on the horizon should encourage
us to redouble our efforts." I felt it was important publicly to
explain my talks with the government. "Today," I said, "I wish to report
to you that my talks with the government have been aimed at normalizing Ae political situation in the country. I wish to stress that I myself have at no time entered into negotiations about the future of our country
except to insist on a meeting between the ANC and the government."
1 said I hoped that a climate conducive to a negotiated settlement could ^on !>e achieved, ending the need for the armed struggle. The steps to
achic ing such a climate, I said, had been outlined in the ANC's 1989 Harare Declaration. As a condition to real negotiations, I said, the gov- ^nnu-nt must immediately end the State of Emergency and free all poetical
prisoners.
494 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I told the people that de Klerk had gone further than any other M
tionalist leader to normalize the situation and then, in words that c
back to haunt me, I called Mr. de Klerk "a man of integrity." These we rl
were flung back at me many times when Mr. de Klerk seemed not to 1 . up to them.
It was vital for me to show my people and the government that I wa
unbroken and unbowed, and that the struggle was not over for me hut
beginning anew in a different form. I affirmed that I was "a loyal and
disciplined member of the African National Congress." I encouraged the
people to return to the barricades, to intensify the struggle, and we would
walk the last mile together.
It was evening by the time my speech was finished, and we were hustled
back into our cars for the trip to Bishop's Court. As we entered its pristine
environs, I saw hundreds of black faces waiting to greet me. When they
saw us, the people burst into song. When I greeted Archbishop Tutu, I
enveloped him in a great hug; here was a man who had inspired an entire
nation with his words and his courage, who had revived the people's hope
during the darkest of times. We were led inside the house where more
family and friends met us, but for me, the most wonderful moment was
when I was told that I had a telephone call from Stockholm. I knew
immediately who it was. Oliver's voice was weak, but unmistakable, and
to hear him after all those years filled me with great joy. Oliver was in
Sweden recuperating from a debilitating stroke he had suffered in August
1989. We agreed that we would meet as soon as possible.
My dream upon leaving prison was to take a leisurely drive down to
the Transkei, and visit my birthplace, the hills and streams where I had
played as a boy, and the burial ground of my mother, which I had never
seen. But my dream had to be deferred, for I learned very quickly of the
extensive plans that the ANC had for me, and none of them involved a
relaxing journey to the Transkei.
101
I WAS SCHEDULED to hold a press conference the afternoon after
my release, and in the morning I met with a number of my colleagues
talk about scheduling and strategy. A small mountain of telegrams an
messages of congratulations had arrived, and I tried to review as m y
of these as possible. There were telegrams from all around the we
from presidents and prime ministers, but I remember one in partic
from a white Cape Town housewife that amused me greatly It rcat-
FREEDOM 495
am vci / glad that you are free, and that you are back among your friends
and family, but your speech yesterday was very boring."
Before I went to prison I never held such a press conference as I did
that dav. In the old days there were no television cameras, and most ANC press conferences were conducted clandestinely. That afternoon, there
were so many journalists, from so many different countries, I did not
blow whom to speak with. I was pleased to see a high percentage of
black journalists among the throng. At the press conference I was once
again keen to reassert a number of themes: first, that I was a loyal and
disciplined member of the ANC. I was mindful of the fact that the most
senior ANC people would be watching my release from abroad, and
attempting to gauge my fidelity from a distance. I was aware that they
had heard rumors that I had strayed from the organization, that I was
compromised, so at every turn I sought to reassure them. When asked
what role I would play in the organization, I told the press that I would
play whatever role the ANC ordered.
I told the reporters that there was no contradiction between my continuing
support for the armed struggle and my advocating negotiations.
It was the reality and the threat of the armed struggle that had brought
the government to the verge of negotiations. I added that when the state
stopped inflicting violence on the ANC, the ANC would reciprocate with
peace. Asked about sanctions, I said the ANC could not yet call for the
relaxation of sanctions, because the situation that caused sanctions in the
first place -- the absence of political rights for blacks -- was still the status
quo. I might be out of jail, I said, but I was not yet free.
I was asked as well about the fears of whites. I knew that people
expected me to harbor anger toward whites. But I had none. In prison, my anger toward whites decreased, but my hatred for the system grew. I
wanted South Africa to see that I loved even my enemies while I hated
the system that turned us against one another.
I wanted to impress upon the reporters the critical role of whites in sny new dispensation. I have tried never to lose sight of this. We did not
want to destroy the country before we freed it, and to drive the whites
away would devastate the nation. I said that there was a middle ground "etween white fears and black hopes, and we in the ANC would find it.
(rtlrrt . ^
whites are fellow South Africans," I said, "and we want them to feel e ^d to know that we appreciate the contribution that they have made toward the development of this country." Any man or woman who aban°ns
apartheid will be embraced in our struggle for a democratic, non- ^al South Africa; we must do everything we can to persuade our white
^patriots that a new, nonracial South Africa will be a better place for all. 496 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
From my very first press conference I noticed that journalists were
eager to learn about my personal feelings and relationships as my poiki i
thoughts. This was new to me; when I went to prison, a journalist would
never have thought of asking questions about one's wife and family one'
emotions, one's most intimate moments. While it was understandable thai the press might be interested in these things, I nevertheless found thei
curiosity difficult to satisfy. I am not and never have been a man who finds it easy to talk about his feelings in public. I was often asked by
reporters how it felt to be free, and I did my best to describe the indescribable,
and usually failed.
After the press conference. Archbishop Tutu's wife telephoned us from
Johannesburg to say that we must fly there straightaway. Winnie and I
had hoped to spend a few days in Cape Town relaxing, but the message
we were getting was that the people of Johannesburg were getting restless
and there might be chaos if I did not return directly. We flew to Johannesburg
that evening, but I was informed that there were thousands of
people surrounding our old home, 8115 Orlando West, which had been
reconstructed, and that it would be unwise to go there. I reluctantly
acceded; I yearned to spend my second night of freedom under my own
roof. Instead, Winnie and I stayed in the northern suburbs at the home
of an ANC supporter.
The following morning we flew by helicopter to the First National
Bank Stadium in Soweto. We were able to make an aerial tour of Soweto,
the teeming metropolis of matchbox houses, tin shanties, and dirt roads,
the mother city of black urban South Africa, the only home I ever knew
as a man before I went to prison. While Soweto had grown, and in some
places prospered, the overwhelming majority of the people remained
dreadfully poor, without electricity or running water, eking out an existence
that was shameful in a nation as wealthy as South Africa. In many
places, the poverty was far worse than when I went to prison.
We circled over the stadium, overflowing with 120,000 people, and landed
in the center. The stadium was so crowded, with people sitting or standing
in every inch of space, that it looked as though it would burst. I expressed
my delight to be back among them, but I then scolded the people fot some of the crippling problems of urban black life. Students, I said, must
return to school. Crime must be brought under control. I told them tha
I had heard of criminals masquerading as freedom fighters, harassing
innocent people and setting alight vehicles; these rogues had no pla*^ the struggle. Freedom without civility, freedom without the ability
live in peace, was not true freedom at all.
I FREEDOM 497
Today, my return to Soweto fills my heart with joy. At the same time I
also return with a deep sense of sadness. Sadness to learn that you are
still suffering under an inhuman system. The housing shortage, the
schools crisis, unemployment and the crime rate still remain. ... As
proud as I am to be part of the Soweto community, I have been greatly
disturbed by the statistics of crime that I read in the newspapers. Although
I understand the deprivations our people suffer I must make it
clear that the level of crime in the township is unhealthy and must be
eliminated as a matter of urgency.
I ended by opening my arms to all South Africans of goodwill and
good intentions, saying that "no man or woman who has abandoned
apartheid will be excluded from our movement toward a nonracial, united
and democratic South Africa based on one-person one-vote on a common
voters' roll." That was the ANC's mission, the goal that I had always kept
before me during the many lonely years in prison, the goal that I would
work toward during the remaining years of my life. It was the dream I
cherished when I entered prison at the age of forty-four, but I was no
longer a young man, I was seventy-one, and I could not afford to waste
any time.
That night, I returned with Winnie to number 8115 in Orlando West. It
was only then that I knew in my heart that I had left prison. For me, 8115
was the centerpoint of my world, the place marked with an X in my mental
geography. The house had been soundly rebuilt after the fire. When I
saw the four-roomed house, I was surprised by how much smaller and
humbler it was than I remembered it being. Compared to my cottage at
Victor Verster, number 8115 could have been the servants' quarters at the back. But any house in which a man is free is a castle when compared to
even the plushest prison.
That night, as happy as I was to be home, I had a sense that what I "lost wanted and longed for was going to be denied me. I yearned to
resume a normal and ordinary life, to pick up some of the old threads
"from my life as a young man, to be able to go to my office in the morning an^ return to my family in the evening, to be able to pop out and buy ^me toothpaste at the pharmacy, to visit in the evening with old friends. ^hesc ordinary things are what one misses most in prison, and dreams sbour doing when one is free. But I quickly realized that such things ^re not going to be possible. That night, and every night for the next ^eks and months, the house was surrounded by hundreds of well'^hcrs.
People sang and danced and called out, and their joy was infec-
498 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
tious. These were my people, and I had no right and no desire to d
myself to them. But in giving myself to my people I could see that I
once again taking myself away from my family.
We did not sleep much that night, as the singing continued until rh
early hours, when members of the ANC and UDF who were guard in
the house begged the crowd to remain quiet and allow us to rest. Ther
were many in the ANC who advised me to move to the home a few block
distant, in Diepkloof extension, that Winnie had built while I was in
prison. It was a grand place by Soweto standards, but it was a house that
held no meaning or memories for me. Moreover, it was a house that
because of its size and expense seemed somehow inappropriate for a leader
of the people. I rejected that advice for as long as I could. I wanted not
only to live among my people, but like them.
102
MY FIRST RESPONSIBILITY was to report to the leadership of the
ANC, and on February 27, when I had been out of prison a little over
two weeks, I flew to Lusaka for a meeting of the National Executive
Committee. It was a wonderful reunion to be with old comrades whom
I had not seen in decades. A number of African heads of state were also
in attendance, and I had brief talks with Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe,
Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia, Jose Eduardo dos Santos of Angola, Quett
Masire of Botswana, Joaquim Chissano of Mozambique, and Yowen
Musaveni of Uganda.
While the members of the executive were pleased that I had been freed,
they were also eager to evaluate the man who had been released. I could
see the questions in their eyes. Was Mandela the same man who went to
prison twenty-seven years before, or was this a different Mandela, a reformed
Mandela? Had he survived or had he been broken? They had
heard reports of my conversations with the government and they were
rightly concerned. I had not only been out of touch with the situation
on the ground -- since 1984 I had not even been able to communicate
with my colleagues in prison.
I carefully and soberly explained the nature of my talks with the government.
I described the demands I had made, and the progress that ha
been achieved. They had seen the memoranda I had written to Borha an
de Klerk, and knew that these documents adhered to ANC policy. I kne
that over the previous few years some of the men who had been rele25 had gone to Lusaka and whispered, "Madiba has become soft. He
been bought off by the authorities. He is wearing three-piece suits, dru"^
I FREEDOM 499
I
,-ig \\'ine, and eating fine food." I knew of these whispers, and I intended
refute them. I knew that the best way to disprove them was simply to
he direct and honest about everything that I had done.
At that session of the NEC I was elected deputy president of the ,.,-ganization while Alfred Nzo, the organization's secretary-general, was
named acting president while Oliver was recuperating. At a press conference
after our meeting, I was asked about a suggestion made by Dr.
Kaunda, the president of Zambia and a longtime supporter of the Congress,
that the ANC should suspend armed operations inside South Africa
now that I had been released. I replied that while we valued Mr. Kaunda's
wisdom and support, it was too soon to suspend the armed struggle, for
we had not yet achieved the goal for which we took up arms; it was not
the ANC's job, I said, to help Mr. de Klerk placate his right-wing supporters.

I began a tour of Africa, which included many countries. During the
first six months after my release, I spent more time abroad than at home.
Nearly everywhere I went there were great enthusiastic crowds so that
even if I felt weary the people buoyed me. In Dar es Salaam I was met
by a crowd estimated at half a million.
I enjoyed my travels immensely. I wanted to see new -- and old --
sights, taste different foods, speak with all manner of people. I very quickly
had to acclimatize myself to a world radically different from the one I
had left. With changes in travel, communication, and mass media, the
world had accelerated; things now happened so fast it was sometimes
difficult to keep up with them. Winnie tried to get me to slow down, but
there was simply too much to do; the organization wanted to make sure
we took advantage of the euphoria generated by my release.
In Cairo, the day after a private meeting with the Egyptian president,
Hosni Mubarak, I was scheduled to address a large meeting in a local
hall. When I arrived, the crowd seemed to be spilling out of the building 2nd there was precious little security. I mentioned to a policeman that I "lought he needed reinforcements but he merely shrugged. Winnie and ^ited in a room behind the hall, and at the appointed hour, a policeman liotioned for me to go in. I told him to escort the rest of my delegation m first because I feared that when I went in there would be pandemonium ^d they would be cut off. But the policeman urged me to go first, and 'ideed as soon as I was in the hall, the crowd surged forward and overcame tuc cordon of policemen. In their enthusiasm, I was jostled and a bit aJsen, <md at one point I lost my shoe in the general confusion. When "igs began to calm down a few minutes later, I found that neither my
°e nor my wife could be located. Finally, after nearly half an hour,
Uuiie was brought onto the stage with me, quite cross that she had
500 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
been lost. I was not able to even address the crowd, for they were shout"
"Mandela! Mandela!" so furiously that I could not be heard above rh
din, and finally I left, without my shoe and with an uncharactensticall
silent wife.
While in Cairo I held a press conference at which I said the ANC was "prepared to consider a cessation of hostilities." This was a signal to the
government. Both the ANC and the government were engaged in creatine
a climate whereby negotiations would succeed. While the ANC was demanding
that the government normalize the situation in the country by
ending the State of Emergency, releasing all political prisoners, and repealing
all apartheid laws, the government was intent on first persuading the ANC to suspend the armed struggle. While we were not yet ready to announce such a suspension, we wanted to provide Mr. dc Klerk with
enough encouragement to pursue his reformist strategies. We knew that
we would eventually suspend the armed struggle, in part to facilitate more
serious negotiations and in part to allow Mr. de Klerk to go to his own
constituency, the white voters of South Africa, and say, "Look, here are
the fruits of my policy."
After my last stop in Africa, I flew to Stockholm to visit Oliver. Seeing
my old friend and law partner was the reunion I most looked forward
to. Oliver was not well, but when we met we were like two young boys
in the veld who took strength from our love for each other. We began by
talking of old times, but when we were alone, the first subject he raised
was the leadership of the organization. "Nelson," he said, "you must now
take over as president of the ANC. I have been merely keeping the job
warm for you." I refused, telling him that he had led the organization in
exile far better than I ever could have. It was neither fair nor democratic
for a transfer to occur in such a manner. "You have been elected by the
organization as the president," I said. "Let us wait for an election; then
the organization can decide." Oliver protested, but I would not budge.
It was a sign of his humility and selflessness that he wanted to appoint
me president, but it was not in keeping with the principles of the ANC.
In April 1990,1 flew to London to attend a concert at Wembley, held
in my honor. Many international artists, most of whom I never knew,
were performing and the event was to be televised worldwide. I took
advantage of this to thank the world's anti-apartheid forces for the Wmendous
work they had done in pressing for sanctions, for the release o
myself and fellow political prisoners, and for the genuine support an
solidarity they had shown the oppressed people of my country.
FREEDOM 501
103
WHEN I EMERGED from prison. Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi, the
head of the Inkatha Freedom Party and the chief minister of KwaZulu,
was one of the premier players on the South African political stage. But
within ANC circles, he was a far from popular figure. Chief Buthelezi was
descended from the great Zulu king Cetywayo, who had defeated the
British at the Battle oflsandhlwana in 1879. As a young man, he attended
Fort Hare and then joined the ANC Youth League. I saw him as one of
the movement's upcoming young leaders. He had become chief minister
of the KwaZulu homeland with the tacit support of the ANC, and even
his launching of Inkatha as a Zulu cultural organization was unopposed
by the organization. But over the years. Chief Buthelezi drifted away from
the ANC. Though he resolutely opposed apartheid and refused to allow
KwaZulu to become an "independent" homeland as the government
wished, he was a thorn in the side of the democratic movement. He
opposed the armed struggle. He criticized the 1976 Soweto uprising. He
campaigned against international sanctions. He challenged the idea of a
unitary state of South Africa. Yet, Chief Buthelezi had consistently called
for my release and refused to negotiate with the government until I and
other political prisoners were liberated.
Chief Buthelezi was one of the first people I telephoned after my release
to thank him for his long-standing support. My inclination was to meet with
the chief as soon as possible to try to resolve our differences. During my
initial visit to Lusaka, I brought up the idea of such a meeting and it was
voted down. While I was at Victor Verster, Walter had been invited by the
Zulu king. Goodwill Zwelithini, to visit him in Ulundi, KwaZulu's capital,
and I urged him to accept. I thought it was an excellent opportunity to
influence the head of one of the most respected and powerful royal families
in the country. The visit was tentatively approved by the NEC provided
Walter went to the king's palace in Nongoma; it was thought that going
to Ulundi would suggest recognition of the authority of the homeland.
When I returned from Lusaka I telephoned both Chief Buthelezi and "ie king, and explained that Walter would be coming to see the king, not in Ulundi but at Nongoma. The king said he would not accept Walter ^ming to see him anywhere else but in the capital. "I am the king," he ^aid. "I have invited him to see me in Ulundi, and he has no right to say
will see you elsewhere." "Your Majesty," I said, "we are facing a wall of
°PPosition from our membership who did not want Mr. Sisulu to go to
502 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
KwaZulu at all. We managed to get this compromise approved su l
you can bend as well." But he could not, and he refused to see Wake
Relations deteriorated after this, and in May, I persuaded the anc if the need for me to make a visit to the king and Buthelezi. The kin
approved, but a week or so before the visit I received a letter from him
saying I must come alone. This proved to be the last straw, and the NEC
would not give in to such a demand. I told the king that I could not
come unless I was accompanied by my colleagues; the king regarded this
as another slight and canceled the visit.
My goal was to forge an independent relationship with the kins separate
from my relationship with Chief Buthelezi. The king was the true
hereditary leader of the Zulus, who loved and respected him. Fidelity to
the king was far more widespread in KwaZulu than allegiance to Inkatha.
In the meantime. Natal became a killing ground. Heavily armed Inkatha
supporters had in effect declared war on ANC strongholds across the
Natal Midlands region and around Pietermaritzburg. Entire villages were
set alight, dozens of people were killed, hundreds were wounded, and
thousands became refugees. In March 1990 alone, 230 people lost their
lives in this internecine violence. In Natal, Zulu was murdering Zulu, for
Inkatha members and ANC partisans are Zulus. In February, only two
weeks after my release, I went to Durban and spoke to a crowd of over
100,000 people at King's Park, almost all of whom were Zulus. I pleaded
with them to lay down their arms, to take each others' hands in peace:
"Take your guns, your knives, and your pangas, and throw them into the seal Close down the death factories. End this war now!" But my call fell
on deaf ears. The fighting and dying continued.
