Freedom in our Lifetime

First published in October 1996 by Indicator Press, University of Natal, Private Bag X10, Dalbridge 4014, Durban, SA.
ISBN 1-86840-210-X
Printed by Creda Press. Mayibuye Books, UWC, History and Literature Series No. 73.

South Africa has been in the headlines of the world press often in the second half of the 20th Century. Some stories were about the atrocities of the apartheid regime. Others told of people and organisations in South Africa who were struggling against the regime. For the older generation of South African activists, these stories were about the forces which shaped our lives.

Many of us have lived through big changes. We were born in rural areas and as children were brought up in traditional ways. The village was a close knit community with a stable social order, in which families helped each other in times of trouble. When we were older and went to town we found social disorder, and powerful authorities whose business was to make our lives difficult.

The African National Congress and trade unions were modem political and industrial organisations, struggling for democracy and justice, but they also in some ways tried to recreate the caring society in which we had grown up.

My generation was involved in one struggle after another. We built our mass organisations in the 1950s, we went through the Treason Trial, we had many crusades culminating in the campaigns against the Pass Laws. We suffered under the State of Emergency, and after the banning of the ANC in 1960 we were forced underground.

After this, our paths began to diverge. Some were betrayed, arrested and imprisoned, while others - myself included - were sent overseas for military training. Some managed to lie low and keep the flame alight in townships and factories through the darkest days of apartheid.

Many have died in battle or at the hands of the apartheid state, and illness and old age has killed off others. Some of us who were fortunate enough to survive met up again when the frontiers and prison doors opened after 1990. We even had a big get together at a reception for "stalwarts", held by Nelson Mandela after he was elected President.

We all had stories to tell each other, and I found that my particular story with its experiences of the struggle in Cape Town, of Umkhonto We Sizwe and of international solidarity was a unique combination. I decided it would be worthwhile telling to a wider audience.

In my years in Cape Town and in exile I discovered it was not just in African villages that people cared about and cared for each other. My family and I were helped and supported by many people of all colours in the harsh apartheid years before I left South Africa.

Outside, Umkhonto We Sizwe was able to survive and become a powerful fighting force because of the support we received from many countries in Africa, particularly the others - suffered and still suffer grievously from the vengeance inflicted on them by the apartheid state and its stooges for giving that support.

The socialist countries too - especially the Soviet Union, East Germany, China and Cuba - behaved like brothers and sisters, like comrades, and gave us shelter, education, training and moral and material, including military, support. In the capitalist world a few governments, including the Scandinavians and Dutch, found ways of helping us.

My most heartening experiences, though, were of the many organisations and people in countries with governments hostile to our struggle, who welcomed us and raised money for us. I worked mostly with trade unions, and their generosity was crucial in helping comrades at home to keep organising workers through the 1970s and 1980s.

The people of South Africa struggled long and hard to free themselves. The struggle would have been longer and harder but for our friends abroad.

This book of mine describes the South Africa in which I grew up, and my involvement in the liberation movement before I was sent out of the country in 1963. I hope it will help young people and others who do not know much about the recent past of South Africa to understand the background of our struggles, and the price paid for our freedom.

Then the book tells of the help we received from our brothers and sisters in many countries. It is my way of saying thank you to them. It is also my way of encouraging the new South Africa to adopt international policies which try to repay the debts we owe to our helpers, and to help others who are struggling for their freedom.

I hope my readers will find Freedom in our Lifetime both entertaining and informative.

I have never kept a diary, and I have consulted few sources except some letters my wife kept, and three books. They are Organise - Or Starve. by Ken Luckhardt and Brenda Wall, South Africa Belongs to Us, by Francis Meli and Striking Back by Jeremy Baskin.

Apart from these, this book depends on my recollections. I apologise to those who should have been mentioned, but whose names I have missed out. There were so many heroes, big and small, that my memory must have missed some of them. I also apologise for all the other omissions and inaccuracies, of which there must be many.

I have reluctantly used the apartheid terms African, coloured, Indian and white. Please read these terms as shorthand for 'so-called African', 'so-called coloured', ,so-called Indian' and 'so-called white'.

Ben Turok, Ken Luckhardt, Brenda Wall, Phil Norushe, Zodwa Norushe, Zolile Nqose. Alfred Willie, Richard Mdala, Vanguard Mkosana, Senator Christmas Tinto, Notnvuyo Mtyekisane and Phil Leeson jogged my memory on some things, and Merryn Cooke and Shirley Walkley also helped. Mary Smith word processed for us and patiently coped with all the alterations made and Edna Robinson and Sue Dally also helped in the last stages of producing the script. Karen Mac Gregor of Indicator Press was a great encouragement to us. I owe all these people and other friends my grateful thanks.