I was so concerned that I was willing to go to great lengths to meet
Chief Buthelezi. In March, after one particularly horrifying spasm of violence,
I announced on my own that I would meet Chief Buthelezi at a
mountain hamlet outside of Pietermaritzburg. On a personal level, my relations
with Chief Buthelezi were close and respectful, and I hoped to capitalize
on that. But I found that such a meeting was anathema to ANC leaders
in Natal. They considered it dangerous and vetoed my meeting. I did go to
Pietermaritzburg, where I saw the burned remains of ANC supporters and
tried to comfort their grieving families, but I did not see Chief Buthelezi.
104
IN MARCH, after much negotiation within our respective parties, ^ scheduled our first face-to-face meeting with Mr. de Klerk and the gov eminent. These were to be "talks about talks," and the meetings were to
FREEDOM 503
begin in early April. But on March 26, in Sebokeng Township, about shirty miles south of Johannesburg, the police opened fire without warning
on a crowd of ANC demonstrators, killing twelve and wounding
hundreds more, most of them shot in the back as they were fleeing. Police
had used live ammunition in dealing with the demonstrators, which was
intolerable. The police claimed that their lives were endangered, but many
demonstrators were shot in the back and had no weapons. You cannot
be in danger from an unarmed man who is running away from you. The
right to assemble and demonstrate in support of our just demands was
not a favor to be granted by the government at its discretion. This sort
of action angered me like no other, and I told the press that every white
policeman in South Africa regarded every black person as a military target.
After consultation with the NEC, I announced the suspension of our
talks and warned Mr. de Klerk that he could not "talk about negotiations
on the one hand and murder our people on the other."
But despite the suspension of our official talks, with the approval of
the leadership, I met privately with Mr. de Klerk in Cape Town in order
to keep up the momentum for negotiations. Our discussions centered
primarily on a new date, and we agreed on early May. I brought up the
appalling behavior at Sebokeng and the police's unequal treatment of
blacks and whites; police used live ammunition with black demonstrators,
while they never unsheathed their guns at white right-wing protests.
The government was in no great rush to begin negotiations; they were
counting on the euphoria that greeted my release to die down. They
wanted to allow time for me to fall on my face and show that the former
prisoner hailed as a savior was a highly fallible man who had lost touch
with the present situation.
Despite his seemingly progressive actions, Mr. de Klerk was by no
means the great emancipator. He was a gradualist, a careful pragmatist.
He did not make any of his reforms with the intention of putting himself
out of power. He made them for precisely the opposite reason: to ensure
power for the Afrikaner in a new dispensation. He was not yet prepared
to negotiate the end of white rule.
His goal was to create a system of power-sharing based on group rights, which would preserve a modified form of minority power in South Africa.
He was decidedly opposed to majority rule, or "simple majoritarianism" as he sometimes called it, because that would end white domination in a ^ngle stroke. We knew early on that the government was fiercely opposed 0 Ťť winner-takes-all Westminster parliamentary system, and advocated ^stead a system of proportional representation with built-in structural S^antees for the white minority. Although he was prepared to allow the lac^ majority to vote and create legislation, he wanted to retain a minor504 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ity veto. From the start I would have no truck with this plan. I describe^ it to Mr. de Klerk as apartheid in disguise, a "loser-takes-all" system
The Nationalists' long-term strategy to overcome our strength was r build an anti-ANC alliance with the Inkatha Freedom Party and to lur
the Coloured Afrikaans-speaking voters of the Cape to a new National
Party. From the moment of my release, they began wooing both Buthelcyi
and the Coloured voters of the Cape. The government attempted to scare
the Coloured population into thinking the ANC was anti-Coloured. They
supported Chief Buthelezi's desire to retain Zulu power and identity in
a new South Africa by preaching to him the doctrine of group rights and
federalism.
The first round of talks with the government was held over three days in
early May. Our delegation consisted of Walter Sisulu, Joe Slovo, Alfred
Nzo, Thabo Mbeki, Ahmed Kathrada, Joe Modise, Ruth Mompati, Archie
Gumede, Reverend Beyers Naude, Cheryl Carolus, and myself. The
setting was Groote Schuur, the Cape Dutch-style mansion that was the
residence of South Africa's first colonial governors, among them Cecil
Rhodes. Some of our delegation joked that we were being led into an
ambush on the enemy's ground.
But the talks, contrary to expectation, were conducted with seriousness
and good humor. Historic enemies who had been fighting each other for
three centuries met and shook hands. Many wondered out loud why such
discussions had not taken place long before. The government had granted
temporary indemnities to Joe Slovo, the general secretary of the Communist
Party, and Joe Modise, the commander of MK, and to see these
two men shaking hands with the National Party leaders who had demonized
them for decades was extraordinary. As Thabo Mbeki later said
to reporters, each side had discovered that the other did not have horns.
The very fact of the talks themselves was a significant milestone in the
history of our country; as I pointed out, the meeting represented not
only what the ANC had been seeking for so many years, but an end to
the master/servant relationship that characterized black and white relations
in South Africa. We had not come to the meeting as supplicants or
petitioners, but as fellow South Africans who merited an equal place at the table.
The first day was more or less a history lesson. I explained to ou
counterparts that the ANC from its inception in 1912 had always soug
negotiations with the government in power. Mr. de Klerk, for his p
suggested that the system of separate development had been conceive
a benign idea, but had not worked in practice. For that, he said, he
sorry, and hoped the negotiations would make amends. It was no
FREEDOM 505
apoloav for apartheid, but it went further than any other National Party
leaiJfi' ^w ha(!.
The primary issue discussed was the definition of political prisoners
and nolitical exiles. The government argued for a narrow definition, wanting
to restrict the number of our people who would qualify for an indemnity.
We argued for the broadest possible definition and said that any
person who was convicted of an offense that was politically motivated
should qualify for an indemnity. We could not agree on a mutually satisfactory
definition of "politically motivated" crimes, and this would be
an issue that would bedevil us for quite a while to come.
At the end of the three-day meeting, we agreed on what became known
as the Groote Schuur Minute, pledging both sides to a peaceful process
of negotiations and committing the government to lifting the State of
Emergency, which they shortly did everywhere except for the violenceridden
province of Natal. We agreed to set up a joint working group to
resolve the many obstacles that still stood in our way.
When it came to constitutional issues, we told the government we were
demanding an elected constituent assembly to draw up a new constitution;
we believed that the men and women creating the constitution should be the choice of the people themselves. But before the election of an assembly,
it was necessary to have an interim government that could oversee the
transition until a new government was elected. The government could
not be both player and referee, as it was now. We advocated the creation
of a multiparty negotiating conference to set up the interim government
and set out the guiding principles for the functioning of a constituent
assembly.
105
ALTHOUGH I HAD WANTED to journey to Qunu immediately Wer my release from prison, it was not until April that I was able to go.
* could not pick up and leave whenever I wanted; security had to be ^ranged, as well as speeches prepared for local organizations. By April, the ANC and General Bantu Holomisa, the military leader of the Transkei ^d an ANC loyalist, had arranged for a visit. But what was foremost in my mind and heart was paying my respects to my mother's grave.
1 went first to Qunu and the site where my mother was buried. Her
g;a\c \. as simple and unadorned, covered only by a few stones and some
PUiim-d bricks, no different from the other graves at Qunu. I find it
, CUIL to describe my feelings: I felt regret that I had been unable to
L with her when she died, remorse that I had not been able to look after
506 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
her properly during her life, and a longing for what might have been h r\ I chosen to live my life differently,
In seeing my village again after so many years, I was greatly struck h
what had changed and what had not. When I had been young, the peoni
of Qunu were not political at all; they were unaware of the struggle fn
African rights. People accepted life as it was and did not dream of changing it. But when I returned I heard the schoolchildren of Qunu singing sones
about Oliver Tambo and Umkhonto we Sizwe, and I marveled at how
knowledge of the struggle had by then seeped into every corner of African
society.
What had endured was the warmth and simplicity of the community which took me back to my days as a boy. But what disturbed me was that
the villagers seemed as poor if not poorer than they had been then. Most
people still lived in simple huts with dirt floors, with no electricity and
no running water. When I was young, the village was tidy, the water pure,
and the grass green and unsullied as far as the eye could see. Kraals were
swept, the topsoil was conserved, fields were neatly divided. But now the
village was unswept, the water polluted, and the countryside littered with
plastic bags and wrappers. We had not known of plastic when I was a
boy, and though it surely improved life in some ways, its presence in Qunu
appeared to me to be a kind of blight. Pride in the community seemed
to have vanished.
That month, I had another homecoming: I returned to Robben Island
in order to persuade twenty-five MK political prisoners to accept the
government's offer of amnesty and leave the island. Though I had left the
island eight years before, my memories of prison were still fresh and untinged by nostalgia. After all the years of being visited by others, it
was a curious sensation to be a visitor on Robben Island.
But that day, I did not have much opportunity to sight-see for I met immediately
with the men protesting the government offer of amnesty. They
maintained that they would leave only after a victory on the battlefield,
not the negotiating table. They were fiercely opposed to this particular
settlement, in which they had to enumerate their crimes before receiving
indemnity. They accused the ANC of retreating from the Harare Declaration
demand for an unconditional, blanket amnesty covering political
prisoners and exiles. One man said, "Madiba, I have been fighting tw government all my life, and now I have to ask for a pardon from them.
I could sympathize with their arguments, but they were being u""
realistic. Every soldier would like to defeat his enemy on the field, but i
this case, such a victory was out of reach. The struggle was now at w
negotiating table. I argued that they were not advancing the cause .
FREEDOM 507
remaining in J^l- They could be of greater service outside than inside. In
the end, they agreed to accept the government's offer.
In early June, I was scheduled to leave on a six-week tour of Europe and
North America. Before going, I met privately with Mr. de Klerk, who
wanted to discuss the issue of sanctions. Based on the changes he had made
in South Africa, he asked me to mute the call for the continuation of international
sanctions. While we were mindful of what Mr. de Klerk had
done, in our view sanctions remained the best lever to force him to do
more. I was aware that the European Community and the States were inclined
to relax sanctions based on Mr. de Klerk's reforms. I explained to Mr.
de Klerk that we could not tell our supporters to relax sanctions until he
had completely dismantled apartheid and a transitional government was
in place. While he was disappointed at my response, he was not surprised.
The first leg of the trip took Winnie and me to Paris, where we were
treated in very grand style by Francois Mitterrand and his charming wife,
Danielle, a longtime ANC supporter. This was not my first trip to the
European mainland, but I was still entranced by the beauties of the Old
World. Although I do not want to stint on the loveliness of the City of
Light, the most important event that occurred while I was in France was
that the government announced the suspension of the State of Emergency.
I was pleased, but well aware that they had taken this action while I was
in Europe in order to undermine my call for sanctions.
After stops in Switzerland, Italy, and the Netherlands, I went to England,
where I spent two days visiting with Oliver and Adelaide. My next
stop was the United States, but I would be returning to England on my
way back to South Africa, which is when I was scheduled to meet with
Mrs. Thatcher. As a courtesy, however, I phoned her before I left, and
Mrs. Thatcher proceeded to give me a stern but well-meaning lecture:
she said she had been following my travels and noting how many events
I attended each day. "Mr. Mandela, before we discuss any issues," she ^id, "I must warn you that your schedule is too heavy. You must cut it vi half. Even a man half your age would have trouble meeting the demands Aat are being made on you. If you keep this up, you will not come out
°f America alive. That is my advice to you."
1 had read about New York City since I was a young man, and finally to ^e it from the bottom of its great glass-and-concrete canyons while mil- "ons upon millions of pieces of ticker tape came floating down was a
"'"cathtaking experience. It was reported that as many as a million people
P^sonally witnessed our procession through the city, and to see the ^Pport and enthusiasm they gave to the anti-apartheid struggle was truly
508 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
humbling. I had always read that New York was a hard-hearted place h
I felt the very opposite of that on my first full day in the city.
The following day I went up to Harlem, an area that had assumed
legendary proportions in my mind since the 1950S when I watched vounp men in Soweto emulate the fashions of Harlem dandies. Harlem, as my
wife said, was the Soweto of America. I spoke to a great crowd at Yankee
Stadium, telling them that an unbreakable umbilical cord connected black
South Africans and black Americans, for we were together children of
Africa. There was a kinship between the two, I said, that had been inspired
by such great Americans as W. E. B. Du Bois, Marcus Garvey, and Martin
Luther King Jr. As a young man, I idolized the Brown Bomber, Joe Louis
who took on not only his opponents in the ring but racists outside of it.
In prison, I followed the struggle of black Americans against racism
discrimination, and economic inequality. To us, Harlem symbolized the
strength of resistance and the beauty of black pride. This was brought
home to me by a young man I had seen the previous day who wore a Tshirt
that read, "BLACK BY NATURE, PROUD BY CHOICE." We
were linked by nature, I said, but we were proud of each other by choice.
After journeying to Memphis and Boston, I went to Washington to
address a joint session of Congress and attend a private meeting with
President Bush. I thanked the U.S. Congress for its anti-apartheid legislation
and said the new South Africa hoped to live up to the values that
created the two chambers before which I spoke. I said that as freedom
fighters we could not have known of such men as George Washington,
Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Jefferson "and not been moved to act as
they were moved to act." I also delivered a strong message on sanctions,
for I knew that the Bush administration felt it was time to loosen them.
I urged Congress not to do so.
Even before meeting Mr. Bush, I had formed a positive impression of
him, for he was the first world leader to telephone me with congratulations
after I left prison. From that point on. President Bush included me on
his short list of world leaders whom he briefed on important issues. In
person, he was just as warm and thoughtful, though we differed markedly
on the issues of the armed struggle and sanctions. He was a man with
whom one could disagree and then shake hands.
From the United States I proceeded to Canada, where I had a meeting
with Prime Minister Mulroney and also addressed their Parliament. We
were due to go to Ireland next, and before crossing the Atlantic, our
plane, a small jet, stopped for refueling in a remote place above the Arcti
Circle called Goose Bay. I felt like having a walk in the brisk air, and as
I was strolling on the tarmac, I noticed some people standing by w6 airport fence. I asked a Canadian official who they were. Eskimos, he sal
FREEDOM 509
In my seventy-two years on earth I had never met an Innuit and never
imagined that I would. I headed over to that fence and found a dozen or
so voung people, in their late teens, who had come out to the airport
because they had heard our plane was going to stop there. I had read
about the Innuit (the name "Eskimo" was given to them by the colonists)
as a boy, and the impression I received from the racist colonialist texts
was that they were a backward culture.
But in talking with these bright young people, I learned that they had
watched my release on television and were'familiar with events in South
Africa. "Viva ANC!" one of them said. The Innuit are an aboriginal
people historically mistreated by a white settler population; there were
parallels between the plights of black South Africans and the Innuit people.
What struck me so forcefully was how small the planet had become
during my decades in prison; it was amazing to me that a teenaged Innuit
living at the roof of the world could watch the release of a political prisoner
on the southern tip of Africa. Television had shrunk the world, and had
in the process become a great weapon for eradicating ignorance and
promoting democracy.
After Dublin, I went to London, where I had a three-hour meeting with
Mrs. Thatcher. Standing out in the cold talking with the young Innuits had
given me a chill. On the day I was to see Mrs. Thatcher it was wintry and
raining, and as we were leaving, Winnie told me I must take a raincoat. We
were already in the lobby of the hotel, and if I went back for my coat we
would be late. I am a stickler about punctuality, not only because I think
it is a sign of respect to the person you are meeting but in order to combat
the Western stereotype of Africans as being notoriously tardy. I told Win- me we did not liave time, and instead I stood out in the rain signing autographs
for some children. By the time I got to Mrs. Thatcher I was feeling
poorly, and I was later diagnosed as having a mild case of pneumonia.
But it did not interfere with our meeting, except that she chided me iike a schoolmarm for not taking her advice and cutting down on my ^hedule. Even though Mrs. Thatcher was on the opposite side of the
ANC on many issues, such as sanctions, she was always a forthright and ^licitous lady. In our meeting that day, though, I could not make the Lightest bit of headway with her on the question of sanctions.
106
^hen I RETURNED to South Africa in July, after brief trips to -ganda, Kenya, and Mozambique, I requested a meeting with Mr. de
510 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Klerk. Violence in the country was worsening; the death toll of 1990 was
already over fifteen hundred, more than all the political deaths of the
previous year. After conferring with my colleagues, I felt it necessary to
speed up the process of normalization. Our country was bleeding to death
and we had to move ahead faster.
Mr. de Klerk's lifting the State of Emergency in June seemed to set
the stage for a resumption of talks, but in July, government security forces
arrested about forty members of the ANC, including Mac Maharaj, Pravin
Gordhan, Siphiwe Nyanda, and Billy Nair, claiming that they were part
of a Communist Party plot called Operation Vula to overthrow the government.
De Klerk called for an urgent meeting with me and read to me
from documents he claimed had been confiscated in the raid. I was taken
aback because I knew nothing about it.
After the meeting I wanted an explanation and called Joe Slovo. Joe
explained that the passages read by Mr. de Klerk had been taken out of
context and that Vula was a moribund operation. But the government
was intent on using this discovery to try to pry the ANC from the SACP
and keep Joe Slovo out of the negotiations. I went back to Mr. de Klerk
and told him that he had been misled by his own police and that we had
no intention of parting ways with the SACP or dropping Joe Slovo from
our negotiating team.
In the middle of July, shortly before a scheduled meeting of the National
Executive Committee, Joe Slovo came to me privately with a proposition.
He suggested we voluntarily suspend the armed struggle in order
to create the right climate to move the negotiation process forward. Mr.
de Klerk, he said, needed to show his supporters that his policy had
brought benefits to the country. My first reaction was negative; I did not
think the time was ripe.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we had to
take the initiative and this was the best way to do it. I also recognized
that Joe, whose credentials as a radical were above dispute, was precisely
the right person to make the proposal. He could not be accused of being
a dupe of the government or of having gone soft. The following day I
told Joe that if he brought up the idea in the NEC, I would support him.
When Joe raised the idea in the NEC the next day there were some
who firmly objected, claiming that we were giving de Klerk's supporters
a reward but not our own people. But I defended the proposal, saying
the purpose of the armed struggle was always to bring the govenirnen
to the negotiating table, and now we had done so. I argued that tn
suspension could always be withdrawn, but it was necessary to show ou
good faith. After several hours, our view prevailed.
This was a controversial move within the ANC. Although MK wa
FREEDOM 511
not active, the aura of the armed struggle had great meaning for many
people. Even when cited merely as a rhetorical device, the armed struggle was a sign that we were actively fighting the enemy. As a result, it had a
popularity out of proportion to what it had achieved on the ground.
On August 6, in Pretoria, the ANC and the government signed what
became known as the Pretoria Minute, in which we agreed to suspend
the armed struggle. As I was to say over and over to our followers: we
suspended armed action, we did not terminate the armed struggle. The
agreement also set forth target dates for the release of political prisoners
and the granting of certain types of indemnity. The process of indemnity
was scheduled to be completed by May 1991, and the government also
agreed to review the Internal Security Act.
Of all the issues that hindered the peace process, none was more devastating
and frustrating than the escalation of violence in the country. We
had all hoped that as negotiations got under way, violence would decrease.
But in fact the opposite happened. The police and security forces were
making very few arrests. People in the townships were accusing them of
aiding and abetting the violence. It was becoming more and more clear
to me that there was connivance on the part of the security forces. Many
of the incidents indicated to me that the police, rather than quelling
violence, were fomenting it.
Over the next few months, I visited townships all across the violenceracked
Vaal Triangle south of Johannesburg, comforting wounded people
and grieving families. Over and over again, I heard the same story: the
police and the defense force were destabilizing the area. I was told of the
police confiscating weapons one day in one area, and then Inkatha forces
attacking our people with those stolen weapons the next day. We heard stories
of me police escorting Inkatha members to meetings and on their attacks.
In September, I gave a speech in which I said there was a hidden hand
behind the violence and suggested that there was a mysterious "Third
Force," which consisted of renegade men from the security forces who ^re attempting to disrupt the negotiations. I could not say who the members of the Third Force were, for I did not know them myself, but I was certain that they existed and that they were murderously effective 1" their targeting of the ANC and the liberation struggle.
I came to this conclusion after becoming personally involved in two ^ccific incidents. In July of 1990, the ANC received information that
hostel dwellers belonging to the Inkatha Freedom Party were planning a ^ajor attack on ANC members in Sebokeng Township in the Vaal Triangle on July 22. Through our attorneys, we notified the minister of law and ^""der, the commissioner of police, and the regional commissioner, warn512 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
ing them of the impending attacks and urging them to take the proo action. We asked the police to prevent armed Inkatha members from
entering the township to attend an Inkatha rally.
On July 22, busloads of armed Inkatha members, escorted by police
vehicles, entered Sebokeng in broad daylight. A rally was held, after which
the armed men went on a rampage, murdering approximately thirty people
in a dreadful and grisly attack. I visited the area the next day and
witnessed scenes I have never before seen and never hope to see again
At the morgue were bodies of people who had been hacked to death- a
woman had both her breasts cut off with a machete. Whoever these killers
were, they were animals.
I requested a meeting with Mr. de Klerk the following day. When I
saw him, I angrily demanded an explanation. "You were warned in advance,"
I told him, "and yet did nothing. Why is that? Why is it that there
have been no arrests? Why have the police sat on their hands?" I then
told him that in any other nation where there was a tragedy of this
magnitude, when more than thirty people were slain, the head of state
would make some statement of condolence, yet he had not uttered a word.
He had no reply to what I said. I asked de Klerk to furnish me with an
explanation, and he never did.
The second incident occurred in November, when a group of Inkatha
members entered a squatter camp known as Zonkizizwe (Zulu for "the
place where all nations are welcome") outside the city of Germiston, east
of Johannesburg, and drove ANC people out, killing a number of them
in the process. Inkatha members then proceeded to occupy the abandoned
shacks and confiscate all the property. Residents of the area said that the
Inkatha members were accompanied by the police. Once again, in the
wake of this tragedy, the police and the government took no action. Black
life in South Africa had never been so cheap.
Again, I met with Mr. de Klerk and his minister of law and order,
Adriaan Viok. Again, I asked Mr. de Klerk why no action by the police
had been taken in the aftermath of these crimes. I said the attackers could
easily be found because they were now occupying the shacks of the people
they had killed. Mr. de Klerk asked Mr. Viok for an explanation and then
Viok, in a rather rude tone, asked me on whose property the shacks were
located, the implication being that these people were squatters and therefore
had no rights. In fact, I told him, the land had been made available
to these people by the local authorities. His attitude was like that ofmaw Afrikaners who simply believed that black tribes had been killing PA.
other since time immemorial. Mr. de Klerk again told me he w011 investigate and respond, but never did.
FREEDOM 513
* * *
During this time, the government took another action that added fuel to
the flames. It introduced a regulation permitting Zulus to carry so-called
traditional weapons to political rallies and meetings in Natal and elsewhere.
These weapons, assegais, which are spears, and knobkerries,
wooden sticks with a heavy wooden head, are actual weapons with which
Inkatha members killed ANC members. This gave me grave doubts about
Mr. de Klerk's peaceful intentions.
Those opposed to negotiations benefited from the violence, which
always seemed to flare up when the government and the ANC were moving
toward an agreement. These forces sought to ignite a war between the
ANC and Inkatha, and I believe many members of Inkatha connived at
this as well. Many in the government, including Mr. de Klerk, chose to
look the other way or ignore what they knew was going on under their
noses. We had no doubts that men at the highest levels of the police and
the security forces were aiding the Third Force. These suspicions were
later confirmed by newspaper reports disclosing that the South African
police had secretly funded Inkatha.
As the violence continued to spiral, I began to have second thoughts
about the suspension of the armed struggle. Many of the people in the
ANC were restive, and in September, at a press conference, I said that
the continuing violence might necessitate taking up arms once more. The
situation looked very grim, and any understanding that had been achieved
with the government seemed lost.
107
IN DECEMBER OF 1990 Oliver returned to South Africa after being
in exile from his native land for three decades. It was wonderful to have
him near. He returned for an ANC consultative conference in Johannesburg,
which was attended by over fifteen hundred delegates from fortyfive
different regions, home and abroad.
At the meeting, I spoke in tribute to Oliver as the man who had led "e ANC during its darkest hours and never let the flame go out. Now,
"e had ushered us to the brink of a future that looked bright and hopeful. during the twenty-seven years that I was in prison, it was Oliver who ^ved the ANC, and then built it into an international organization with
Power and influence. He took up the reins when most of its leaders were eltner in prison or in exile. He was a soldier, a diplomat, a statesman.
Although I criticized the government for its orchestrated campaign of ^"ten-evolutionary activities, it was Oliver's address that created a storm.
514 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
He opened the meeting with a controversial speech in which he called
for our sanctions policy to be reevaluated. The ANC, he maintained faced
"international marginalization" unless it took the initiative to deescalatc sanctions. The European Community had already begun to scale back
sanctions. The countries in the West, particularly the United Kingdom
and the United States, wanted to reward Mr. de Klerk for his reforms
believing that this would encourage him to go further. We felt this was
the wrong strategy, but we had to recognize international realities.
Although Oliver's speech had been discussed and approved by the
NEC, his proposal was met with indignation by ANC militants, who
insisted that sanctions must be maintained unchanged. The conference
decided to retain the sanctions policy as it was.
I myself was the target of complaints by those who charged that the
negotiators were out of touch with the grass roots and that we spent
more time with National Party leaders than our own people. I was also
criticized at the conference for engaging in "personal diplomacy" and not
keeping the rank-and-file of the organization informed. As a leader of a
mass organization, one must listen to the people, and I agreed that we
had been remiss in keeping the entire organization informed about the
course of the negotiations. But I also knew the delicacy of our talks with
the government; any agreements that we arrived at depended in part on
their confidentiality. Although I accepted the criticism, I believed we had
no alternative but to proceed on the same course. I knew that I had to
be more inclusive, brief more people as to our progress, and I proceeded
with that in mind.
Each day, each weekend, the newspapers were filled with fresh reports of
new and bloody violence in our communities and townships. It was clear
that violence was the number one issue in the country. In many communities
in Natal and on the Reef around Johannesburg, a poisonous mixture of
crime, political rivalries, police brutality, and shadowy death squads made
life brutish and untenable. As long as the violence was not dealt with,
the progress to a new dispensation would remain uneven and uncertain.
To try to arrest the spiral of violence, I contacted Chief Buthelezi to
arrange a meeting. We met at Durban's Royal Hotel in January. Chief Buthelezi spoke first to assembled delegates and media and in the process
opened old wounds rather than healing them. He catalogued the verbal
attacks the ANC had made on him and criticized the ANCs negotiating
demands. When it was my turn to speak, I chose not to respond to his
remarks but to thank him for his efforts over many years to secure r".
release from prison. I cited our long relationship and underlined the man.
matters that united our two organizations rather than divided us.
FREEDOM 515
Progress was made during our private talks, and Chief Buthelezi and
I signed an agreement that contained a code of conduct covering the
behavior of our two organizations. It was a fair accord, and I suspect that
if it had been implemented it would indeed have helped to staunch the
bloodletting. But as far as I could tell, Inkatha never made any effort to
implement the accord, and there were violations as well on our own side.
The violence continued between our two organizations. Each month
people were dying by the hundreds. In March, Inkatha members launched
an attack in Alexandra Township north of Johannesburg in which fortyfive
people were killed over three days of fighting. Again, no one was
arrested.
I could not sit idly by as the violence continued, and I sought another
meeting with Chief Buthelezi. In April I went down to Durban and we
again made strong statements and signed another agreement. But again,
the ink was no sooner dry than it was drenched in blood. I was more
(Mivinced than ever that the government was behind much of the violence
[id the violence was impeding the negotiations. Mr. de Klerk's failure to
Kpond put our own relationship in jeopardy.
| In April, at a two-day meeting of the National Executive Committee,
I discussed my doubts about Mr. de Klerk. The NEC believed that the |overnment was behind the violence and that the violence was upsetting
tjhc climate for negotiations. In an open letter to the government, we
called for the dismissal of Magnus Malan, the minister of defense, and
Adriaan Viok, the minister of law and order; the banning of the carrying
of traditional weapons in public; the phasing out of the migrant-worker
hostels, where so many Inkatha members lived in the townships around
Johannesburg; the dismantling of secret government counterinsurgency
units; and the appointment of an independent commission to probe complaints
of misconduct on the part of the security forces.
We gave the government until May to meet our demands. Mr. de Klerk
responded by calling for a multiparty conference on violence to be held
in May, but I replied that this was pointless since the government knew
precisely what it had to do to end the violence. In May, we announced die suspension of talks with the government.
h July 1991^ ^e ANC held its first annual conference inside South Africa '" thirty years. The conference was attended by 2,244 voting delegates
who were democratically elected at ANC branches at home and abroad. nt rile conference I was elected president of the ANC without opposition. "ynl Ramaphosa was elected secretary-general, evidence that the torch ^s being passed from an older generation of leadership to a younger ^e. Cyril, whom I met only upon my release from prison, was a worthy
516 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
successor to a long line of notable ANC leaders. He was probably th
most accomplished negotiator in the ranks of the ANC, a skill he honed
as secretary-general of the National Union of Mine Workers.
In my speech I expressed my appreciation for the great honor that had
been bestowed on me, and spoke of how difficult it would be to follow
in the large footsteps of my predecessor, Oliver Tambo. Though we were
then at loggerheads with the government, negotiations in and of themselves,
I said, constituted a victory. The mere fact that the government
was engaged in negotiations at all was a sign that they did not have the
strength to sustain apartheid. I reiterated that the process would not be
smooth, as we were dealing with politicians who do not want to negotiate
themselves out of power. "The point which must be clearly understood
is that the struggle is not over, and negotiations themselves are a theater
of struggle, subject to advances and reverses as any other form of struggle."
But negotiations could not wait. It was never in our interest to prolong
the agony of apartheid for any reason. It was necessary, I said, to create
a transitional government as soon as possible.
The conference underlined one of the most important and demanding
tasks before the ANC: to transform an illegal underground liberation
movement to a legal mass political party. For thirty years, the ANC had
functioned clandestinely in South Africa; those habits and techniques
were deeply ingrained. We had to reconstruct an entire organization, from
the smallest local branch to the national executive. And we had to do so
in a matter of months during a period of extraordinary change.
A large part of the ANC and Communist Party leadership had been
in exile. Most of them had returned for the conference in July. They were
unfamiliar with present-day South Africa; it was a newfound land for
them as well as me. There was, however, an extraordinary crop of young
leaders of the United Democratic Front and COSATU who had remained
in the country, who knew the political situation in a way that we did not.
These organizations had in some measure been surrogates for the ANC
inside South Africa during the ipSos. The ANC had to integrate these
men and women into the organization as well.
We faced not only logistical problems but philosophical ones. It is a
relatively simple proposition to keep a movement together when you are
fighting against a common enemy. But creating a policy when that enemy
is across the negotiating table is another matter altogether. In the new
ANC, we had to integrate not only many different groups, but many
different points of view. We needed to unite the organization around the
idea of the negotiations. ,
In the first seventeen months of legal activity, the ANC had recruite
FREEDOM 517
700,000 members. This was an impressive number, but there was no room
for complacency. A proportionately low number of these members were
from the rural areas, the regions where the ANC had historically been
weakest. At the same time, the National Party was throwing open its
doors to nonwhites and was busily recruiting disaffected Coloureds and
Indians.
Ever since my release from prison, the state had continued its campaign
to discredit my wife. After the alleged kidnapping of four youths who were
staving in the Diepkloof house and the death of one of them, Winnie had
first been vilified by a whispering campaign and was then charged with
four counts of kidnapping and one of assault. The continuing aspersions
cast on her character were such that both Winnie and I were eager
for her to have her day in court and prove her innocence of the charges.
My wife's formal trial began in February in the Rand Supreme Court
in Johannesburg. I attended the trial on the first day, as did many senior
figures in the ANC, and I continued to attend as often as I could. I did
this both to support my wife and to show my belief in her innocence.
She was ably defended by George Bizos, who attempted to demonstrate
that Winnie had no involvement with either the kidnappings or the heatings.
After three and a half months, the court found her guilty of kidnapping
charges and being an accessory to assault. The judge, however, acknowledged
that she had not taken part in any assault herself. She was sentenced
to six years in prison, but was released on bail pending her appeal. As far
as I was concerned, verdict or no verdict, her innocence was not in doubt.
108
ON DECEMBER 20, 1991, after more than a year and a half of talks
about talks, the real talks began: CODESA -- the Convention for a Democratic
South Africa -- represented the first formal negotiations forum
between the government, the ANC, and other South African parties. All
of our previous bilateral discussions had been laying the groundwork for ^ese talks, which took place at the World Trade Centre, a modern exhibition
center near Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg. CODESA comprised
eighteen delegations covering the gamut of South African politics,
Plus observers from the United Nations, the Commonwealth, the EuroF^an
Community, and the Organization of African Unity. It was the widest
e^oss section of political groups ever gathered in one place in South Africa.
The opening of such talks was an historic occasion, certainly the most
518 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
important constitutional convention since that of 1909 when the formed
British colonies of the Cape and Natal and the Boer republics of the
Transvaal and the Orange Free State agreed to form a single union Of
course, that convention was not a tribute to democracy but a betrayal of
it, for none of the representatives there that day were black. In 1991 the
majority of them were.
Our planning delegation, led by Cyril Ramaphosa, and including Joe
Slovo and Valli Moosa, had been engaged in weekly discussions with the
government on the issues of elections, the constitution, a constituent
assembly, and a transitional government. Delegates from twenty different
parties including the homeland governments had already agreed on the
ground rules for the convention.
The optimism at the opening of the talks could not be dampened even
by a few spoilers. The PAC decided to boycott the talks, accusing the
ANC and the National Party of conspiring together to set up a multiracial
government. This occurred despite the formation, a month before, of the
Patriotic Front, an alliance of the ANC, the PAC, and the Azanian People's
Organization around a declaration of common goals. The PAC feared
democratic elections because they knew such a vote would expose their
meager popular support. Chief Buthelezi also boycotted the talks on the
grounds that he was not permitted three delegations: for Inkatha, the
KwaZulu government, and King Zwelithini. We argued that the king
should be above politics, and that if he were included then every tribe in
South Africa should be able to send their paramount chief.
There was not only a sense of history at the World Trade Centre, but
of self-reliance. Unlike the negotiations preceding new dispensations in
African states like Zimbabwe and Angola, which required outside mediators,
we in South Africa were settling our differences among ourselves.
Mr. de Klerk talked about the need for a transitional, "power-sharing" government on a democratic basis. The National Party's chief delegate to
the talks, Dawie de Villiers, even offered an apology for apartheid.
In my own opening remarks, I said that with the dawn of CODESA,
progress in South Africa had at last become irreversible. Governments, 1
said, derive their authority and legitimacy from the consent of the governed,
and we had assembled to create such a legitimate authority. I said
that CODESA marked the beginning of the road to an elected assembly
that would write a new constitution, and I did not see any reason why
an election for such a constituent assembly could not occur in i992- called on the government to usher in an interim government of nation
unity to supervise such an election, control the state media and the mi
tary, and generally oversee the transition to a new, nonracial, dernocrati
South Africa.
FREEDOM 519
On the convention's first day, the lion's share of the participating parties, including the National Party and the ANC, endorsed a Declaration
of Intent, which committed all parties to support an undivided South
Africa whose supreme law would be a constitution safeguarded by an
independent judiciary. The country's legal system would guarantee equality before the law, and a bill of rights would be drawn up to protect civil
liberties. In short, there would be a multiparty democracy based on universal
adult suffrage on a common voters' roll. As far as we were concerned,
this was the minimum acceptable constitutional threshold for a new South
Africa. Inkatha refused to sign on the grounds that the phrase an "undivided"
South Africa implied that a federal system was off-limits.
The convention created five working groups that would meet in early
1992 to prepare the way for the second round of CODESA scheduled for
Mav 1992. The groups would explore the question of creating a free
political climate, the future of the homelands, the restructuring of the
South African Broadcasting Corporation, the examination of various constitutional
principles such as federalism, and the creation and installation
of an interim government. The parties agreed that decisions would be
taken by "sufficient consensus," which was never defined, but in practice
meant an agreement between the government and the ANC and a majority
of the other parties.
The first day of CODESA i was uneventful, until it came to a close.
The night before the convention I had been negotiating with Mr. de Klerk
on the telephone until after eight in the evening. Mr. de Klerk asked me
whether I would agree to permit him to be the final speaker the next day.
Though I was scheduled to give the concluding remarks, I told him that
I would take up the matter with our National Executive Committee. I
did so that evening, and despite their misgivings, I persuaded them to
permit Mr. de Klerk to have the last word. I did not see the issue as a
vital one, and I was prepared to do Mr. de Klerk the favor.
At the end of the session, all seemed well; I spoke about the importance
of the talks and I was followed by Mr. de Klerk. He proceeded to underline ^e historic significance of the occasion and discuss the need for over- eorrung mutual distrust. But then Mr. de Klerk did a curious thing. He ^gan to attack the ANC for not adhering to the agreements that we had
niade with the government. He began to speak to us like a schoolmaster sdrnonishing a naughty child. He berated the ANC for failing to disclose ne location of arms caches and then rebuked us for maintaining a "private "nv," Umkhonto we Sizwe, in violation of the National Peace Accord
September 1991. In intemperate language, he questioned whether the ^"C was honorable enough to abide by any agreements it signed.
mis was more than I could tolerate and I would now be damned if I
t
520 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
would permit Mr. de Klerk to have the last word. When he finished the
meeting was meant to be over. But the room had grown very quiet; instead
of allowing the session to end, I walked to the podium. I could not let
his remarks go unchallenged. My voice betrayed my anger.
I am gravely concerned about the behavior of Mr. de Klerk today. He
has launched an attack on the ANC and in doing so he has been less
than frank. Even the head of an illegitimate, discredited minority regime,
as his is, has certain moral standards to uphold. He has no excuse
just because he is the head of such a discredited regime not to uphold
moral standards. ... If a man can come to a conference of this nature
and play the type of politics he has played -- very few people would
like to deal with such a man.
The members of the government persuaded us to allow them to
speak last. They were very keen to say the last word here. It is now clear
why they did so. He has abused his position, because he hoped that I
would not respond. He was completely mistaken. I respond now.
I said it was unacceptable for Mr. de Klerk to speak to us in such
language. I reiterated that it was the ANC, not the government, that
started the initiative of peace discussions, and it was the government, not
the ANC, that time and again failed to live up to its agreements. I had
told Mr. de Klerk before that it served no useful purpose to attack the
ANC publicly, yet he continued to do so. I noted that we had suspended
our armed struggle to show our commitment to peace, yet the government
was still colluding with those waging war. We told him that we would
turn in our weapons only when we were a part of the government collecting
those weapons.