Most of all I want to acknowledge the part played by my wife, Joyce Leeson. It is literally true that without her, the book would not have been written, because she is the one who wrote it all down.

In the 1930s and 1940s, when I was a child, people in many parts of rural South Africa were still following traditional ways of life.

In some villages all the people were "Red" (Amaqaba). They were called red because they always dressed in blankets, and those blankets and their bodies were dyed with red ochre.

Other villages were mixed, with some red families but others who had converted to Christianity. They wore clothes and sent their children to school but otherwise lived much the same as their red neighbours.The red families seemed more prosperous and satisfied with life, but most of both sorts of families had all they needed. Each home had fields which produced enough crops to last all year, and owned not less than 20 cattle and 200 or 300 sheep and goats as well as horses, pigs and poultry.

Men from both sorts of families had to go away to work sometimes when money was scarce, but red men went less often. They had to pay taxes but otherwise had less need of money because they did not have to buy clothes and shoes, or school books for children.

The villages were scattered collections of big homesteads. When sons married, often they brought their brides to live beside their fathers' homestead, so some of the extended homesteads were like little villages within a village.

The basic layout of a homestead was always the same. It consisted of huts in a semi-circle facing away from the wind. The huts were round, with walls made of wood and mud, and roofs with a wooden frame, thatched with grass. The windows were very small, and when there was a fire in the hut, smoke escaped through the windows. In cold weather rags or small pillows were used to close them up.

There was a carpet of green grass around the huts, kept short by grazing sheep. Stone or gravel footpaths led from one hut to another.

The huts were not expensive to build as all materials were available locally. The work of building a hut was shared between men and women, the men building the wooden framework, and the women finishing the walls with mud and the roof with grass. These simple structures were ideal to live in ,warm in winter and cool in summer. Women made the huts look fresh and beautiful again each year by adding fresh mud and replacing the grass if necessary.

Inside the hut the floor was shiny and smooth. The women covered it with cow or sheep dung and then polished it with a smooth round stone. In the centre of each hut was a round area with a raised rim, used as a hearth, if ever a fire was wanted. The huts contained few possessions, except for mats and blankets and sometimes a box in which to keep precious things. Clothes were hung from the roof. In some huts a bench made of bricks stood next to the door, to provide a seat for visitors.

The main hut was the kitchen: this was the real centre of family life, with other huts used mainly for sleeping or storage. A fire was always burning in the kitchen hearth, with a kettle of water suspended over it and a calabash of sour milk standing nearby.

Food preparation and cooking were done in the kitchen, and families ate their meals and sat and talked there too. Children played by the fire in cold or wet weather, supervised by grandmothers. Grandmother herself slept there, often with some children beside her. Grandmothers always seemed to outlive grandfathers.

There was a hut for the father and, when invited, his wife. He kept his money and valuables there. It was a respected place, in which children were not welcomed. The mother had another hut, shared with the baby and younger children. If there was more than one wife, each had her own hut.

Older boys and youths had their own hut, or more than one if they were many. This was their private place, not often visited by older people, and inside they were free to do whatever they liked. It was here that they discussed their problems and told stories and kept secret things. These might include herbs which they believed would make them loved by girls and gifts from their girlfriends, as well as the sticks which older boys used for stick fighting.

Mature girls also had their own hut. It was semi private and males would not enter except in an emergency. The mother, though, had to keep a watchful eye on the hut, because if anything happened to the girls she would be held responsible. In many cases the mother knew a lot about her daughters, who confided in her, whether it was good or bad news.

The last hut was the storehouse, where seed corn for next year was kept. The cats lived there, to guard the corn against mice and snakes. Tools were also kept in the hut, and it was used for sheltering sheep in very bad weather.

Most food was kept in a small tower shaped grain store usually made of basketwork. It held potatoes, dried beans and peas, pumpkins and watermelon for the coming year, as well as the staple food, mealies.

If there were surplus mealies, the grains were stripped from the cobs and stored in an underground pit, as a reserve in case the next harvest was poor. If the reserve was not needed, that corn was often made into beer, to be drunk by those harvesting next year's crop.

In some homesteads there was a garden fenced by prickly pears and aloes. Fruits like peaches were planted here, but mainly it was the women's vegetable garden.

About 200 metres away was the kraal where animals were enclosed at night. It was divided into five compartments, the biggest allocated to cattle, the next to sheep and the third to goats. Another was for calves, and the last for lambs and kids, which were kept together.

Between the huts and the kraal there was usually a big tree. It was in this place, called inkundla, that serious discussions and ceremonies took place.

In everyday life there was a clear distinction between women's work and men's work. Men and boys were responsible for heavy work in the fields and big livestock. They ploughed with oxen and planted the main crops of mealies, wheat and kaffir corn. They also planted peas, beans, pumpkins, potatoes and melons in the fields.