I added that it was apparent the government had a double agenda.
They were using the negotiations not to achieve peace, but to score their
own petty political gains. Even while negotiating, they were secretly funding
covert organizations that committed violence against us. I mentioned
the recent revelations about million-rand payoffs to Inkatha that Mr. de
Klerk claimed not to have known about. I stated that if a man in his
position "doesn't know about such things, then he is not fit to be the
head of government."
I knew I had been harsh, but I did not want to capsize the whole ship
of negotiations, and I ended on a more conciliatory note.
I ask him to place his cards on the table face upwards. Let us work
together openly. Let there be no secret agendas. Let him not persuade
us that he would be the last speaker because he wants to abuse that
FREEDOM 521
privilege and attack us in the hope that we won't respond. I am prepared
to work with him in spite of all his mistakes.
CODESA convened the following day for its final session, and both
Ir. de Klerk and I took pains to show that no irreparable harm had been
one. At the beginning of the session, he and I publicly shook hands and
dd we would work together. But much trust had been lost, and the
negotiations were now in a state of disarray.
Six weeks after the opening of CODESA i, the National Party contested
an important by-election in Potchefstroom, a conservative university town
in the Transvaal, traditionally the party's stronghold. In a stunning upset,
the Nationalists were defeated by the candidate of the right-wing Conservative
Party. The Conservatives resolutely opposed the government's
policy of negotiations with the ANC, and were composed mainly of
Afrikaners who felt that Mr. de Klerk was giving away the store. The
election result seemed to cast doubt on Mr. de Klerk's policy of reform
and negotiations. The National Party was alarmed; these were their own
voters in their own heartland rejecting their policies.
Mr. de Klerk decided to gamble. He announced that as a result of the
by-election in Potchefstroom he would call a nationwide all-white ref-
BiF^t
erendum for March 17 so that the people of South Africa could vote on
his reform policy and on negotiations with the ANC. He stated that if
the referendum was defeated, he would resign from office. The referendum
asked a plain and direct question of all white voters over the age of
eighteen: "Do you support the continuation of the reform process which
the state president began on 2 February 1990 which is aimed at a new
constitution through negotiation?"
The ANC opposed the referendum on the principle that it was a vote
that excluded all nonwhites. At the same time, we were realistic: we
certainly did not want white voters to rebuff Mr. de Klerk's efforts to
pursue negotiations. Though we disdained the election on principle, we
urged whites to vote yes. We saw such a vote as a signal of support for "egoriations, not necessarily for de Klerk.
We watched Mr. de Klerk's campaign with interest and some conster"aiion.
He and the National Party conducted a sophisticated, expensive, American-style political campaign accompanied by extensive newspaper ^d television advertisements, bumper stickers, and colorful rallies. We
saw this as a dress rehearsal for the campaign Mr. de Klerk would wage "gainst us.
In the end, 69 percent of the white voters supported negotiations,
giving de Klerk a great victory. He felt vindicated; I think the margin
BE
522 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
even swelled his head a bit. His hand was strengthened, and as a result
the Nationalists toughened their negotiating positions. This was a clan' gerous strategy.
109
ON APRIL 13, 1992, at a press conference in Johannesburg, flanked
by my two oldest friends and comrades, Walter and Oliver, I announced
my separation from my wife. The situation had grown so difficult that I
felt that it was in the best interests of all concerned -- the ANC the
family, and Winnie -- that we part. Although I discussed the matter with
the ANC, the separation itself was made for personal reasons.
I read the following statement.
The relationship between myself and my wife. Comrade Nomzamo Win- me Mandela, has become the subject of much media speculation. I am
issuing this statement to clarify the position and in the hope that it will
bring an end to further conjecture.
Comrade Nomzamo and myself contracted our marriage at a critical
time in the struggle for liberation in our country. Owing to the pressures
of our shared commitment to the ANC and the struggle to end apartheid,
we were unable to enjoy a normal family life. Despite these pressures
our love for each other and our devotion to our marriage grew
and intensified. . . .
During the two decades I spent on Robben Island she was an indispensable
pillar of support and comfort to myself personally. . . .Comrade
Nomzamo accepted the onerous burden of raising our children
on her own. . . . She endured the persecutions heaped upon her by the
Government with exemplary fortitude and never wavered from her commitment
to the freedom struggle. Her tenacity reinforced my personal
respect, love and growing affection. It also attracted the admiration of
the world at large. My love for her remains undiminished.
However, in view of the tensions that have arisen owing to differences
between ourselves on a number of issues in recent months, we have
mutually agreed that a separation would be best for each of us. My
action was not prompted by the current allegations being made against
her in the media. . . . Comrade Nomzamo has and can continue to rely
on my unstinting support during these trying moments in her life.
I shall personally never regret the life Comrade Nomzamo and
tried to share together. Circumstances beyond our control however
dictated it should be otherwise. I part from my wife with no recrirni
FREEDOM 523
nations. I embrace her with all the love and affection I have nursed for
her inside and outside prison from the moment I first met her. Ladies
and gentlemen, I hope you will appreciate the pain I have gone through.
Perhaps I was blinded to certain things because of the pain I felt for
not being able to fulfill my role as a husband to my wife and a father to my children. But just as I am convinced that my wife's life while I was in
prison was more difficult than mine, my own return was also more difficult
for her than it was for me. She married a man who soon left her; that
man became a myth; and then that myth returned home and proved to
be just a man after all.
As I later said at my daughter Zindzi's wedding, it seems to be the
destiny of freedom fighters to have unstable personal lives. When your
life is the struggle, as mine was, there is little room left for family. That
has always been my greatest regret, and the most painful aspect of the
choice I made.
"We watched our children growing without our guidance," I said at
the wedding, "and when we did come out [of prison], my children said,
We thought we had a father and one day he'd come back. But to our
dismay, our father came back and he left us alone because he has now
become the father of the nation.' " To be the father of a nation is a great
honor, but to be the father of a family is a greater joy. But it was a joy I
had far too little of.
110
IN MAY OF 1992, after a four-month interruption, the multiparty
conference held its second plenary session at the World Trade Centre.
Known as CODESA 2, the talks had been prepared by secret meetings
between negotiators from both the ANC and the government as well as
talks between the ANC and other parties. These meetings culminated lr! a final session between me and Mr. de Klerk the day before the open"^ of CODESA 2, the first time the two of us had met since before
CODESA i.
Only days before CODESA 2 was to begin, the government was hit
y two scandals. The first involved the revelation of massive corruption ^d bribery at the Department of Development Aid, which was response
for improving black life in the homelands, and the second was the ^plication of high government security officials in the 1985 murder of
°ur (Jl )p activists, the best known of whom was Matthew Goniwe. These ^^ations were added to the recent evidence implicating the police in
524 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
murders in Natal and suspicions that the Department of Military Intel
ligence was conducting covert operations against the ANC. These two scandals coming together undermined the credibility of the government
and strengthened our hand.
Over the previous months, the government had made numerous oroposals
that fell by the wayside. Most of them, like the idea of a rotating presidency, sought to preserve their power. But through negotiations over
the past months, the ANC and government teams had put together a
tentative agreement involving a two-stage transitional period to a fully democratic South Africa. In the first stage, a multiparty "transitional
executive council" would be appointed from the CODESA delegations
to function as a temporary government in order to "level the playing field"
for all parties and create an interim constitution. In the second stage
general elections would be held for a constituent assembly and legislature
in which all political parties winning 5 percent or more of the vote would
participate in the cabinet. Half the members of the assembly would be
elected on a national basis and half on a regional one, and the assembly
would be empowered both to write a new constitution and to pass legislation.
An independent commission would preside over the election and
make sure it was free and fair.
Yet there were many matters on which the ANC and the government
could not reach agreement, such as the percentage of voting necessary in
the assembly to decide constitutional issues and to agree on a bill of
rights. Only days before CODESA 2, the government proposed a second
body, a senate, composed of regional representatives, as a way of insuring
a minority veto. They also proposed that before all this, CODESA 2
first agree on an interim constitution, which would take months to
draw up.
All of this bargaining was going on behind the scenes and by the time
CODESA 2 opened on May 15, 1992, prospects for agreement looked
bleak. What we disagreed about was threatening all that we had agreed
upon. Mr. de Klerk and I had not managed to find a consensus on most
of the outstanding issues. The government seemed prepared to wait indefinitely;
their thinking was that the longer we waited, the more support
we would lose.
The convention was deadlocked at the end of the first day. At that time,
the two judges presiding over the talks told Mr. de Klerk and me to rnee
that evening to attempt to find a compromise. We did meet that nig
over coffee, and though we did not find a way out of the impasse,
agreed that the negotiations must not founder. "The whole of so Africa and the world is looking at you and me," I told Mr. de Klerk.
FREEDOM 525
us save the peace process. Let us reach some kind of agreement. Let us
ar least fix a date for the next round of talks." We decided that we
would each speak the following day in a spirit of constructive compromise.

The next afternoon we spoke in the reverse order that we had agreed
to at CODESA i: Mr. de Klerk first and I last. In his remarks, Mr. de
Klerk insisted that the National Party did not seek a "minority veto," but
that he did want a system of "checks and balances" so that the majority
would not be able "to misuse its power." Although this certainly sounded
to me like outright opposition to the idea of majority rule, when I spoke
after Mr. de Klerk, I merely said we needed to work in a constructive
manner and dispel the tensions around the negotiations.
Despite our attempts to put a positive face on the matter, the convention
ended the second day in a stalemate. The impasse, as I saw it, was caused by the National Party's continuing reluctance to submit their fate to the
will of the majority. They simply could not cross that hurdle.
Ultimately, CODESA 2 broke down on four fundamental issues: the
government's insistence on an unacceptably high percentage of votes in
the assembly to approve the constitution (essentially a backdoor veto);
entrenched regional powers that would be binding on a future constitution;
an undemocratic and unelected senate that had veto power over
legislation from the main chamber; and a determination to make an interim
constitution negotiated by the convention into a permanent
constitution.
These were all difficult issues, but not insoluble ones, and I was determined
not to let the deadlock at CODESA 2 subvert the negotiation
process. The government and the ANC agreed to continue bilateral talks
to work toward a solution. But, then, other matters intruded to render
this impossible.
With negotiations stalled, the ANC and its allies agreed on a policy of
rolling mass action," which would display to the government the extent
of our support around the country and show that the people of South
Africa were not prepared to wait forever for their freedom. The mass scuon consisted of strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts. The date chosen
or the start of mass action was June 16, 1992, the anniversary of the 1976
oweto revolt, and the campaign was meant to culminate in a two-day "atlonal strike set for August 3 and 4.
But before that happened, another event occurred that drove the ANC nu ^e government even further apart. On the night of June 17, 1992, a ^vily armed force oflnkatha members secretly raided the Vaal township
526 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
of Boipatong and killed forty-six people. Most of the dead were women
and children. It was the fourth mass killing of ANC people that week
People across the country were horrified by the violence and charged the
government with complicity. The police did nothing to stop the criminals
and nothing to find them; no arrests were made, no investigation bee-un
Mr. de Klerk said nothing. I found this to be the last straw, and my
patience snapped. The government was blocking the negotiations and at
the same time waging a covert war against our people. Why then were
we continuing to talk with them?
Four days after the murders, I addressed a crowd of twenty thousand
angry ANC supporters and told them I had instructed ANC secretarygeneral
Cyril Ramaphosa to suspend direct dealings with the government.
I also announced an urgent meeting of the National Executive Committee
to examine our options. It was as if we had returned to the dark days
of Sharpeville. I likened the behavior of the National Party to the Nazis
in Germany, and publicly warned de Klerk that if he sought to impose
new measures to restrict demonstrations or free expression, the ANC
would launch a nationwide defiance campaign with myself as the first
volunteer.
At the rally, I saw signs that read, "MANDELA, GIVE US GUNS"
and "VICTORY THROUGH BATTLE NOT TALK." I understood such
sentiments; the people were frustrated. They saw no positive results of
the negotiations. They were beginning to think that the only way to
overthrow apartheid was through the barrel of a gun. After Boipatong,
there were those in the NEC who said, "Why did we abandon the armed
struggle? We should abandon negotiations instead; they will never advance
us to our goal." I was initially sympathetic to this group of hardliners,
but gradually realized that there was no alternative to the process. It was
what I had been urging for so many years, and I would not turn my back
on negotiations. But it was time to cool things down. Mass action in this
case was a middle course between armed struggle and negotiations. The
people must have an outlet for their anger and frustration, and a mass
action campaign was the best way to channel those emotions.
When we informed the government that we were suspending talks, we
sent Mr. de Klerk a memo outlining the reasons for our withdrawal. In
addition to resolving the constitutional deadlocks at CODESA 2, we
demanded that the people responsible for the violence be tracked down
and brought to justice and that some mechanism be found for fencing in
and policing the hostels, the seedbeds of so much violence. Mr. de Kler
sent us back a memo asking for a face-to-face meeting with me, whic
we rebuffed. I felt such a meeting would suggest that we had something
to talk about, and at the time we did not.
FREEDOM 527
* * *
The mass action campaign culminated in a general strike on August 3 and
4 in support of the ANC's negotiation demands and in protest against
state-supported violence. More than four million workers stayed home in
what was the largest political strike in South African history. The centerpiece
of the strike was a march of one hundred thousand people to the
Union Buildings in Pretoria, the imposing seat of the South African
government, where we held an enormous outdoor rally on the great lawn
in front of the buildings. I told the crowd that we one day would occupy
these buildings as the first democratically elected government of South
Africa.
In the face of this mass action, Mr. de Klerk said that if the ANC
made the country ungovernable, the government might be forced to consider
some unpleasant options. I warned Mr. de Klerk that any antidemocratic
actions would have serious repercussions. It was because of
such threats, I said, that it was absolutely critical to set up a transitional
government.
Inspired by the success of the mass action campaign, a group within
the ANC decided to march on Bisho, the capital of the Ciskei homeland
in the eastern Cape, a bantustan led by Brigadier General Oupa Gqozo.
The Ciskei had a history of repression against the ANC and in 1991
Brigadier Gqozo had declared a State of Emergency in the Ciskei to curtail
what he called ANC-sponsored terrorism. On the morning of September
7, 1992, seventy thousand protesters set out on a march to Bisho's
main stadium. When a group of marchers attempted to run through an
opening in a fence and take a different path to town, the poorly trained
homeland troops opened fire on the marchers and killed twenty-nine
people, wounding over two hundred. Now Bisho joined Boipatong as a
byword for brutality.
Like the old proverb that says that the darkest hour is before the dawn,
the tragedy of Bisho led to a new opening in the negotiations. I met with
Mr. de Klerk in order to find common ground and avoid a repetition of
another tragedy like Bisho. Our respective negotiators began meeting
regularly. Both sides were making a good-faith effort to get the negotiations
back on track, and on September 26, Mr. de Klerk and I met for ar! official summit.
On that day, Mr. de Klerk and I signed the Record of Understanding, an agreement which set the mold for all the negotiations that followed.
The agreement established an independent body to review police actions, heated a mechanism to fence in the hostels, and banned the display of traditional weapons" at rallies. But the real importance of the Record of
528 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
Understanding was that it broke the constitutional deadlock ofCODESA
2. The government finally agreed to accept a single, elected constitutional
assembly, which would adopt a new constitution and serve as a transition 1
legislature for the new government. All that was left to negotiate was a
date for the election of the assembly and the percentage of majorities
necessary for it to reach its decisions. We were now aligned on the basic
framework that would take the country into a democratic future.
The Record of Understanding prompted Inkatha to announce its withdrawal
from all negotiations involving the government and the ANC. The
agreement infuriated Chief Buthelezi, who severed relations with the NP
and formed an alliance with a group of discredited homeland leaders and
white right-wing parties solely concerned with obtaining an Afrikaner
homeland. Chief Buthelezi called for the abolition of the Record of Understanding,
the ending of CODESA, and the disbanding of Umkhonto
we Sizwe.
Just as Joe Slovo had taken the initiative concerning the suspension of
the armed struggle, he again took the lead in making another controversial
proposal: a government of national unity. In October, Joe published a
paper in which he wrote that negotiations with the government were not
armistice talks in which we could dictate terms to a defeated enemy. It
would probably take years for the ANC to control the levers of government,
even after an election. An ANC government would still require
much of the present civil service to run the country. Joe proposed a "sunset
clause" providing for a government of national unity that would include
power-sharing with the National Party for a fixed period of time, an
amnesty for security officers, and the honoring of contracts of civil servants.
"Power-sharing" was a debased term within the ANC, considered
a code-phrase for the government's quest for a minority veto. But in this
context it merely meant that the National Party would be part of any
popularly elected government provided it polled enough votes.
After much discussion, I supported Joe's proposal and it was endorsed
by the National Executive Committee on November 18. The NEC agreed
to support power-sharing, provided the minority parties did not have a
veto. In December, we began a new round of secret bilateral talks with
the government. These were held over a five-day period at a game lodge
in the bush. The talks proved to be critical, for they built on the foundation
established in the Record of Understanding. At this bush meeting we
agreed in principle on a five-year government of national unity in whicn
all parties polling over 5 percent in a general election would be proper^ tionally represented in the cabinet. After five years, the government o
national unity would become a simple majority-rule government. In re ruary, the ANC and the government announced an agreement in princip c
FREEDOM 529
on the five-year government of national unity, a multiparty cabinet, and
the creation of a transitional executive council. Elections would be held
as early as the end of 1993111
I HAVE ALWAYS BELIEVED that a man should have a home within
sight of the house where he was born. After being released from prison,
I set about plans to build a country house for myself in Qunu. By the
fall of 1993, the house was complete. It was based on the floor plan of
the house I lived in at Victor Verster. People often commented on this,
but the answer was simple: the Victor Verster house was the first spacious
and comfortable home I ever stayed in, and I liked it very much. I was
familiar with its dimensions, so at Qunu I would not have to wander in
the night looking for the kitchen.
In April, I was at my house in the Transkei on a brief holiday. On the
morning of April 10, I had just gone outside to greet some members of
the Transkei police rugby team when my housekeeper ran out and informed
me of an urgent telephone call. She was weeping. I excused myself
from the young men and learned from a colleague that Chris Hani, the
secretary-general of the SACP, the former chief of staff of MK, and one
" the most popular figures in the ANC, had been shot at pointblank
ige in front of his home in Boksburg, Johannesburg, a mostly white ^king-class suburb that Chris was seeking to integrate.
Chris's death was a blow to me personally and to the movement. He 5 a soldier and patriot, for whom no task was too small. He was a great to among the youth of South Africa; a man who spoke their language
d to whom they listened. If anyone could mobilize the unruly youth
hind a negotiated solution, it was Chris. South Africa was now deprived
of one of its greatest sons, a man who would have been invaluable in
transforming the country into a new nation.
The country was fragile. There were concerns that Hani's death might
trigger a racial war, with the youth deciding that their hero should become
a martyr for whom they would lay down their own lives. I first flew via
helicopter to pay my respects to Chris's eighty-two-year-old father in
Sabalele, a tiny, dusty town in the Cofimvaba district in the Transkei, a
place well known to me because it was the home region of the Matanzima Family. As I arrived in this village with no running water or electricity, I
man eled at how this poor and tiny village could produce a man like Chris ^ani, a man who stirred the entire nation with his passion and ability. ~^s concern for the rural poor came from his childhood in Sabalele, for
b
530 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
his roots were deep and true, and he never lost them. Chris's father spoke
eloquently of the pain of losing a son, but with satisfaction that he had
died in the struggle.