Women and girls gardened around the homestead and tended the freely ranging chickens and pigs, while looking after the younger children and preparing and cooking food. Young women had the duty of fetching water from the river, a welcome opportunity to leave the homestead, meet others and exchange news. Everyone - men, women, boys and girls - took part in hoeing and weeding the fields.

At harvest time the whole family was involved, not only in bringing in corn from their own fields but in helping neighbours. These were happy times of sharing, with a sheep slaughtered and beer drunk at the end of the day. Usually villagers who had no fields, or whose harvest was poor, went home with bags of mealies from the fields of more fortunate neighbours.

Such occasions brought all villagers together and reminded them of their membership of a shared community and of how families depended on each other. From earliest days children were aware of this.

Children were regarded as belonging to the whole village. Every person who was the same age as their parents was like a parent to them, to be obeyed as their mothers and fathers were obeyed. Wherever children went in the village there were adults to watch over them, and put them right if they did wrong.

Adults were convinced that since they had more experience than children, they were in a position to tell children what to do. Children were not expected to argue. Their parents loved them, and knew better, so of course what their parents said was sure to be for the best. Adults had to be obeyed without question, and always treated with respect.

Once they could be independent, running about and feeding themselves, children were encouraged to spend most of their time with other children. They did not take part in or listen to conversation between adults.

Probably the adult they spent most time with was grandmother, their father's mother, who taught them and told them stories. Sometimes she was their defender from over strict parents who were believers in "spare the rod and spoil the child".

Children ate together from one big bowl, which discouraged fussy eating. If anyone did not like some food, others would be happy to eat it instead, and no one was offered alternatives. Of course, mother or granny kept an eye on things, to see that little ones got enough to eat.

Children were encouraged to co-operate as well as to compete, and to strive to be helpful and carry out all duties given to them. Girls in particular often were responsible for looking after babies and younger children.

Stress was placed on speaking properly and clearly, on good manners and good behaviour. Children learned how to behave to older people, people with disabilities. strangers and poor people. They were told about all their relatives. even distant ones. and as they grew older they were encouraged to visit them. They knew how to behave there, and how to welcome relatives visiting them.

Most teaching took place in the evening after supper, when granny would spread her mat beside the hearth and the young ones would gather around to listen. Often her teaching was by way of stories, all with a moral message, and from them children learned about all aspects of life. Usually she carried on with her stories until the children fell asleep.

Some of the older women were particularly good story tellers, and children from other homesteads would gather to listen. The following tale is an example of the stories grannies told:

Children were intended to learn from this that one must not do something that might rebound on oneself; one must think properly whether what one is about to do is good in the long run.

The villagers were still subsistence farmers. They produced almost all they needed. The only foodstuffs bought from a shop were salt, sugar, tea and coffee. Tea and coffee were seen as luxuries and were reserved for adults. These purchases were possible because money was gained from selling some products to the local shops. Eggs and wool were most commonly sold.

The staple food was mealies. supplemented by beans, peas and so on. fresh or dried according to season. Many fruits were grown and eaten. including peaches. apples, figs. pears, guavas and sometimes grapes. Wild berries were collected too, and wild leaves, particularly dandelions and nettles.

Above all, sour milk was popular, as a drink. or stirred into thick porridge. Meat was not eaten daily. If asked, people would say they slaughtered only for special occasions like Christmas, but in practice special occasions were fairly common. They arose whenever visitors came, or when a marriage, funeral or circumcisions were celebrated in the village. On these occasions, neighbours too would receive a share of the meat. Rabbit and buck meat were also eaten from time to time.

It as in just such a village, called Kwezana, that I was born on March 3, 1928. Kwezana lies in the Tyume valley, about 10 to 16 kilometres from Alice in the Eastern Cape. it was a beautiful area then. The Tyume river rises from a spring on the summit of Kwa Bukazana, part of the Hogsback range of mountains.

The mountains extend for many miles, and were covered in forests. They were green all year, except in June when they wore white caps of snow. The green forests were cut by white streaks where waterfalls ran over the face of steep rocks. Within the forests you could find all sorts of wild fruits, berries, and wild animals. Luckily there were no lions, for it was on these mountains that we grazed our cattle and horses in summer.

Kwezana was a village of about 30 kraals, mostly red but with some other Christian families, like ourselves. It was an important village, because it had the churches which served the area, and the local school, also used for official events. The school principal lived in the village, and it was he who translated official documents for us, and interpreted at meetings when white officials came to speak to Tyume valley people.

My father was a respected member of the Jwareni clan, and when I was born we lived in the upper part of the village known as Majwareni.

Father's first wife had died, leaving four children: two girls and two boys. Much later he married my mother. She also had four children, Nontsikelo, Temba, myself and Nombulelo. By the time I was born the older four had grown up and were no longer at home, although Norntandazo, the orphaned daughter of one of the older sisters who was older than any of us, also lived with us.

Unfortunately my father died when I was very young and my mother raised the four of us. Perhaps because of this we were a very close family.

Like all the children, I had duties to do even before I was old enough for school. We boys had the job of looking after the calves and the lambs: they should not meet their mothers before the cows and ewes had been milked. An hour after the sheep and cattle had gone to their grazing, I had to open the gate for the calves and lambs to graze among the houses, or drive them to the stream for water.

This was a job usually enjoyed by the youngsters, except when cows, which are over enthusiastic about their young ones, escaped from where they were grazing and appeared unexpectedly. When that happened we usually ran for our lives into the house, instead of driving them away. Some of these cows were vicious and chased everything. We knew what disasters this could cause.

We had no bought toys, but plenty to play with. Around the houses, trees and bushes provided good playgrounds for all sorts of things. We made swings, and built houses out of branches where we could play hide and seek and play families, boys imitating their fathers and girls their mothers.

In fact, if the mothers did not call us for food, we played until sunset. We got so absorbed with playing that sometimes adults could stand watching us for ages without being noticed. Some of our games, like climbing trees, were dangerous but still popular. Sometimes an adult had to be called because one of us could not climb down from a tree.

When I turned seven my mother said it was time for me to join my elder sister and brother at school. Our school was built, equipped and maintained by the community. It was one big schoolroom and had nothing else, not even toilets or a staff room. In the room were desks with benches, each with space for three children, and we had some slates, exercise books and reading books. Parents did not pay fees, but uniforms and books had to be bought.

All that the government contributed was the salaries of the principal, Mr Impi Siwisa, and the two other teachers, Miss Kukuse Gugwini and Miss Tombokazi George. The salaries were not high, and the community supplemented with gifts like chickens, offered as thanks for the education they gave the children.

There were many new experiences for me when I started school, but I had been told by older children what to expect. What I found hard was sitting at a desk from 9.00am until 12 noon, and again from 1.00pm until 4.00pm.

In the schoolroom we were arranged in three classes, to be taught by the three teachers. All teaching was in Xhosa. Mostly we learned things off by heart whether they made sense or not. School was not a place for discussion or children's questions. Often we were asked to recite what we had been taught the day before, and if we failed we suffered.

There was punishment, both for not answering correctly and for naughty behaviour. The punishment was to hold out your hand and be hit with a switch, which hurt, but not too much.

We had no clocks, either at home or at school. We knew when it was time for school because one of the teachers, Miss George, lived beyond our homestead. She rode to school on a horse, so we waited until she appeared and then ran behind the horse to school.

At school, we were taught to tell the time with a cardboard clock, but more usefully we also learned to tell the time from the sun's position. There were holes in the school's tin roof through which sunbeams shone. When the spots of sunlight reached certain points we knew it was break time or home time, and would stamp our feet to remind the teachers.

Usually we had nothing to eat or drink between leaving home at 8.30am and returning at 4.30pm, but in drought years the government sometimes provided bread and sour milk for us to have in the middle of the day.

One of the most popular activities at school was singing in the choir and particularly, travelling around the district to take part in competitions. We also used to sing at fund raising concerts, to buy things like sewing materials and garden tools for the school. We were in demand to perform because Kwezana School Choir was regarded as good. Concerts were usually on a Friday evening. Sometimes we went by bus to the venue, but often we would walk up to 16 kilometres and back again afterwards.

Sports were also popular, and we tried most things which did not need much equipment. We ran all sorts of races, including relays and sack races. Out of school hours we boys liked to play soccer, but it was not a game you would recognise. We played with a tennis ball on a large open space. No one had boots and there were 25 or 30 or more on each side- the whole school joined in. Later, when I went to Alice, I took up rugby, which was played properly there.

On one afternoon a week the girls did domestic subjects like sewing and cooking, and the boys worked in the school vegetable gardens. All vegetables were eaten by the principal and his family, except for those we stole! We used to leave the lettuces and turnips, which we did not like, but helped ourselves to tomatoes and carrots. At home we did not grow any of these crops, an example of the gap between the culture of home and school.

Looking back, it seems our school was not geared at all for preparing us for traditional life, or for changes which were already happening. Only boys did gardening, but it was women who looked after vegetable and fruit gardens round the homestead, and when the menfolk were working away they had to be responsible for growing all the family food. The girls, but not the boys, learned to sew and cook, even though the men who went to town would have to mend their own clothes, and cook for themselves. Indeed, some men became tailors or restaurant workers in the cities.