Upon my return to Johannesburg I learned that the police had arrested
a member of the militant right-wing Afrikaner Weerstandsbewesino
(AWB), a Polish immigrant to South Africa who had been captured after
a courageous Afrikaner woman had phoned the police with the killer's
license plate number. The murder was an act of mad desperation, an
attempt to derail the negotiations process. I was asked to speak on the
SABC that night to address the nation. In this instance, it was the ANC
not the government, that sought to calm the nation.
I said that the process of peace and negotiations could not be halted.
With all the authority at my command, I said, "I appeal to all our people
to remain calm and to honor the memory of Chris Hani by remaining a
disciplined force for peace."
Tonight I am reaching out to every single South African, black and
white, from the very depths of my being. A white man, full of prejudice
and hate, came to our country and committed a deed so foul that our
whole nation now teeters on the brink of disaster. A white woman, of
Afrikaner origin, risked her life so that we may know, and bring to
justice this assassin. . . . Now is the time for all South Africans to stand
together against those who, from any quarter, wish to destroy what
Chris Hani gave his life for  the freedom of all of us.
The assassination of Chris was an attempt by white supremacists to
arrest the inevitable. They preferred that the country descend into civil
war rather than have majority rule by peaceful means.
We adopted a strategy to deal with our own constituency in the ANC.
In order to forestall outbreaks of retaliatory violence, we arranged a weeklong
series of mass rallies and demonstrations throughout the country.
This would give people a means of expressing their frustration without
resorting to violence. Mr. de Klerk and I spoke privately and agreed that
we would not let Hani's murder derail the negotiations.
We learned within days that a member of the Conservative Party, Clive
Derby-Lewis, had been arrested in connection with the murder. More
confirmation of a Third Force. It was Chris himself who had criticized a
recent theft of weapons from an air force base; preliminary police reports
suggested that the gun that killed him had come from that stockpile.
Exactly two weeks later, there was another significant passing. This one
did not shake the nation as Chris's had, but it shook me. Oliver had not
been well for a long time, but the stroke that killed him occurred suddenly
FREEDOM 531
and without warning. His wife Adelaide phoned me early in the morning
and I rushed to Oliver's bedside. I did not have a chance to say a proper
good-bye, for he was already gone.
In Plato's allegory of the metals, the philosopher classifies men into
groups of gold, silver, and lead. Oliver was pure gold; there was gold in
his intellectual brilliance, gold in his warmth and humanity, gold in his
tolerance and generosity, gold in his unfailing loyalty and self-sacrifice.
As much as I respected him as a leader, that is how much I loved him as
a man.
Though we had been apart for all the years that I was in prison, Oliver
was never far from my thoughts. In many ways, even though we were
separated, I kept up a lifelong conversation with him in my head. Perhaps
that is why I felt so bereft when he died. I felt, as I told one colleague,
like the loneliest man in the world. It was as though he had been snatched
away from me just as we had finally been reunited. When I looked at him
in his casket, it was as if a part of myself had died.
Though we were not yet in power, I wanted Oliver to have a state
funeral, and that is what the ANC gave him. At a mass rally at a stadium
in Soweto, hundreds of dignitaries from foreign governments gathered to
pay their respects to the man who kept the ANC alive during its years of
exile. MK troops marched in his honor and a twenty-one-gun salute was
given at his graveside. Oliver had lived to see the prisoners released and
the exiles return, but he had not lived to cast his vote in a free and
democratic South Africa. That was what remained to be accomplished.
112
ALTHOUGH FEW PEOPLE will remember June 3, 1993, it was a
landmark in South African history. On that day, after months of negotiations
at the World Trade Centre, the multiparty forum voted to set a
date for the country's first national, nonracial, one-person-one-vote election:
April 27, 1994. For the first time in South African history, the black
majority would go to the polls to elect their own leaders. The agreement was that voters would elect four hundred representatives to a constituent
assembly, which would both write a new constitution and serve as a
parliament. After convening, the first order of business for the assembly Would be to elect a president.
The talks had reconvened in April. This time, the twenty-six parties
included Inkatha, the Pan Africanist Congress, and the Conservative Party. Vc had been pressing the government to establish a date for months, and Acy had been stalling. But now the date was written in stone.
532 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
A month later, in July, the multiparty forum agreed on a first draft of
an interim constitution. It provided for a bicameral parliament with a
four-hundred-member national assembly elected by proportional representation
from national and regional party lists and a senate elected indirectly
by regional legislatures. Elections to regional legislatures would
take place at the same time as national elections, and the regional bodies
could draw up their own constitutions consistent with the national
constitution.
Chief Buthelezi wanted a constitution drawn up before the election
and walked out in protest against the setting of an election date before a
constitution was finalized. A second draft interim constitution in August
gave greater powers to the regions, but this did not placate either Chief
Buthelezi or the Conservative Party. The Conservative Party described
the resolutions as hostile to Afrikaner interests. A group called the Afrikaner
Volksfront, led by General Constand Viljoen, a former chief of
the South African Defense Force, was formed to unite conservative white
organizations around the idea of a volkstaat, a white homeland.
Just after midnight on November 18, an interim constitution was approved
by a plenary session of the multiparty conference. The government
and the ANC had cleared the remaining hurdles. The new cabinet would
be composed of those winning more than 5 percent of the vote and would
make decisions by consensus, rather than the two-thirds majority proposed
by the government; national elections would not take place until
1999, so that the government of national unity would serve for five years;
and finally, the government gave way on our insistence on a single ballot
paper for the election, rather than separate ballots for national and provincial
legislatures. Two ballot papers would only confuse a majority of
voters, most of whom would be voting for the first time in their lives. In
the period leading up to the election, a Transitional Executive Council
with members from each party would ensure the right climate for the
elections. In effect, the TEC would be the government between December
22 and the election on April 27. An Independent Electoral Commission
with extensive powers would be responsible for the administration of the
election. We were truly on the threshold of a new era.
I have never cared very much for personal prizes. A man does not become
a freedom fighter in the hope of winning awards, but when I was notified
that I had won the 1993 Nobel Peace Prize jointly with Mr. de Klerk,
was deeply moved. The Nobel Peace Prize had a special meaning to me
because of its involvement with South African history.
I was the third South African since the end of the Second World War
to be so honored by the Nobel committee. Chief Albert Luthuli was
FREEDOM 533
arded the prize in 1960. The second was Archbishop Desmond Tutu,
jwho selflessly fought the evils of racism during the most terrible days of
|apartheid.
K The award was a tribute to all South Africans and especially to those
; who had fought in the struggle; I would accept the award on their behalf.
But the Nobel award was one I never thought about. Even during the
bleakest years on Robben Island, Amnesty International would not campaign
for us on the grounds that we had pursued an armed struggle, and
their organization would not represent anyone who had embraced violence.
It was for that reason that I assumed the Nobel committee would
never consider the man who had started Umkhonto we Sizwe for the
peace prize.
I had tremendous respect for the nations of Norway and Sweden. In
the 1950s and i96os, when we went to Western governments seeking
contributions to the ANC, we were turned down flat. But in Norway
and Sweden, we were greeted with open arms, and given assistance and
scholarships and money for legal defense and humanitarian aid for political
prisoners.
I used my speech in Norway not only to thank the Nobel committee
and sketch out a vision of a future South Africa that was just and equitable,
but to pay tribute to my fellow laureate, Mr. IF. W. de Klerk.
He had the courage to admit that a terrible wrong had been done to
our country and people through the imposition of the system of apartheid.
He had the foresight to understand and accept that all the people
of South Africa must, through negotiations and as equal participants
in the process, together determine what they want to make of their
future.
I was often asked how could I accept the award jointly with Mr. de
Clerk after I had criticized him so severely. Although I would not take
>ack my criticisms, I could say that he had made a genuine and indisensable
contribution to the peace process. I never sought to undermine
>lr. de Klerk, for the practical reason that the weaker he was, the weaker
he negotiations process. To make peace with an enemy one must work ^ith that enemy, and that enemy becomes one's partner.
^though the official campaign for the national assembly was not sched|led
to begin until February 1994, we started to campaign in earnest after
he new constitution was ratified. That did not give us a head start; the
EfKf
national Party began its campaign the day they released me from prison.
Although the polls showed the ANC with a healthy margin, we never
took victory for granted. I counseled everyone against overoptimism. We
534 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
had all read dozens of accounts of parties favored to win who came in
second. We faced an experienced, well-organized, and well-financed rival
Our campaign was under the capable leadership ofPopo Molefe, Terror
Lefcota, and Ketso Gordhan, all veteran UDF activists adept at mass
mobilization. The task was a formidable one. We estimated that there
would be over twenty million people going to the polls, most of them
voting for the first time. Many of our voters were illiterate, and were likely
to be intimidated by the mere idea of voting. According to the Independent
Electoral Commission, there would be ten thousand polling stations around the country. We sought to train over one hundred thousand
people to assist with voter education.
The first stage of our election effort was what was known as People's
Forums. ANC candidates would travel all over the country and hold
meetings in towns and villages in order to listen to the hopes and fears,
the ideas and complaints, of our people. The People's Forums were similar
to the town meetings that candidate Bill Clinton held in America
on his way to the presidency. The forums were parliaments of the people,
not unlike the meetings of chiefs at the Great Place that I witnessed as a
boy.
I reveled in the People's Forums. I began in Natal in November, and
then went to the PWV area, the northern Transvaal, and the Orange Free
State. I attended as many as three or four forums in a day. The people
themselves enjoyed them immensely. No one had ever come to solicit their
opinion on what should be done in their own country.
After incorporating the suggestions from the forums, we traveled the
country delivering our message to the people. Some in the ANC wanted
to make the campaign simply a liberation election, and tell the people:
Vote for us because we set you free. We decided instead to offer them a
vision of the South Africa we hoped to create. We wanted people to vote
for the ANC not just because we had fought apartheid for eighty years,
but because we were best qualified to bring about the kind of South
Africa they hoped to live in. I felt that our campaign should be about
the future, not the past.
The ANC drafted a iso-page document known as the Reconstruction
and Development Program, which outlined our plan to create jobs
through public works; to build a million new houses with electricity and
flush toilets; to extend primary health care and ten years of free education
to all South Africans; to redistribute land through a land claims court;
and to end the value-added tax on basic foodstuffs. We were also committed
to extensive affirmative action measures in both the private and
public sectors. This document was translated into a simpler manifesto
FREEDOM 535
called "A Better Life for All," which in turn became the ANC's campaign slogan.
Just as we told the people what we would do, I felt we must also tell
them what we could not do. Many people felt life would change overnight
after a free and democratic election, but that would be far from the case.
Often, I said to crowds, "Do not expect to be driving a Mercedes the
day after the election or swimming in your own backyard pool." I told
our supporters, "Life will not change dramatically, except that you will
have increased your self-esteem and become a citizen in your own land.
You must have patience. You might have to wait five years for results to
show." I challenged them; I did not patronize them: "If you want to
continue living in poverty without clothes and food," I told them, "then
go and drink in the shebeens. But if you want better things, you must
work hard. We cannot do it all for you; you must do it yourselves."
I told white audiences that we needed them and did not want them
to leave the country. They were South Africans just like ourselves and this
was their land, too. I would not mince words about the horrors of apartheid,
but I said, over and over, that we should forget the past and concentrate
on building a better future for all.
Each rally was also designed to teach people how to vote. The ballot
itself was a long, narrow piece of paper with the parties listed in descending
order to the left, and then the symbol of the party and a picture of its
leader to the right. Voters were to place an X in the box next to the party
of their choice. I would tell audiences, "On election day, look down your
ballot and when you see the face of a young and handsome man, mark
113
THE ROAD TO FREEDOM was far from smooth. Although the
Transitional Executive Council began functioning in the new year, some
parties opted out. Inkatha rejected participation in the election and gave
itself over to the politics of resistance. King Zwelithini, supported by
Chief Buthelezi, called for an autonomous and sovereign KwaZulu, and
discouraged everyone in his province from voting. The white right called Ac elections a betrayal and clamored for a volkstaat, yet they still had not
proposed where it would be located or how it would work. There was "o magisterial district in all of South Africa where whites constituted a "lajority of residents.
February 12, 1994, was the deadline for registration of all parties, and
536 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
on that day, Inkatha, the Conservative Party, and the Afrikaner Volksfront
failed to sign. The government of the Bophuthatswana homeland also
refused to participate and resisted reincorporation into a united South
Africa. I was disturbed that these important groups were choosing not
to participate. To bring them on board, we proposed certain significant
compromises: we agreed to the use of double ballots for provincial and
national legislatures; guarantees of greater provincial powers; the renaming
of Natal province as KwaZulu/Natal; and the affirmation that a
principle of "internal" self-determination would be included in the constitution
for groups sharing a common cultural and language heritage.
I arranged to meet Chief Buthelezi in Durban on March i. "I will eo
down on my knees to beg those who want to drag our country into
bloodshed," I told a rally before this meeting. Chief Buthelezi agreed
to provisionally register for the elections in exchange for a promise to
subject our differences over constitutional issues to international mediation.
To this I gladly assented. Before the final registration deadline,
General Viljoen also registered under a new party known as the Freedom
Front.
Though Lucas Mangope, the president of Bophuthatswana, had chosen
to keep his homeland out of the election, the tide of events soon altered
the situation. I spoke to him on a number of occasions urging him to let
his people decide, but he would not listen. Those who wanted to participate
launched mass demonstrations and strikes, which soon spread to
the Bophuthatswana civil service. The radio and television networks went
off the air. On the streets of Mafikeng, battles broke out between the
homeland police and striking workers and students. Mangope called in
military help from his white right-wing allies. Soon, his own forces deserted
him and he was ousted in a coup in early March. A few weeks
later. Brigadier Gqozo in the Ciskei capitulated and asked South Africa
to take over the homeland.
Violence in Natal worsened. Inkatha supporters were blocking our
efforts to campaign in Natal. Fifteen ANC election workers were shot
and hacked to death after putting up ANC posters. In March, Judge
Johann Kriegler reported to me and Mr. de Klerk that because of the
lack of cooperation from the KwaZulu government, free elections could
not be held there without direct political intervention. To demonstrate
our strength in Natal, the ANC held a mass march through the center
of Durban. Then Inkatha attempted to do the same in Johannesburg,
with dire results.
On March 28, thousands of Inkatha members, brandishing spears and
knobkerries, marched through Johannesburg to a rally in the center o
FREEDOM 537
town. At the same time, an armed Inkatha group attempted to enter Shell
House, the ANC headquarters, but were repulsed by armed guards. Shots
by unidentified gunmen were also fired in the city center, and altogether
fifty-three people died. It was a grisly spectacle that made South Africa
appear as if it was on the brink of internal war. Inkatha was attempting
to postpone the election, but neither Mr. de Klerk nor I would budge.
That day was sacrosanct.
I had agreed to international mediation, and on April 13 a delegation
arrived led by Lord Carrington, the former British foreign secretary, and
Henry Kissinger, the former American secretary of state. But when Inkatha
was informed that the election date was not subject to mediation,
they refused to see the mediators, who left without talking to anyone.
Now Chief Buthelezi knew the election would take place no matter what.
On April 19, barely a week before the election. Chief Buthelezi accepted
the offer of a constitutional role for the Zulu monarchy and agreed to
participate.
Ten days before the vote, Mr. de Klerk and I held our single television
debate. I had been a fair debater at Fort Hare, and in my early years in
the organization I had engaged in many impassioned debates on the
platform. On Robben Island, we had honed our debating skills while we
chipped away at limestone. I was confident, but the day before, we held
a mock debate in which the journalist AUister Sparks ably performed as
Mr. de Klerk. Too ably, according to my campaign advisers, for they
chidcd me for speaking too slowly and not aggressively enough.
When the time came for the actual debate, however, I attacked the
National Party quite firmly. I accused the National Party of fanning race
hatred between Coloureds and Africans in the Cape by distributing an
inflammatory comic book that said the ANC's slogan was "Kill a Coloured,
kill a farmer." "There is no organization in this country as divisive
as the new National Party," I declared. When Mr. de Klerk criticized the
ANC's plan to spend billions of dollars on housing and social programs,
I scolded him, saying he was alarmed that we would have to devote so
many of our resources to blacks.
But as the debate was nearing an end, I felt I had been too harsh with Ae man who would be my partner in a government of national unity. In
summation, I said, "The exchanges between Mr. de Klerk and me should "of obscure one important fact. I think we are a shining example to the
entire world of people drawn from different racial groups who have a
common loyalty, a common love, to their common country. ... In spite
°f criticism of Mr. de Klerk," I said, and then looked over at him, "sir,
538 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
you are one of those I rely upon. We are going to face the problem of
this country together." At which point I reached over to take his hand
and said, "I am proud to hold your hand for us to go forward." Mr. de
Klerk seemed surprised, but pleased.
114
I VOTED ON APRIL 27, the second of the four days of voting, and
I chose to vote in Natal to show the people in that divided province that
there was no danger in going to the polling stations. I voted at Ohiange
High School in Inanda, a green and hilly township just north of Durban,
for it was there that John Dube, the first president of the ANC, was
buried. This African patriot had helped found the organization in 1912,
and casting my vote near his grave site brought history full circle, for the
mission he began eighty-two years before was about to be achieved.
As I stood over his grave, on a rise above the small school below, I
thought not of the present but of the past. When I walked to the voting
station, my mind dwelt on the heroes who had fallen so that I might be
where I was that day, the men and women who had made the ultimate
sacrifice for a cause that was now finally succeeding. I thought of Oliver
Tambo, and Chris Hani, and Chief Luthuli, and Bram Fischer. I thought
of our great African heroes, who had sacrificed so that millions of South
Africans could be voting on that very day; I thought of Josiah Gumede,
G. M. Naicker, Dr. Abdullah Abdurahman, Lilian Ngoyi, Helen Joseph,
Yusuf Dadoo, Moses Kotane. I did not go into that voting station alone
on April 27; I was casting my vote with all of them.
Before I entered the polling station, an irreverent member of the press
called out, "Mr. Mandela, who are you voting for?" I laughed. "You know,"
I said, "I have been agonizing over that choice all morning." I marked an
X in the box next to the letters ANC and then slipped my folded ballot
paper into a simple wooden box; I had cast the first vote of my life.
The images of South Africans going to the polls that day are burned in
my memory. Great lines of patient people snaking through the dirt roads
and streets of towns and cities; old women who had waited half a century
to cast their first vote saying that they felt like human beings for the first
time in their lives; white men and women saying they were proud to live
in a free country at last. The mood of the nation during those days or
voting was buoyant. The violence and bombings ceased, and it was as it
we were a nation reborn. Even the logistical difficulties of the voting,
misplaced ballots, pirate voting stations, and rumors of fraud in certain
FREEDOM 539
places could not dim the overwhelming victory for democracy and justice.
It took several days for the results to be counted. We polled 62.6 percent
of the national vote, slightly short of the two-thirds needed had we wished
to push through a final constitution without support from other parties.
That percentage qualified us for 252 of400 seats in the national assembly.