Out of school hours, there was never a time when we had nothing to do. There were duties to be done from the time we got up until we went to bed. For instance, in the morning we milked the sheep and goats while the girls fetched water for drinking and washing before we went to school. After school, boys joined the men looking after the sheep, goats and cattle and driving them to the kraal before sunset. Girls helped their mothers around the home.

At weekends we were full-time herdboys, taking flocks and herds far from home early in the morning and bringing them back in the evening. We had to keep the animals out of people's fields and make sure they grazed on the veld. We also used to help ourselves from the fields, digging up potatoes, taking pumpkins and mealies. On Saturdays we would make a fire in the base of an anthill, then extinguish the fire and put the potatoes in and seal it up. They were left overnight, and next day they were delicious. There were peach trees everywhere, and we ate our fill.

While working as herdboys, we still had time to play. Playing with mud was one of our popular games, using clay to make models of what we saw about us in our limited world. We made wagons with a span of 10 oxen, houses, kitchen utensils like spoons, plates and knives, and calabashes for sour milk. We made bulls, to fight with other children's bulls. We also fashioned people: men, women and children. The whole game was very serious to us.

Another game was to dig small furrows, catch beetles and try to make them race along the furrows. They were very unco-operative! We also played football with a homemade rag ball, and utinti, which involved hitting a mealie husk with a stick and then running for base before you got caught. As we got older we liked to hide and watch the girls go by, though funnily enough we were frightened to speak to them, or even be seen.

Because of all these engrossing things, sometimes we forgot the herds and found they had disappeared, or were eating people's crops. We would panic and run around like mad trying to round them up, and hope we were not seen, otherwise we would be punished. We enjoyed herding more then we enjoyed school, but we had no choice - on Monday we were back at school.

My mother was a Christian, and she agreed with the church's view that education was very important. She could read and write and was keen for all her children to be educated. She wanted us to do better than she had, to go to secondary school and then train for a profession.

In practice, this was difficult. Nsiki got married young, while still in standard five, and when it came to us two boys there were problems which I will describe shortly. Only Nombulelo, the youngest, had a smooth path. When she was ready for secondary school Temba was already working and could contribute, so she was able to proceed and eventually qualify as a teacher.

The problems that Temba and I had were due to having no father. There was no man in our home, so although relatives and neighbours helped with ploughing, most of the men's work fell on my brother and me. This meant that for most of the time we were at primary school, each of us went to school only on alternate days, taking turns to tend the livestock.

As you can imagine, this was not the way to do well at school, and as the work got harder we both started to fail end of year examinations. Eventually I dropped out to allow my brother to go full-time, and for one year while out of school I had sole charge of our animals, staying with an uncle.

My mother was working in Cape Town so she could pay for Temba to go to boarding school to start his secondary education. When she returned she decided it was my turn, and made arrangements for the care of the animals so I could study. To help me catch up, I was sent to stay with Nsiki Somniso, a relative who was a teacher. She lived in a village called Gelmahashe, and from there I went to a good school in Alice where I worked hard and completed standard five and standard six.

As I have said. my mother's commitment to education arose from her Christian beliefs. She was a keen member of the Presbyterian Church of Africa, and our family life was built round this. At home we prayed together ever,. morning, before each meal, and every evening. Sometimes mother would call on one of the older children to lead the evening. prayers - perhaps this started my brother on the road to becoming a minister. I have to admit that sometimes I fell asleep or pretended to fall asleep during prayers, and slipped under the table.

We also sang hymns at night, and I was happy to join in because, like all the family, I loved singing. We could all sing well, and often we attracted neighbours to come and sit at our open door to listen.

Personally, I was never persuaded that people went to another world after death, but I respected my mother and I always went with her to church. Of course, there were other reasons for going to church. It was an opportunity to dress up and socialise, and look at the girls.

Sunday was the only day we put on shoes, and even then we carried our shoes over our shoulders until we were near church and then put them on, taking them off again on the way home. Perhaps it was just as well, because the shoes were not always a good fit. We used to laugh at some of the young men who had been to the mines and spent some of their hard earned money on shoes, tie and suit. They looked most uncomfortable in church in their hot and often ill fitting outfits.

Even though our shoe wearing was so brief, to red people it symbolised desertion of our culture and as we grew older we were mocked as "softies" by mates our age who did not attend school or church. As a result we banded together to defend ourselves on the way to and from school and particularly when we went to other villages, for example with the school choir.

Actually we liked fighting, and organised stick fights with rival groups. Sometimes adult men came to watch the fights. It was dangerous, like boxing, and boys were sometimes injured and occasionally killed, but to us it was exciting.

In my day, the lives of village children and young people were full, purposeful and enjoyable. At no time were we bored. Even though there were some hard times, my childhood and youth were the happiest days of my life.

These happy and carefree times drew to an end. I wanted to continue my education, but we had no resources for me to do so. The big herds my father had left had gradually decreased to pay for the family's needs, and no more could be spared for sale. Money had to be raised by other means if I were to go to high school. We decided I would go to Cape Town for a year to work.