The ANC thoroughly dominated the northern and eastern Transvaal, the
northwest, the eastern Cape and the Free State. We won 33 percent of the
vote in the western Cape, which was won by the National Party, which
did extremely well among Coloured voters. We captured 32 percent in
KwaZulu/Natal, which was won by Inkatha. In Natal, fear of violence
and intimidation kept many of our voters at home. There were charges,
as well, of vote fraud and vote rigging. But in the end, that did not matter.
We had underestimated Inkatha's strength in KwaZulu, and they had
demonstrated it on election day.
Some in the ANC were disappointed that we did not cross the twothirds
threshold, but I was not one of them. In fact I was relieved; had
we won two-thirds of the vote and been able to write a constitution
unfettered by input from others, people would argue that we had created
an ANC constitution, not a South African constitution. I wanted a true
government of national unity.
On the evening of May 2, Mr. de Klerk made a gracious concession speech.
After more than three centuries of rule, the white minority was conceding
defeat and turning over power to the black majority. That evening, the
ANC was planning a victory celebration at the ballroom of the Carlton
Hotel in downtown Johannesburg. I was suffering from a bad case of the
flu and my doctors ordered me to remain at home. But there was nothing
that could keep me away from that party. I went onstage at about nine
o'clock and faced a crowd of happy, smiling, cheering faces.
I explained to the crowd that my voice was hoarse from a cold and
that my physician had advised me not to attend. "I hope that you will
not disclose to him that I have violated his instructions," I told them. I
congratulated Mr. de Klerk for his strong showing. I thanked all those
in the ANC and the democratic movement who had worked so hard for
so long. Mrs. Coretta Scott King, the wife of the great freedom fighter
Martin Luther King Jr., was on the podium that night, and I looked over
to her as I made reference to her husband's immortal words.
This is one of the most important moments in the life of our country.
I stand here before you filled with deep pride and joy  pride in the
ordinary, humble people of this country. You have shown such a calm,
patient determination to reclaim this country as your own, and now
540 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
the joy that we can loudly proclaim from the rooftops -- Free at last!
Free at last! I stand before you humbled by your courage, with a heart
full of love for all of you. I regard it as the highest honor to lead the
ANC at this moment in our history. I am your servant. ... It is not
the individuals that matter, but the collective. . . . This is a time to heal
the old wounds and build a new South Africa.
From the moment the results were in and it was apparent that the
ANC was to form the government, I saw my mission as one of preaching
reconciliation, of binding the wounds of the country, of engendering
trust and confidence. I knew that many people, particularly the minorities,
whites, Coloureds, and Indians, would be feeling anxious about the future,
and I wanted them to feel secure. I reminded people again and again
that the liberation struggle was not a battle against any one group or
color, but a fight against a system of repression. At every opportunity, I
said all South Africans must now unite and join hands and say we are
one country, one nation, one people, marching together into the future.
115
MAY 10 DAWNED bright and clear. For the past few days, I had been
pleasantly besieged by arriving dignitaries and world leaders who were
coming to pay their respects before the inauguration. The inauguration
would be the largest gathering ever of international leaders on South
African soil.
The ceremonies took place in the lovely sandstone amphitheater formed
by the Union Buildings in Pretoria. For decades, this had been the seat
of white supremacy, and now it was the site of a rainbow gathering of
different colors and nations for the installation of South Africa's first
democratic, nonracial government.
On that lovely autumn day I was accompanied by my daughter Zenani.
On the podium, Mr. de Klerk was first sworn in as second deputy president.
Then Thabo Mbeki was sworn in as first deputy president. When
it was my turn, I pledged to obey and uphold the constitution and to
devote myself to the well-being of the republic and its people. To the
assembled guests and the watching world, I said:
Today, all of us do, by our presence here . . . confer glory and hope to
newborn liberty. Out of the experience of an extraordinary human
disaster that lasted too long, must be born a society of which all humanity
will be proud.
. . . We, who were outlaws not so long ago, have today been given
FREEDOM 541
the rare privilege to be host to the nations of the world on our own
soil. We thank all of our distinguished international guests for having
come to take possession with the people of our country of what is,
after all, a common victory for justice, for peace, for human dignity.
We have, at last, achieved our political emancipation. We pledge
ourselves to liberate all our people from the continuing bondage of
poverty, deprivation, suffering, gender, and other discrimination.
Never, never, and never again shall it be that this beautiful land will
again experience the oppression of one by another. . . . The sun shall
never set on so glorious a human achievement.
Let freedom reign. God bless Africa!
A few moments later we all lifted our eyes in awe as a spectacular array
of South African jets, helicopters, and troop carriers roared in perfect
formation over the Union Buildings. It was not only a display of pinpoint
precision and military force, but a demonstration of the military's loyalty
to democracy, to a new government that had been freely and fairly elected.
Only moments before, the highest generals of the South African Defense
Force and police, their chests bedecked with ribbons and medals from
days gone by, saluted me and pledged their loyalty. I was not unmindful
of the fact that not so many years before they would not have saluted but
arrested me. Finally a chevron of Impala jets left a smoke trail of the
black, red, green, blue, and gold of the new South African flag.
The day was symbolized for me by the playing of our two national
anthems, and the vision of whites singing 'Vkosi Sikelel' iAfrika" and blacks
singing "Die Stem," the old anthem of the republic. Although that day,
neither group knew the lyrics of the anthem they once despised, they
would soon know the words by heart.
On the day of the inauguration, I was overwhelmed with a sense of history.
In the first decade of the twentieth century, a few years after the bitter
Anglo-Boer War and before my own birth, the white-skinned peoples of
South Africa patched up their differences and erected a system of racial
domination against the dark-skinned peoples of their own land. The structure they created formed the basis of one of the harshest, most inhumane
societies the world has ever known. Now, in the last decade of the twentieth
century, and my own eighth decade as a man, that system had been
overturned forever and replaced by one that recognized the rights and Freedoms of all peoples regardless of the color of their skin.
That day had come about through the unimaginable sacrifices of thousands
of my people, people whose suffering and courage can never be
counted or repaid. I felt that day, as I have on so many other days, that
542 LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
I was simply the sum of all those African patriots who had gone befor
me. That long and noble line ended and now began again with me. I was
pained that I was not able to thank them and that they were not able to
see what their sacrifices had wrought.
The policy of apartheid created a deep and lasting wound in my country and my people. All of us will spend many years, if not generations recovering
from that profound hurt. But the decades of oppression and
brutality had another, unintended effect, and that was that it produced
the Oliver Tambos, the Walter Sisulus, the Chief Luthulis, the Yusuf Dadoos,
the Bram Fischers, the Robert Sobukwes of our time -- men of
such extraordinary courage, wisdom, and generosity that their like may never be known again. Perhaps it requires such depth of oppression to
create such heights of character. My country is rich in the minerals and
gems that lie beneath its soil, but I have always known that its greatest
wealth is its people, finer and truer than the purest diamonds.
It is from these comrades in the struggle that I learned the meaning
of courage. Time and again, I have seen men and women risk and give
their lives for an idea. I have seen men stand up to attacks and torture
without breaking, showing a strength and resiliency that defies the imagination.
I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph
over it. I felt fear myself more times than I can remember, but I hid it
behind a mask of boldness. The brave man is not he who does not feel
afraid, but he who conquers that fear.
I never lost hope that this great transformation would occur. Not only
because of the great heroes I have already cited, but because of the courage
of the ordinary men and women of my country. I always knew that deep
down in every human heart, there is mercy and generosity. No one is
born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background,
or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn
to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the
human heart than its opposite. Even in the grimmest times in prison,
when my comrades and I were pushed to our limits, I would see a glimmer
of humanity in one of the guards, perhaps just for a second, but it was
enough to reassure me and keep me going. Man's goodness is a flame
that can be hidden but never extinguished.
We took up the struggle with our eyes wide open, under no illusion
that the path would be an easy one. As a young man, when I joined the
African National Congress, I saw the price my comrades paid for their
beliefs, and it was high. For myself, I have never regretted my commitment
to the struggle, and I was always prepared to face the hardships that
affected me personally. But my family paid a terrible price, perhaps too
dear a price for my commitment.
FREEDOM 543
In life, every man has twin obligations -- obligations to his family, to
his parents, to his wife and children; and he has an obligation to his
people, his community, his country. In a civil and humane society, each
man is able to fulfill those obligations according to his own inclinations
and abilities. But in a country like South Africa, it was almost impossible
for a man of my birth and color to fulfill both of those obligations. In
South Africa, a man of color who attempted to live as a human being
was punished and isolated. In South Africa, a man who tried to fulfill
his duty to his people was inevitably ripped from his family and his home
and was forced to live a life apart, a twilight existence of secrecy and
rebellion. I did not in the beginning choose to place my people above
my family, but in attempting to serve my people, I found that I was
prevented from fulfilling my obligations as a son, a brother, a father, and
a husband.
In that way, my commitment to my people, to the millions of South
Africans I would never know or meet, was at the expense of the people
I knew best and loved most. It was as simple and yet as incomprehensible
as the moment a small child asks her father, "Why can you not be with
us?" And the father must utter the terrible words: "There are other children
like you, a great many of them . . ." and then one's voice trails off.
I was not born with a hunger to be free. I was born free -- free in every
way that I could know. Free to run in the fields near my mother's hut,
free to swim in the clear stream that ran through my village, free to roast
mealies under the stars and ride the broad backs of slow-moving bulls.
As long as I obeyed my father and abided by the customs of my tribe, I was not troubled by the laws of man or God.
It was only when I began to learn that my boyhood freedom was an
illusion, when I discovered as a young man that my freedom had already
been taken from me, that I began to hunger for it. At first, as a student,
I wanted freedom only for myself, the transitory freedoms of being able
to stay out at night, read what I pleased, and go where I chose. Later, as
a young man in Johannesburg, I yearned for the basic and honorable
freedoms of achieving my potential, of earning my keep, of marrying and
having a family -- the freedom not to be obstructed in a lawful life.
But then I slowly saw that not only was I not free, but my brothers
and sisters were not free. I saw that it was not just my freedom that was
curtailed, but the freedom of everyone who looked like I did. That is
when I joined the African National Congress, and that is when the hunger
for my own freedom became the greater hunger for the freedom of my
People. It was this desire for the freedom of my people to live their lives ^th dignity and self-respect that animated my life, that transformed a
544	LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
frightened young man into a bold one, that drove a law-abiding attorney
to become a criminal, that turned a family-loving husband into a man
without a home, that forced a life-loving man to live like a monk. I am
no more virtuous or self-sacrificing than the next man, but I found that
I could not even enjoy the poor and limited freedoms I was allowed when
I knew my people were not free. Freedom is indivisible; the chains on
any one of my people were the chains on all of them, the chains on all
of my people were the chains on me.
It was during those long and lonely years that my hunger for the
freedom of my own people became a hunger for the freedom of all people,
white and black. I knew as well as I knew anything that the oppressor
must be liberated just as surely as the oppressed. A man who takes away
another man's freedom is a prisoner of hatred, he is locked behind the
bars of prejudice and narrow-mindedness. I am not truly free if I am
taking away someone else's freedom, just as surely as I am not free when
my freedom is taken from me. The oppressed and the oppressor alike are
robbed of their humanity.
When I walked out of prison, that was my mission, to liberate the
oppressed and the oppressor both. Some say that has now been achieved.
But I know that that is not the case. The truth is that we are not yet free;
we have merely achieved the freedom to be free, the right not to be
oppressed. We have not taken the final step of our journey, but the first
step on a longer and even more difficult road. For to be free is not merely
to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances
the freedom of others. The true test of our devotion to freedom is just
beginning.
I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I
have made missteps along the way. But I have discovered the secret that
after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills
to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious
vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But
I can rest only for a moment, for with freedom comes responsibilities,
and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not yet ended.
Aaronsohn, William, 142
Abdurahman, Abdullah, 538
abeSotho, 4
abeThembu. See Thembuland/Thembu
people
Adams, Farid, 214, 215, 216--217
Addis Ababa, 250, 251, 255-256, 265-266
African Mine Workers Union
(AMWU), 89
African National Congress (ANC), 3,
43, 57, 64, l?9, 148, 198, 321, 452; Action
Committee, 114; annual conferences,
205, 294; armed protest,
violence policy, 235-239, 264, 46o,
468, 475, 499, 5IO-5", 513; arrest and
imprisonment of members, 174, 207210,
?68, 380, 382, 385; bail issue, 279280;
ban against, 148, 247, 422, 452,
484; branches, 85--86, 94; civil disobedience
activities, 107--108, 110-113, n6,120-121,137; External Mission,
382; government of South Africa and,
126, 200, 2ii; international activities,
250-267; leadership, 375, 380, 385,
448; membership, 115, n6, i2i, 320;
mobilization/mass action, 99, too,
103; National Executive Committee,
101-103, 107, 112, il7, ii8, 125, 126, 137,
146, 150, 221, 294-295, 470, 501, 502,
503, 5I5) 528; negotiations with government
of South Africa, 460, 46i,
465-467, 470, 482, 5I7-522, 523527,
530; NM as president, 118-119, i4o141,
499,515-516; NM's early activities,
83-84, 288; nonviolence policy,
203, 204-205, 218, 220, 221, 222, 225,
235-236, 238-239, 318; release of imprisoned
members, 481; release of
NM and, 498; removal schemes and,
^S, 143-144; Robben Island activities, S8?-^, 393, 407, 422-424, 442, 448;
terrorism against, 45iť 461, 511--512,
525-526; voting campaign, 95; white
influence on, 94. See also communism/Communist
Party: ANC and;
Freedom Charter; MK; Women's igue; Youth League
African People's Party (APO), 95, id,
102
Afrikaner Rebellion, 479--480
Afrikaner Volksfront, 532, 556
Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (AWB),
530
Alexander, Neville, 336, 359, 384, 386
Alexandra Township, 59, 6i, 66-67, 69,
75
Algeria, 259-260
All-African Convention, 38, too
All-in Conference, 223, 224
amaBaca, 4
amaBomvana, 4
amaGcaleka, 4
amaMfengu, 4, ic, n
amaMpemvu, 5
amaMpodomis, 4
amaMpondo, 4, 32
amaNgutyana, 186
Amnesty Act, 533
Angola, 383, 421, 435, 5i8
anti-ANC alliance, 503
apartheid, 97, n6, 178, 232, 295, 452, 493;
education and, 145; grand, 165, 2oo,
376; legislation, 105-106, 453; regulations,
334; struggle against, 125, i53,
165, 452, 477; treatment of prisoners,
212; treason trial and, 214-215, 2i6
April, Jimmy, 404
Asiatic Land Tenure Act, 90
assassinations, 376, 377
Astor, David, 264
Atlantic Charter, 83-84
Aucamp, Brigadier, 333, 364, 389
Autshumao, 297
Ayob, Ismail, 454, 455, 475
Azanian People's Organization, 518
Baard, Frances, 162,191
Badenhorst, Piet, 399--400, 401, 402403

Barn, Fikile, 336, 377-380, 386, 414
Banabakhe, Blayi, 22-23
bans/banning orders, 118, 155; against
ANC, 148, 247, 422, 452, 484; against
NM, 125-126, 132, 135, 139, 140, I4I,
548	INDEX

bans/banning orders (continued)
150, 153, 166-167, 222, 223, 288; against
Winnie Mandela, 304, 308, 350, 351,
370, 389
Bantu areas, 165, i66
Bantu Authorities/Bantu Authorites
Act, 106, 107, 156, 157, 159--l6o, 165,
i66, 200, 201, 295
Bantu Education Act, 145, i46,147148,
420-421
Bantu Self Government Act, 200
bantustan system, 295
Barnard, Niel, 465, 467, 479, 483
Barnard (secretary to NM), 284-285
Basner, Hymie M., 129, 253-254
Basner, H.M., law firm, 119,129
Bechuanaland People's Party, 251
Befikadu, Wondoni, 265
Behndy, Isaac, 220
Bekker, Justice, 195, 226-227
Ben Bella, Ahmed, 260
Benson, Mary, 178, 263
Bernstein, Lionel (Rusty), 149, 239,
244, 305, 3il, 314, 316, 323, 326
Berrange, Vernon, 177, i82,183184,185,
195, 201, 305
Bethell, Nicholas, 452, 453
Beyleveld, Piet, 174
Bhoola, Ahmed, 79
Bhoolia, Ramlal, 79
Bisho massacre, 527
Bizos, George, 79, i3l, 200, 305, 314,
389, 4I2-4I3, 430, 475
Black Consciousness Movement (BCM),
422-424, 436
Black Parents Association, 428
Black People's Convention, 421422
Black Sash group, 493
Bloemfontein conference, 99, iooiqi
Boesak, Allan, 481, 492
Boipatong massacre, 526
Boksburg, 112,113
Bokwe, Roseberry, 41
Bopape, David, 85, 104,183
Bophuthatswana, i66, 536
Bosch, Prosecutor, 283, 284, 286
Boshielo, Flag, 114
Botha, P. W., 440, 435, 452, 454, 477,
481, 482; attack on ANC, 461; negotiations
with ANC, 465, 467, 468, 476,
478-480, 484
Botha, Pik, 454, 462
Botswana, 383, 461
Bourguiba, Habib, 259
Brand, Warrant Officer, 490
Bregman, Nat, 64-65
Brezhnev, Leonid, 329
Britain, 3, 5, 12, 20, 42-43, 59, 85, 96,
154 256-257, 263-265, 477, 513
Broederbond organ, 194
Brutus, Dennis, 336
Bungha system, 48,156, i66
Bureau of State Security (BOSS), 398
Bush, George, 508
Buthelezi, Mangosuthu, 501--504,514--
515, 5i8, 528, 532, 535, 536, 537
Cachalia, Maulvi, 103
Cachalia, Yusuf, 103,107,113, ii4,148,
i49, 238; arrest and trial, 119,136
Calata, James, 175
Campaign for the Defiance of Unjust
Laws, 107-108, in
Cape Town, 46, i62,163,164, 206, 2o8,
231, 413, 4i4
Carlson, Joel, 388
Cameson, Fred, 163
Carolus, Cheryl, 504
Carrington, Lord, 537
Cetywayo, King, 501
Chamber of Mines, 57, 89
Chaskalson, Arthur, 305, 324,389
Chiba, Laloo, 355, 366, 386, 415
Chissano, Joaquim, 498
Christianity, n, 17
Churchill, Winston, 83, 436
CIA, 278
circumscision ceremony, 22--25, 26, 375
citizenship issue, 84
civil disobedience campaign, 107-108,
IIO--II3, Il6, I20-I2I, 137
Clarkebury Boarding Institute, 27-31,32
Clinton, Bill, 534
CODESA (Convention for a Democratic
South Africa), 517522,524,528. See also CODESA 2
CODESA 2, 523-525, 526, 528
Coetsee, Kobie, 453, 456-457, 459, 46o,
461, 462, 463-465, 472, 473-474; negotiations
with ANC, 467, 476, 479,
483
Color Bar Act, 87
Coloured People's Congress, 238, 264
Coloureds, 95, 98, ioi, 106-107,132, 212'
vote, 149, 452. See also South African
Coloured People's Organization
communism/Communist Party (SACP),
64, 65, 66, 79, 102, H7-II8, 493, 51°,
ANC and, 94, 95, 178, i83, 218219,
231, 326, 245, 257, 3io, 315, 3i6, ?19'
INDEX 549

?20, 374-375, 458, 468-469, 475, 476,
529; ban against, 422, 484; District
Committee, 101; mineworkers strike
and, 89-90; MK and, 258, 310, 311;
NM and Youth League opposition
to, 87, 88, 94, iqo-ioi, I04I05;
South African opposition to, 120,
126; underground activities, 236, 244;
whites in, 153, 198. See also Suppression
of Communism Act
Conco, Wilson, 87, 156, i88, 204, 205,
223
Congress Alliance, 164,174, i75, 198,
264, 271, 272
Congress of Democrats (COD), 149,
150, 153, 238, 244
Congress of the People, 148-153, i62,
176, i82, 195
Congress of South African Trade
Unions (COSATU), 477, 482, 493,
5i6
Conservative Party, 470,531532,536
constitution. See Freedom Charter
Convention for a Democratic South Africa.