When the time came for me to leave home, arrangements were made for me to stay with relatives in Cape Town. I realised that uncertainty and hardships lay ahead. The year was 1948, and I was not yet 20.

The journey itself was an ordeal. I was given some bread, cooked chicken and orange squash for the days spent travelling and set off, carrying my blanket roll, to walk the 16 kilometres to the railway station at Alice.

The train left in the evening and we had to change twice, at Cookhouse and De Aar. In every train the third class carriages were crowded, smelly and uncomfortable. The train I joined at De Aar was third class only, presumably for the convenience of the ritual which lay ahead at Bellville on the outskirts of Cape Town.

When we reached there we were treated like cattle. The train pulled into a side platform and we had to get out and form a queue. I did not see the relevance of this, and was amazed to find that we had to strip naked and put all clothes and blankets into 44 gallon drums filled with DDT powder. While the drums were being stirred we had DDT powder pumped all over our bodies. Then we were allowed to collect our crumpled belongings, dress and climb back into the train.

This was a shocking experience for me, confirming that I was indeed entering a different and dreadful world. Like all blacks in South Africa, I had to come to terms with how we were to be treated in our own country.

We had no rights and could be forced, at any time, to suffer humiliation and loss of dignity. Life could not be planned ahead with confidence, and even a simple thing like a train journey could turn into an ordeal. Uncertainties and anxieties were everywhere. We survived because we had to, helped by others in the same boat. In my case, on this first visit to such an alien world, I was greatly helped by the support of relatives already in Cape Town.

Some of my relatives were waiting for me at Cape Town Station, and they took me back to Langa, to the section in which Kwezana people lived. There I was welcomed and fed by Sibekos and Somnisos, and given a place in the bachelors' quarters where I could stay while looking for a job.

To find work, job seekers went at nine in the morning to the Pass Office. Prospective employers came and either picked up people from the crowd, or asked officials for five strong men, or whatever they wanted. Some people had work permits, others were given them when a boss said he would take them on. Then the permit was usually to work for that boss only - real tied labour, because if you left him you had no permit to work anywhere else.

After a few days I was picked up by an Indian vegetable merchant. He did not bother to get a permit for me, so I remained outside the system altogether, completely illegal.

His warehouse and shop was in an area known as Koeberg, and business was also done selling from door to door in Sea Point. There were four young African employees, and we slept in servants 'quarters behind the house, which was behind the warehouse and shop. We were given bread, potatoes and bones to cook for ourselves twice a day. We avoided malnutrition by supplementing these with fruit and vegetables which we stole from the shop and travelling vans.

Our daily routine was that two of us got up at 3.00am to go to market and load the vans. This was the hardest part of the day, especially in winter. Usually we were back by 6.00am, to eat the breakfast the other two had prepared before going off to sell to hotels, flats and private houses. By 7.00am we would be on the road to Sea Point, to get there before rival hawkers.

The shopkeeper had four sons, and each son had a "boy" to help him. The father himself sat at the shop till, by the door, from 6.00am to 6.00pm, and his oldest son acted as foreman in the shop. The other three sons drove the three vans which went to Sea Point, each with one of us to carry the vegetable basket around the streets and to shout to attract customers.

We stopped selling by about half past two and then the vans would be parked up at Sea Point. Our young bosses had a car garaged nearby, and off they went. We were then free for a couple of hours as long as one of us guarded the vans. All we had energy for was to sleep, or stroll along the beach.

One day the routine was disrupted when the oldest brother arrived at the vans and asked where his brothers were. Unwittingly we gave away the secret of their car, about which the family knew nothing. We were told to say nothing and next day when they drove off as usual they were tailed by their brother, who found they were visiting unapproved girl friends. The upshot was that the older two of the young men were promptly dispatched to India to marry suitable girls and the oldest brother left the shop to take over their rounds, with two helpers.

We usually got back to the shop at 5.00pm. Then we tidied up and offloaded the vans, sorting out vegetables which had to be thrown away, cleaning the vans inside and out, and reloading what could be sold tomorrow. When this was done, at about 7.30 or 8.00pm, we had finished for the day. Needless to say, all we could do then was cook, eat and sleep.

We lived like this for six days a week. On Sunday we were free and I would visit my relatives at the compound in Langa and later on a cousin, Lucy Sibeko, who lived much nearer, in Kensington.

Funnily enough the new experiences made little impression on me. During the week we may as well have been in prison, and on Sundays I went to my own people. Relatives warned me against getting involved with town things and town people.

I had been brought up with a philosophy of acceptance that God had given different people different lives, and that those of us who suffered now would be rewarded later. I did not entirely agree with religious ideas, but clearly they must have influenced me: I did not question the hard lives we lived, while others prospered.

Nevertheless, I came across street meetings in Kensington, and heard trade union activists talk about workers' rights. They explained that bad employers wanted workers with no work permits or tied permits so they would be frightened to protest or strike. If they did, they knew they could lose not only those jobs, but also the opportunity to work anywhere.

I heard there was a large compound near the docks where no one had a permit. Workers from there were given temporary work when the port was busy, and used as scabs if ever the established dock workers went on strike.

I must have been influenced by these things, because as I reached the end of the year I had given myself to work in Cape Town, I decided to challenge my employer for a work permit. We had been told to disappear through the back of the shop whenever someone official looking came in, but our presence must have been known, as police from the nearby station often came in for gifts of fruit. Clearly there was some collusion, but still I decided to have a go. My fellow workers were not happy, but it was important to me, as I might want to return and work in the future.

I told the oldest son that I knew the law said we must have permits. I asked him to go to the Pass Office to get them for us. I said if he did not, I would have to go to the police and report that he was employing people illegally.

I am not sure I would have carried out the threat, but my bluff was not called. The old man called him over when he saw our argument, and the son came back and said "just wait". He went in to put on his tie and then came out and called us all to go with him. Within an hour we were back from Langa with passes.

After this I felt I had to wait a bit before giving my notice, but the employer was still annoyed when I said I was going. I explained that I had long planned to continue my education, and showed them my school application form. I even said I would come back and work for them again if they wanted. As it turned out, they would have taken me on again despite the pass incident.

I had been paid �12 a month and saved it all, being fed by my employer and relatives. I bought new clothes and my return ticket home, and my relatives organised a farewell party and a collection for me. I left Cape Town with the princely sum of �80, to see me through secondary school.

I did not go straight to school. Another ordeal awaited me at home before could do that.

Our culture accepted that youths, despite having serious work to do, could be troublesome and irresponsible. It was natural, therefore, that when these troublesome young people reached their late teens or early 20s, steps should be taken to transform them into responsible adult members of society. This applied to boys of both red and Christian families.

As each of us reached that stage a convenient time was chosen, like the end of the school year. A group of boys was then sent to the bush for circumcision and preparation for manhood.

My time came when I returned home after my year in Cape Town. About 20 of us from local villages were to experience it together. The process began with beer being brewed and a cow slaughtered with everyone joining in the party - umgidi. A goat was slaughtered especially for us boys.

Early next morning we took off our boys' clothes for the last time, and were given two new blankets each in which to wrap ourselves. We then went into the nearby bush, to where grass huts had been prepared for us by the women. From then on, women were not allowed in the area around the huts, and would not see us for months. I shared a hut with two other boys.

When we reached the hut, the circumcis or-ingcibi -and another respected man waited for us. We were circumcised in turn. It was a matter of pride not to flinch, but the cut was so fast hardly felt it at the time. Later we felt pain. The other man wrapped a soft leaf dressing over the wound and covered it with leaves from a mealie cob. He changed the dressings for us every morning until we were healed. He also had the responsibility of teaching us how to behave, now that we were men.

We were now abakwetha, the newly circumcised. Our faces and bodies were painted white with chalky soil every morning, announcing to everyone who saw us what we were.

Younger people looked after us. Each of us had a young boy to stay with us and run messages. it was a popular task, and when we returned later to the villages, these boys were each given one of our blankets as a reward.

Girls prepared food and brought it to us twice a day, staying to share it with us. They were not yet women, so were allowed to see us. Later, most of the young women went through initiation ceremonies called intojane. There was no circumcision for them, of course, but they were segregated and taught what it was to be an adult woman.

After several weeks, when our wounds were healing, we were allowed out at night, to local villages. There we would bang loudly on kraal fences to let people know we were there. Men would come out and give us a sheep, to slaughter and eat. It was the season of late summer, when the fields were full and we could help ourselves to mealies, pumpkins and whatever we liked. It was no wonder that we returned from circumcision looking fat and well.

Usually the segregation lasted for three months or more, although for us it was less. During that time we learned what was expected of us as Xhosa men. We were to be transformed into responsible people, ready to build our own homes and become independent. In most cases the experience did indeed change irresponsible boys into responsible men.

When we were regarded as fit to return to society as men, the huts and our under-blankets were burned and we washed off the white chalk for the last time. We were given a new blanket to dress in, and a cloth to wear on our heads, and all of us - "reds" or not - had our faces reddened with ochre.

At our home village, there was a ceremony and celebration to welcome us, and within a week or two we had all left to work in one of the big towns, usually Cape Town or Johannesburg. We had been taught that as adults we must be independent, and the only hope for most young men was to earn some money to buy livestock, tools and seeds so that they could start to farm.

had earned enough money in Cape Town to pay boarding school fees and buy books and uniforms, and now I was ready to study again. My brother was already at Lovedale in Alice. I joined him there.