See CODESA
Cook, A. J., 3940
Cooper, Saths, 421--422
Corbert, Michael, 401402
Criminal Laws Amendment Act, 116
Crown Mines, 55--58, 6i
Dadoo, Yusuf, 89--90, 95, io2, 103,104,
ro7, 263, 264-265, 375, 538, 542; arrest
and trial, 119, i20
Daligqili, 6
Dalindyebo, Jongilizwe, 72
Dalindyebo, Jongintaba, 5, 14-15
Dalindyebo, Justice, 16, 17, 22, 25, 31, 37,
46, 49, 55-57, 71-72, 73, 74, 158
Dalindyebo, Nomafu, i6
Dalindyebo, Nxeko, 16
Dalindyebo, Sahara, 27, 28, 38, 7172,
73, 74, 159, 160, 179, 201, 441-442
Daliwonga. See Matanzima, K.D.
Daniels, Eddie, 355, 386, 394, 4o6, 412,
413, 414, 416418 Dash, Samuel, 452-453
Davidoff, Hymie, 213
Davis, Ron, 396397
Day of Protest, 102-103, in--ii2
Day of the Volunteers, 112
Defiance Campaign, 111--118, 120, i2i--
122, 125, l27, 128, 135, 136, 137, 149, 183,
217, 22<; arrest of members, 161162,
164, 176
de Klerk, IF. W., 478, 480-484, 486,
498, 503, 504; apartheid and, 481--482,
484, 485, 494, 500, 507, 514, 521; violence
in South Africa and, 509513,
515,526; /ANC negotiations, 518, 5i9520,
524-525, 527; calls for all-white
referendum, 521-522; Nobel Peace
Prize, 532; 1994 election and, 537538,
539, 540
democracy, 18-20, 87, 159, 509
Department of Development Aid, 523
Derby-Lewis, Clive, 530
de Villiers, Dawie, 518
De Wet, Charles R., 140, 419
de Wet, Quartus, 307, 308, 309, 310,
316-317, 322, 323, 324-326, 328,
330
Diallo, Abdoulaye, 261
Dinath, Moosa, 280--281
Dingake, Mike, 406
Dingane Day, 248-249
Diamini, Father, 9293
Doctors' Pact, 95
Donaldson Orlando Community Center,
167169
dos Sanros, Jose Eduardo, 498
Douglas-Home, Alex, 329
Dube, John, 538
Du Bois, W. E. B., 84,508
Duncan, Patrick, 231, 385
Dutch Reform Church, 97, 145--146
education, African, 60, 6i, 62, 64, 75,
77-78, 98, I44-I45, 146-148, 200
eGoli. See Johannesburg
Egypt, 254, 258259
elections, 96-98, n8-ii9, 189-191, i98, 470, 531-532, 533540
emergency, state of. See State of Emergency/Emergency
Regulations
Emigrant Thembuland, 77, 156
Ethiopia, 255, 266
Ethiopian Riot Battalion, 265
European Community, 507, 513,517
Extension of University Education Act,
200
fascism, 255
Fazzie, Henry, 304
Ferris, Hennie, 394-395
Festile (boss at Crown Mines), 57, 72
First, Ruth, 79, 104, 451
First Transvaal and Orange Free State
Peoples Assembly for Votes for All,
95
550	INDEX

Fischer, Bram, 79, 8o, 177, 195, 20i, 202,
222, 305, 308, 309, 310, 314, 316, 324326,
330, 339-340, 410-411, 538, 542
Fischer, Molly, 339
FLN (Algerian resistance), 259260
Fort Beaufort, 31
Fort Hare (University College), 3738,
39-43, 44-45, 46, 6o, 65, 77
Fourie, Warder, 400--401
Franks, Maurice, 177
Fraser, Malcolm, 459
Freedom Charter, 148-153, 178, i82, 198,
319, 419, 460, 469; treason trial and,
196, 225
Freedom Day strike, 101102
Freedom Front, 536
Free Mandela campaign, 282, 440
Gaetsewe, John, 292, 296, 300, 302, 303
Gaitskell, Hugh, 264
Gandhi, Mahatma, 91, 99, in, 137, 369
Gandhi, Manilal, in
gangs, criminal, 355-357
Garvey, Marcus, 84, 98, 508
General Law Amendment Act, 295, 353354
Gericke, Captain, 298-299
Germany, 42, 59, 96, 98, 185
Ghana, 205, 256, 26i
Ghetto Act, 90, 95
Goldberg, Dennis, 305, 310--311, 3l3i 3i6,
328-329
Goldreich, Arthur, 245, 246, 249, 305,
307, 3II
Goldreich, Hazel, 246, 250
Goldreich, Nicholas, 249--250
Goniwe, Matthew, 523
Gordhan, Ketso, 534
Gqabi, Joe, 366
Gqozo, Oupa, 527, 536
Gregory, James, 449, 450, 490
Grimond, Jo, 264
Group Areas Act, 90, 99, io6,107,132, 294
group rights issue, 483
guerrilla warfare, 246, 247, 26o, 263,
312-315, 317, 319, 322, 324-325, 329,
334, 377, 383
Guinea, 261-262
Gumede, Archie, 504
Gumede, Josiah, 538
Gwala, Harry, 374
Gwentshe, Alcott, 115-116
Hahio, Professor, 78-79
Haile Selassie, 84, 253, 255, 256
Hani, Chris, 529-530,538
Hanson, Harold, 316, 327
Harare Declaration, 482-483, 493,506
Harmel, Michael, 66,103,187, 244245

Harmel, Ray, 187
Harris, C., 28, 30
Healdtown, 31--37, 69
Healey, Dennis, 264
Helberg, Sergeant, 210
Helman and Michel law firm, 128-129
Hepple, Alex, 178
Hepple, Bob, 282, 286, 304
Hertzog, J. B., 42, 43
High Organ. See African National Congress:
Robben Island activities
history, African, 19-20, 2i, 35, 240,
479-480
Hodgson, Jack, 239, 241
Holomisa, Bantu, 505
homeland issues, 295, 419,532,536
Huddleston, Trevor, 133,135,136,164
Hughes, Father, 394
Hynning, Mr. (American attorney),
346, 347
iMfecane, n, 186
Immorality Act, 98
Indian community, 79, 90-91, 94, 95,
96, 98, loo, ioi, io6, 107, 198, 212;
partnership with Africans, n6,117;
vote, 452. See also South African Indian
Congress; Transvaal Indian Congress;
Transvaal Indian Youth
Congress
Industrial and Commercial Workers
Union (ICU), 76
Inkatha Freedom Party, 501,502,504,
5II-5I3, 515, 5l8, 525-526, 528, 531, 536537
Internal Security Act, 428,5"
International Red Cross, 357-359, 36i,
427
Jabavu, D. D. T, 38, 43
Jacobs, Colonel, 283, 291, 292
Jassat, Abdulhay, 307
Jawaharlal Nehru Human Rights
Award, 440
Jehovah's Witnesses, 179
Jelliman, Mr., 245,311
Jews, 62, 245
Joffe, Joel, 305, 316, 326, 339
Johannesburg: NM's escape to and employment
in, 47--51, 55-66, 74; NM s
INDEX 551

underground activities in, 232--233,
234, 235, 243; protests in, 164, ipi194
Johannesburg Fort prison, 174-175, 275282
Jongintaba, Chief, 5,14
Joseph, Helen, 193, 214-218, 296,538
Joyi, Zwelibhangile, 20, 2i
Kadalie, Clements, 76
Kantor, Jimmy, 305, 313-314, 32?
Kapwepwe, Simon, 257-258
Kathrada, Ahmed (Kathy), 90, io6,119,
136, 2l8, 221, 278, 304, 313, 314, 316,
323, 326, 330, 333; MK and, 251; in
Robben Island prison, 334, 337, 340,
361, 366, 386, 407, 412, 414-418, 436,
442; in Pollsmoor prison, 448, 458;
negotiations with government, 466,
504; release from prison, 481
Kaunda, Kenneth, 257, 498, 499
Keitsing, Fish, 251
Kellerman, Major, 379, 38o, 381
Kemp, Major, 419
Kennedy, Justice, 194, 204, 22i, 226-227
Kencridge, Sydney, 195, 2oi, 212
Kerr, Alexander, 43, 44, 45
Kgoloko, Kolane, 200
Kgosana, Philip, 206
Khongisa, Nyathi, 42--43
King, Coretra Scott, 539
King, Martin Luther, Jr., 453,508,539-- 540
Kissinger, Henry, 537
Kleynhans brothers, 297, 298, 300, 301
Koch, Miss, 129
Kodesh, Wolfie, 241, 242
Kotane, Moses, 89-90, 103, 104, 189,
190, 236, 271, 315, 375, 538
Kruger, Sergeant, 213
Kruger, Jimmy, 418--420, 452
Kunene, Andrew, 141
KwaZulu, 166, 501-502, 518, 535, 536
Lagos Conference of Independent
States, 253, 254
Land Act, 87
League of Nations, 42
Leballo, Potlako, 197, 198, 199
Lebentlele, Frank, 3233
legal system. South African, 226--227
legislation, discriminatory, 84, 87, 9899,
ioi, 105-106; protest against, 107-
io8, no--in, 120--121
Leibbrandt, Robey, 419
Lekota, Patrick "Terror," 423, 482, 534
Lembede, Anton, 84-85, 87, 88, 93, 94,
198
Letele, Arthur, 87, 164, 175
Letlaka, Tsepo, 159
Levson, Freda, 178
Levy, Leon, 215
Liberal Party, 138,386
Liberia, 261
Liliesleaf Farm, Rivonia, 243-246, 247, 249, 250, 304, 305, 327
little Rivonia Trial, 355
Lollan, Stanley, 149, 2i8
Louw, Mike, 483
Ludorf, Justice, 194, 195
Lutheran mission, 146
Luthuli, Albert, 112, 125, 137, 138, 155, 383,
538, 542; antiremoval campaign and,
143; as president of the ANC, 148,191,
204, 207, 243, 256, 272, 274, 313, 375;
Congress of the People and, 148, 149;
arrest and trial, 174,175-176, 184, 185;
in NM's treason trial, 204, 205, 2io;
armed violence policy and, 237, 238;
Nobel Peace Prize, 247-248, 26i, 383,
384, 532; NM underground and, 250
Mabhila, Moses, 155
Mabutho, J., 61
Mabutho, Mrs. Gogo, 61, 69
Macmillan, Harold, 206
Macto, Kangaroo, 169
Madi, Levi, 169
Madikizela, Columbus, 186, 188, 201,
433, 442
Mahabane, Paul, 43
Mahabane, Zaccheus, 43
Mahlasela, Ben, 30
Maisels, Israel, 177, 195, 2oi, 203, 213,
214, 222, 225
Majombozi, Lionel, 85
majority rule issue, 468, 469, 475, 476
Makanna, 297
Make, Vusumuzi, 206
Makgatho, Sefako Mapogo, 103-104
Makhanda, 31, ii7
Makue, Joshua, 147
Makwetu, Clarence, 384
Malan, Daniel, 96--97, 98, 99, 103, no,
115
Malan, Magnus, 440, 515
Mandela, Baliwe, 6, 158
Mandela, Evelyn (nee Mase), 88, 9i, 129,
390; birth of children, 91-92, 93, 103,
104; break-up of marriage to NM,
178-181, 187
552	INDEX

Mandela, Leabie, 92
Mandela, Mabel, 158, 387
Mandela, Madiba Thembekile, 91, 92,
104, l6y, 168, 180, 181, 223, 389-390
Mandela, Makaziwe (NM's first daughter),
93
Mandela, Makaziwe (NM's second
daughter), 154, i79, 181, 223, 387
Mandela, Makgatho Lewanika, 103, i8o,
181, 221-222, 223, 249-250, 387, 388,
389
Mandela, Miahlwa, 6
Mandela, Makhutswana, 6
Mandela, Nelson Rolihiahia: family history,
childhood, and education, 313,
27--32; early life in Johannesburg, 485i;
law education and practice, 6167,
74, 76-79, 93, 100, 128-133, I4I, 167,
187, 188, 193, 221, 408; ANC connection
and politics 83-85, 93, 94-96, 98, too , 102, 107; marriage to Evelyn
Mase, 88, 178-181, 187; family life and
birth of children, 91, 92-93, 154, 196;
arrest and trial (1952), ii4, 116117,
ii9--120; bans against, 140, 153, i66--
167, 222; visits home, 153-160; Treason
Trial (1956), 173-178, 182-185, i88,
194-196, 201-205, 2IO-2I5, 217220,
222-223, 225-227, 316; meets and marries
Winnie Madikizela, 185-188, 196197;
arrest and imprisonment under
State of Emergency, 208-210; goes
underground, 231--239, 241--246, 257,
277, 280; founds and heads MK, 239250,
266, 276; international campaigns,
250-265; military training,
265--266, 319; arrest and imprisonment
(1962), 273-282, 291-194; Rivonia
trial (1962), 282-290, 305, 306330;
begins prison sentence at Robben
Island, 334-336; writes memoirs,
415--418; transfer to Pollsmoor
Prison, 443-444, 447-451, 457458;
armed resistance/violence policy, 453454,
460; refuses conditional release,
454--456; negotiations with government,
457-462, 464-467, 475477,
48i, 482, 493, 502-505; health, 470473;
transfer to Victor Verster prison,
473-474, 477, 529; meetings with
Botha, 478-480; meetings with de
Klerk, 482, 483-484, 485-486, 502503,
506-507, 509-5IO, 512, 523, 527,
530; release from prison, 489-494;
post-prison activities, 494--500; Eu
ropean
and American tour, 507509separation
from Winnie, 522-523- Nobel Peace Prize, 532-533
Mandela, Notancu, 6
Mandela, Winnie (nee Nomzamo Winnifred
Madikizela), 442-443; meets
and marries NM, 185-188, 196197politics,
187, 191-194, 20i, 278, 370^371,
428-429, 456-457, 477; birth of
children, 196, 221-222; visits to NM
in prisons, 216, 279, 294, 350352,
370-372, 410, 421, 449, 450-451, 454,
455; at NM's trial, 282, 286, 290, 308,
327, 329; ban against, 304, 308, 350,
351, 370, 389; arrest and imprisonment,
372, 388-389, 409, 428429;
erosion of marriage to NM, 426, 432,
499-500, 522-523; internal exile, 429430;
NM's release from prison and,
486, 489-491, 492, 493, 496, 497
Mandela, Zenani, 196, 2i6, 249, 371,
409. 430-431, 450, 540
Mandela, Zindziswa, 222, 249, 37i, 409--
410. 429-430, 450, 455, 523
Mandela and Tambo law firm, 141, 167,
187, i88, 193, 221
Mandela-Plan (M-Plan), 126-128, 223
Manuel, Trevor, 489
Mao Tse-tung, 104, 239--240
Maqubela, Patrick, 448
Marais, Major, 472, 473, 479
Marcus, Nathan, 213
Maree, Willie, i8o
Margai, Milton, 261
Marks, J. B., 89-90, 103, 104, 107,
117, n8, 189, 271; arrest and trial, 118,
119
Marupeng, Seperepere, 118
Marx, Gawie, 463
Marxism, 104-105, 198, 311, 320
Mase, Sam, 88
Maseko, MacDonald, 118
Maseko, Phyllis, 68
Masemola, Jeff, 405-406, Wi 416, +81
Mashaba, Bertha, 215
Mashifane, Thomas, 304
Masire, Quett, 498
MaSisulu (mother of Walter Sisulu), 84,
88
Masondo, Andrew, 379
mass action/protests, 99, too, 103, 110113,
I2I-I22, 326, 421
Mass Democratic Movement (MDM),
474, 477, 482, 493
Matanzima, George, 159
INDEX 553

J Matanzima, K. (Kalzer) D. (Daliwonga),
4, 37-39, 45, 77, 156, i59l6o,
166, 179, 201, 336, 356, 419, 441-442
Matlou, Jonas, 267
Matomela, Florence, 191
Matthews, Joe, 87, 94, i62,164, 220221,
251-253
Matthews, Z. K., 38, 41, 43, 94, 100,
137, 138, 139, 145, 148, i62, 163, 175
Matyolo family, 17, 21-22
Mbekela, Ben, ii
Mbekela, George, 11-12
Mbekeni, Constance, 188
Mbekeni, Garlick, 59
Mbeki, Govan, 162, 231, 271-272, 304,
313, 322-323, 326, 333, 359, 367, 374,
385, 400, 442, 48l
Mbeki, Thabo, 504, 540
Mbobo, Victor, 85
Mda, A. P. (Peter), 84, 85, 87, 93, 94,
98, 99, 159, 198
Mda, Rose, 88
Mdingi, Chief, 196
Meadowlands, 134, I43I44
Meer, Fatima, 272, 275
Meer, Ismail, 79-80, 90, 101, 104, 272
Meligqili, Chief, 25-26
Menye, Nqabeni, 303
Methodist Church of South Africa, 33
Methodist faith/Church, 11, 15-16, 17, 32,
33,38
Mfengu people, 4, 10, n
Mgudlwa, Msunguli, 88
Mgxaji, Nkosana, 169
Mharaj, Mac, 355, 360, 366, 367, 373374,
376, 377, 407, 4I3-4I5, 418, 510
Mhlaba, Raymond, 112, i62, 231, 244,
305, 313, 314, 316, 323, 326, 333, 385,
4+2, 443, 448; negotiations with government
and, 466; release from
prison, 481 , Michel, Rodney, 128
Mini, Vuyisile, 175
l-Minnaar, Colonel, 278, 28o, 281
'Aitterrand, Francois, 507
jiji, Diliza, 87, 103
fK. (Umkhonto we Sizwe -- the Spear 1; of the Nation), 310, 311, 312, 493;
ANC and, 247, 3l6, 319, 324, 329;
armed resistance/violence policy, 246249,
324, 383, 440, 451, 5IO-5H; arrest
and imprisonment of members, 304, 305, 355, 366, 383, 403-404, 506;
founding, 239-241, 244-246, 248,
258, 3i5, 3i7; international support
for, 250-267; legislation against, 295296
Mkentane, Lincoln, 40
Mkwayi, Wilton, 210-211, 214,355,378,
406, 4I3-4I4, 48l
Miangeni, Andrew, 304, 3io, 323324,
330, 333, 443, 458, 466, 48l
Mionyeni, Max, 251
Modise, Joe, 143, 267, 504
Mofofceng, Mackeed, 169
Mofutsanyana, Edwin, 104
Moilwa, Abram, 200
Mokitimi, S. S., 33-34
Mokone, Elijah, 169
Molaoa, Patrick, 175
Molefe, Popo, 534
Molefi, Joe, 206
Molete, Aaron, 292, 296, 298
Molete, Z. B., 206, 209
Molete, Zachariah, 32
Molife, Perrus, 248
Mollson, Jeremiah, 184
Moloi, Jerry, 167, i68
Molotsi, Johannes, 167, i68, 169
Molotsi, Peter, 254
Mompari, Ruth, 504
Moodley, Strini, 421-422, 436
Moola, Mosie, 307
Moosa, Valli, 518
Morocco, 260-261
Moroka, J. S., 100, 101, 107, 108, no,
119--120, i64
Moshweshwe, Mantsebo, 7273
Morale, Dr. Chota, 155
Mothopeng, Zephani, 198, 336, 384, 385
Motlana, Nthamo, 87, 103, 189, 428
Motsete, K. T., 251
Motsoaledi, Caroline, 308
Motsoaledi, Elias, 305, 3io, 323, 330, 333,
48l
Mozambique, 383, 421, 435
Mpetha, Oscar, 481
Mphakanyiswa, Gadia, 3,12-13
Mpondombini, Chief, 49-50
Mpondo people, 4, 20
Mqhayi, Krune, 35--37
Mqhayi, Samuel, 222
Mqhekezweni, Thembuland, 8, i4, 1517,
20, 21, 23, 27, 28, 46-48, 7374,
158
Mthimkhulu, Ida, 190-191
Mtolo, Bruno, 272, 311--312
Mubarak, Hosni, 499
Mugabe, Robert, 498
Muller, Hans, 7576
554	INDEX

Mulroney, Brian, 508
Munro, Brigadier, 449, 450, 457, 459, 4Ai
Murray, Andrew, 182--183, 203
Mnsaveni, Yoweri, 498
Mustafa, Dr., 259, z6o
Mvezo, 3, 6
Mxenge, Griffiths, 448
Naicker, G. M. (Monty), 90, 95, ii2,155,
174, 238, 272, 273, 538
Naidoo, G. R., 272, 278
Naidoo, M. D., 238
Nair, Billy, 336, 406, 510
Namibia, 383, 400
Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 258259
Natal, 502, 505, 5i2,524,536
Natal Indian Congress (NIC), 91, 95,
ii2,155, i66
National Action Committee, in
National Action Council, 148, 149,150,
224
nationalism: African, 85, 87, 94, 98,198,
104, 105, 198, 256, 469; Afrikaner, 224
National Minded Bloc, 117
National Party, 96-97, 98, i02, 117, 137,
141, 301, 327, 458, 504,505, 5i7; apartheid
policy, 105-107, 216; education
policy, 145; in elections, 189, 190, 470,
537; negotiations with ANC, 468,518,
519, 521-522, 525, 528; PAC and, 199;
Treason Trial and, 194,195
National Peace Accord, 519
National Security Management System,
482
Native Administration Act, 87
Native Affairs Department, 38, 39, 49,
73, 145, 146
Native Representative Council, 89, io6
Naude, Beyers, 504
Ndzamela, Locke, 34
Nel, De Wet, 200
New Age, 163, 296
news media, 231, 235, 236, 240, 345346,
434-435
Ngangelizwe, King, 20
Ngendane, Selby, 384, 396
Ngidi, Freddie, 167
Ngotyana, Greenwood, 163
Ngoyi, Lilian, 174, i88, 193, 2oi, 215, 538
Ngubane, Jordan, 85
Ngubase, Solomon, 183--184
Ngubengcuka, King, 4, 28
Nguni people, 4
Ngwevela, Johnson, 163
Nhlapo, Enoch, 169
Nicholas, G., 195
Nigeria, 256
Ninety-Day Detention Law, 295, 305,
308
Njongwe, James, i88
Nkabinde, Ellen, 69
Nkampeni, J., 217
Nkobi, Thomas Titus, 128
Nkomo, Joshua, 383
Nkomo, William, 85
Nkrumah, Kwame, 205
No-England (NM's foster mother), 16,
47, 77, 158
Nokwe, Duma, 87,138,154, i88,189,
196, 207, 209, 251, 271; Treason Trial
and, 214, 215, 217, 226-227
Non-European Unity Movement, 187
nonviolence. See African National Congress:
nonviolence policy; pacificm;
passive resistance
Nosekeni, Fanny, 5, n, 13,15,157, 387,
388
Nthite, Peter, 175
Ntlabami, Gertrude, 29, 43
Ntsele, Reic, 167
Nyerere, Julius, 253, 257
Nxu, Sidney, 50
Nzo, Alfred, 499,504
Obasanjo, Olusegun, 459
O'David, Tony, 79,195
Omar, Dullah, 442, 475, 492
Operation Mayibuye, 305, 312313,3i5,
316, 322
Operation Vula, 510
Orange Free State, 108, 139140
Organization of African Unity, 250,
255-258, 5i7
Orlando section of Soweto, 67, 9192,
191, 192, I93-I94, 197, 201, 497
pacifism, 204-205
Pahad, Amina, 90
Pan African Freedom Movement for
East, Central, and Southern Africa
(PAFMECSA), 250, 254, 255-258, 319
Pan Africanist Congress (PAC), 211, 292,
293, 295,518,531; ANC and, 206, 232,
235, 250, 256, 258, 259, 264, 295, 3°3'
384; anti-Communist policy, i99, 258,
bans against, 422, 484; founding and
influence, 197-199, 253, 271, 272; imprisonment
of members, 336, 363, 360'
384-386; Robben Island activities,
422, 424
INDEX 555

Panza, Justice, 383
passive resistance, 99, in, 136137
pass system, 49, 83, I9I-X94, 205, 206,
207, 370
Parel, Cassim, 129
Parel, Zubeida, 129
Pather, Mask, 231
Paton, Alan, 178, 327328
Patriot Front, 518
Peake, George, 231-232, 336
People's Forums, 534
People's Republic of China, 138-139
Peteni, Randall, 77
Pieterson, Hector, 420
Piliso (manager at Crown Mines), 55,
56-58
Pillay, Mrs. Thayanagee, 202, 279, 308
Pirow, Oswald, 185, 196, 202, 203
Pitje, Godfrey, 87, 94
Pogrund, Benjamin, 235
Pokela, John, 385
police brutality, 132
Pollack, Walter, 142
Pollsmoor Prison, 444-451
Pondoland/Pondo people, 21, 200
Population and Registration Act, 98--
99, io6, 132
Port Elizabeth, 128, i6i, 162, 190, 191, 231
Pretoria, 194, 196, 20i, 207, 211212;
economic sanctions against, 452;
NM's imprisonment in, 210--212, 223,
279-283, 291-294, 296, 304-305, 338;
Rivonia Trial, 305-330
Pretoria Minute, 511
Pretorius, Lieutenant, 299
Prins, Lieutenant, 411-412
Prinsloo, Colonel, 136, 213
Program of Action, 99
Progressive Federal Party, 470
Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act,
98
Promotion of Bantu Self Government
Act, 200
property rights, 7, 21, 6o, 62, 66, 84, 99,
io6, 107, 134
Public Safety Act, 116
quasi-independent homelands, 419
Qunu (village), 7-13, i5, 21, 27, 157-158,
i6o, 505-506, 529
Raboroko, Peter, 103, 198 fadst policies, 112, 140,142
Radebe, Gaur, 62, 63, 64, 74-76, 77, 89,
103, 198, 254
radio broadcasts. See news media;
South African Broadcasting
Corporation
Ramaila (spy), 117
Ramaphosa, Cyril, 482, 489,515516,518,
526
Ramohanoe, C. S., 94, 95, 96
Ratepayers Association, 142
Reconstruction and Development Program,
534
Record of Understanding, 527--528
Reeves, Ambrose, 146, 178
religion, 17-18, 65, 145146
removal schemes, 134-135, 136, 142. See
also Sophiatown removal
Representation of Natives Act, 87
Reservation of Separate Amenities Act,
481-482
Resha, Robert, 136, 203, 209, 220, 258,259
Rhodes, Cecil, 504
Rhodesia, 383, 434
riots, 121
Rivonia Trial, 305-330
Robben Island prison, 31, 361,506; administrative
court, 377-378; ANC activity
in, 385-387, 393, 407, 422424,
442, 448; classification of prisoners,
347-349, 400; communication among
prisoners, 366--368; criminal gangs,
355-357; daily routine, 342-344; hunger
strikes, 368-370; isolation of prisoners,
363--365, 367; mail and visitor
regulations, 348-350, 351, 368, 389;
manual labor ends, 424-425, 427;
news broadcasts, 434-435; NM's first term, 296--304; NM's second term
begins, 334-339; study privileges,
359-363, 373-374, 379, 400, 406408,
418, 427-428, 439
Rolihiahia (NM's tribal name), 24, 46
Roman Catholicism, 146
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 83
Rosenberg, Norman, 177
Rumpff, IF. L., 194, 195, 20i, 210, 2i2,
217, 219, 225, 226-227
Sabata. See Dalindyebo, Sabata
sabotage, charge of, 307-308, 309, 318,
3i9
Sabotage Act, 296, 304
Sakwe, C. K., 166
sanctions, international, 459, 470, 477,
506-507, 508, 509, 514
Sandile, King., 37
Scheffer, Andre, 395
556	INDEX

school boycott, 146-148
Scott, Michael, 92-95
Sekgapane, Norman, 169
Sekhukhune, Godfrey, 200
Sekhukhune, Moroamotsho, 200
Sekhukhuneland, 200
Seme, Pixley, 84, 85
Senegal, 262-263
Senghor, Leopold, 262-263
Senn, Mr. (representative of the Red
Cross), 358359
separate development policy, 419,504
Separate Representation of Voters Bill/ Act, 98, io6,107
September, Reggie, 174
Seventh-Day Adventism, 146, 147
Sexwale, Tokyo, 482
Shaka, 10,n
Sharpeville massacre, 206--208, 256, 257
Shultz, George, 477
Sibande, Gert, 103, 220
Sidelsky, Lazar, 60, 6i, 62, 63-64, 65,
67, 74, 75, 76-77, 85
Singh, Debi, 175
Singh, J. N., 79, 8o, 90, 238, 273
Sisulu, Albertina, 88, i8o, 192, 308
Sisulu, Max, 308
Sisulu, Walter, 60, 62, 64, 76, 77, 85, 93,
183, 189, 501,542; NM and, 83, i8o--
i8i, 278, 489-490; politics, 84, 85, 87,
88, 107; ANC and, 94, 99--ioo, 103,
107, ii3, 128, 138-139, i66, 236, 271; arrest
and trial, 119, i20,174; ban
against, 135,149,150; Congress of the
People and, 148,149; MK and, 239,
251; imprisonment, 275-276, 278--280,
294, 304, 311, 333, 350, 355, 373, 374,
385, 401, 407, 414, 415, 416-418, 443444,
448, 458; trial, 310, 322-323, 326;
negotiations with government, 465466,504;
release from prison, 481
Sita, Nana, 113, 294
Siwundia, Smallie, 41
Slovo, Joe, 79, i84, 207, 2i6, 276, 305,
404, 42i, 504, 5i8, 528; MK and, 239,
244, 313; NM and, 278, 282282,510
Smith, lan, 383, 434
Smith, William, 76
Smuts, Jan, 42, 43, 90, 96, 97, 327
Sobhuza, King, 430
Sobukwe, Robert, 87, 94, 197, 198, 199,
206, 207, 434, 542; imprisonment, 253,
257, 259, 292-294, 296, 303, 353-354
Sophiatown removal, io6, 133-135, 136,
142-144, i76
Sotho people, 73
South African Broadcasting Corporation
(SABC), 190, 490, 519, 530
South African Coloured People's Organization
(SACPO), 149, 150, 231
South African Congress of Trade
Unions (SACTU), 189, 238
South African Defense Force, 382,383,
451, 46i
South African Indian Congress (SAIC),
102, in, 119, i26,155; ANC and, 238,
264; voting rights, 149,150
South African Students' Organization,
421, 423
South African Women's Federation, 193
South-West African People's Organization
(SWAPO), 377, 383, 400
Soviet Union, 105, 468, 477
Soweto (South-Western Townships), 67,
9i, 235, 496-497; student uprising,
420-421, 428, 431, 437, 525
Sparks, Allister, 537
Spengler, Colonel, 233
spying, espionage, 117
State Department. U.S., 199, 207
State of Emergency/Emergency Regulations,
208-210, 211, 214, 221, 227, 46i,
469, 484, 485, 493, 527; effect on
Treason Trial, 213--214, 2i8, 220;
lifted, 507, 509-510
Stevenson, Adiai, 329
Steyn, Colonel/General, 299, 346347,
381, 401-402
Steyn, Jan, 401-402
Strauss, J. G. N., 117
strikes, 103,107, 369,527; election (1958),
189-191,198; Freedom Day, 101-102;
go-slow, on Robben Island, 338,369,
424; hunger, on Robben Island, 368370,
400; May Day, 101; mineworkers,
89--90; post-Treason Trial, 232;
stay-away, 224-225, 232, 234-235, 284, 289
Students Christian Association, 40
Suppression of Communism Act, 102,
I05-I06, 107, n8, 163, 2ii, 388; NM
and, 119,120, i4o, 141, i96
Suzman, Helen, 295, 38!, 450
Swanepoel, Lieutenant, 309, 3i3
Swart, Warrant Officer, 474-475, 477478, 482, 490
Swaziland, 4, 69, 430
Tadesse, Colonel, 265-266
Tambo, Adelaide, 263, 53i
INDEX 557

Tambo, Oliver, 40, 85, 143, 404, 412,
414, 418, 440, 451, 455, 493, 494, 506,
538, 542; ANC activities, 96, 97, 99,
1ioo, 102, ii4; friendship/partnership
with NM, 129-130, 141, 178, i86, 187,
254,500,513,516; antiremoval campaign
and, 143; Congress of the People
and, 148, 149; arrest and trial, 185;
in 1958 election strike, 189; international
activities for the ANC, 212--213,
253, 256, 257-258, 261-262, 263, 264;
MK and, 383-384; negotiations with
government, 460, 465-467, 477; return
to South Africa, 513, 514; death,
530-531
Tanganyika, 252-254, 256
Tantsi, N. B., 112
Tanzania, 421
Tatane, Rex, 39
Tefu, Stephen, 292, 293--294, 296, 297298,
299, 300, 301, 302-303
Teka, Walter, 163, 164
Terblanche, Lieutenant, 406
Terblanche & Briggish law firm, 128
terrorism, 246, 247, 295, 440, 458, 527
Terrorism Act, 388
[Thatcher, Margaret, 459, 484, 507,509 fThema, Selope, 117-118
Thembuland/Thembu people, 3--4, 5, 6,
; I8-I9, 20, 31, 71, 73-74, i6o, 201, 441
'Theron, Captain, 301--302
Theron, M. E., 401-402
Thumbumuzi, Prince, 430-431
Thumbumuzi, Zaziwe (NM's
grandaughter), 431, 450, 45i
Tighy, Sarel, 78
Tloome, Clan, 87, 89, i89, 271
Toivo ja Toivo, Andimba, 400, 401
Tomlinson Commission for the SocioEconomic
Development of the Bantu
Areas, 165, i66
Transkei, 3, 4, 153-160, 165-166, 2oi, 295,
441, 505
Transvaal Executive Committee, 9496,
"3
Transvaal Indian Congress (TIC), 79,
90, 9i, 95, IOI, 113, 119, 135
Transvaal Indian Youth Congress,
278
Transvaal Law Society, 372-373
E travel documents, 49--50. See also pass
system
Treason Trial, 173-178, 182-185, i88, 194196,
201--205, 210--215, 217--220, 222--
223, 225-227, 316
Treason Trial Defense Fund, 178, i86
Trengrove, Advocate, 205
tribal solidarity, n, 21, 33, 69
Truter, Warrant Officer, 274
Tshabalala, Simon, 169
Tshwete, Steve, 442
Tubman, William, 261
Tuli, Jake, 169
Tutu, Desmond, 452, 455, 48i, 489, 492,
494, 533
Tyamzashe, Victor, i88
Tyesi, Barrett, 147
Tyhalarha, 22, 23
Umkhonto we Sizwe. See MK
unions, 76, 98. See also Congress of
South African Trade Unions; strikes
United Democratic Front (UDF), 452,
454, 455, 474, 477, 482, 493, 498, 516,
523, 534
United Jewish Reformed Congregation,
146
United National Independence Parrv
(UNIP), 257
United Nations, 286, 517. See also sanctions,
international
United Party, 96, ii7, 144, 199, 207, 226
United States, 199, 207, 278,507508,
514
Unity Movement, 360, 386
University of South Africa (UNISA),
60, 62, 67, 77, 79
University of the Witwatersrand,
7879
Urban Areas Act, 87, 131, 134
Vabaza, Gamaliel, 39
Van Aarde, Colonel, 399
van der Merwe, Fanie, 465, 467
Van Niekerk, Prosecutor, 177178
Van Rensburg, Warder, 377, 378380,
381-382, 393
Van Riebeeck, Jan, 107108
Van Sittert, Fritz, 453
Versailles peace conference (1918), 3
Verwoerd, Hendrik IF, 145, 147, i65,
200, 224, 295, 329-330; i96i Strike
and, 234; assassination, 376, 377 Victor Verster prison, 473-474, 477,
529
Viljoen, Constand, 532, 536
Viljoen, Gerrit, 481
Viok, Adriaan, 512, 515
Volunteer Board, in
Von Heerden, Magistrate, 283
558 INDE:
Vorster, John, 295, 296, 327, 435 \\
Vorster, Sargeant, 273--274
Votes for All, 95, 96
voting rights, 87, 95, 96, 98, i49, 150, X
2i9, 452 X
X
Washington, Booker, 38
Wellbeloved, Mr. (boss at Crown X
Mines), 57,58, 6i
Wellington, Arthur, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36
Welsh, Rex, 195 Y
Wesleyan Church, 146, 163
Wessel, IF. C., 177, 184 Y
Wessels, Colonel, 352, 368-369 Y
Western Areas townships, 134 Y
Western Native Township, 59, 64
whites, 20-21, 26, 90, 94, 97, 99, io8,
338 Y
Willemse, W. H., 403, 404, 46o, 461462,
465, 467, 478, 479, 483
Williams, Cecil, 267, 271, 272, 273- Z
274 Z
Witkin, Sidelsky and Eidelman, 61, 62, Z
64, 93, i28 Z
Witwatersrand Native Labor Associa- Z
tion (WNLA), 71, 72
Wolpe, Harold, 79, i95, 276, 304, 307, Z
313, 323
Women's League, 191,192,193, 221 Z
for\d Festival of Youth and Students
for Peace and Friendship, 138
homa family, 61, 67, 68
homa, Didi, 69-71
hosa people, 5, 4,5, 9-n, 14, 1920,
22-2+, 36, 74
uma, A. B., 57, 85-86, 90, 95, 99, too,
102, i2i, 134, 143
efu, Mr. (foreign minister of Ethiopia),
265
engwa, Masabalala, 175
Drster, B. ]., 142
outh League, 85-86, 87-88, 90, 9394,
98, 107, n8, 119, 154, 197, 198, 221;
Program of Action, 99, too, 103
utar, Percy, 307, 309, 3io, 311, 3i5, 3i6,
317, 3", 324
ambia, 104, 46i
iCerust, 200 .ilindlovu, Chief, 48
,imbabwe, 383, 461, 518
-imbabwe African People's Union
(ZAPU), 383 .ululand/Zulu people, 4, iq-ii, 20, 154,
201, 500-502, 504, 5I2-5I3, 537
welithini. Goodwill, 501, 5i8, 535