Lovedale High School was a boarding school for boys and girls: one of the three high schools for black students in the Cape. It had been established by Scottish Presbyterian missionaries and the principal and the chaplain were appointed in Scotland. Many other teachers were Scottish too. I remember a Mr Mactavish and a Mr Macgillivray.

There were a few black teachers, including George Matanzima, later one of the notorious Matanzima brothers who misruled the Ciskei Bantustan. As our teacher he seemed kind and conscientious. I do not know what changed him.

Lovedale enjoyed the reputation of being an excellent high school- probably the best in the country - perhaps because it was next door to Fort Hare, the only black university in Southern Africa. Certainly, like Fore Hare. it attracted students from far and wide, including from other countries with English medium education, like Nyasaland and the Rhodesias.

When I started at Lovedale I was one of about a hundred new students. We were divided into two streams, one class being those who had passed a scholarship entrance exam and were to follow an "academic" curriculum which included maths and sciences. They tended to be the children of Fort Hare academics, in which case they went home every afternoon and did not play as much of a part in school life as boarders did.

The rest of us were divided into two classes, following a "general" curriculum which included arithmetic and biology, but no other maths or sciences. We also studied history, geography, Xhosa, English and commercial subjects.

In the afternoon we did sports and athletics. Among the students very few carne, as I did, from village backgrounds. Most had grown up in towns and were more sophisticated and knowledgeable than rural students. They tended to shine at sports, too, because they had played games on proper pitches, with proper teams before.

I was not the only student in my year who was already a man. Indeed, some were several years older than I. The "academic" stream were mostly younger. Their schooling had not been interrupted by the sorts of circumstances likely to affect most black children, like having to drop out of school for family reasons, or working to raise money to pay for their education.

We men were certainly serious students and I was able to complete my three years to junior certificate without any failures. It was not all hard work, of course. I enjoyed sports and the choir too. One particular choir performance sticks in my mind.

We were combined with the Fort Hare Choir to be conducted by Professor Jabavu, the first black Southern African to gain a degree. The occasion was the arrival of the Royal White Train at Alice with King George and Queen Elizabeth, and their two daughters. We had to sing 'God Save the King' and other similar songs. Afterwards there was much slaughtering of cattle and feasting, so on the whole we were in favour of the visit.

All this time I had very little to do with politics. The only struggle I remember was at school, when I supported a strike against food discrimination. We had one dining hall, but some tables were reserved for the scholarship students and better food was served there.

As I have explained, they were mostly from richer families, and the rest of us who were eating really poor food resented their privilege. We won the battle, and the discrimination was stopped, but some students who were called ringleaders were expelled. Luckily I was not one of them.

When I passed my junior certificate I had depleted my Cape Town earnings and, like other students from poor families, my choices were limited. I could have gone for an apprenticeship to a trade like carpentry or printing, but for some reason these skills were looked down on, and I never considered this option.

I saw my choice as lying between the only two further education choices for which the government would give a grant: teaching or agriculture. After both, you were expected to go into government service.

I decided to go for agriculture for two reasons. Firstly, my brother had already gone in for teaching, and it seemed better for us to do different things. Secondly, I had in mind our 12 hectares of land at home, which wanted to tend scientifically so we could produce enough for the family to live on.

In addition, did not want to work for anyone. I wanted to be independent. In 1951 I applied to and was accepted by Fort Cox Agricultural College in Middledrift - about 14 kilometres from Kwezana.

Most Love dale students went for teaching. Agriculture, like apprenticeships, was seen as involving dirty manual work. The point of education the thought was to avoid that sort of labour.

In fact, the large majority of Africans with some education, including those who went to Fore Hare and got degrees, finished up teaching. There were almost no other white collar openings, and only a few exceptional individuals like Nelson Mandela and Oliver Tambo made their way into other professions - in their case, law.

Fort Cox was a small college, taking in about 25 students a year. At that time all students were male, although later women were admitted. More than 25 years after had studied there, my eldest daughter, Nomonde, took advantage of this.

I was the only person from the Ciskei in the college: for some reason Ciskeians were even more against agriculture than others. The college was keen to recruit local students, and was able to give me a small bursary to cover my studies.

At Fort Cox our teachers were all Africans except for the principal and the veterinary instructor. Fees were low because our education was practical and we were almost self sufficient. Our animal husbandry course involved keeping dairy cattle and making butter and cheese. We also had sheep, goats and horses. There was a piggery where those economical animals thrived on kitchen swill and other waste, and we kept poultry for eggs and meat.

In field husbandry we ploughed and planted various staple crops, and in horticulture tended gardens and orchards. Of course we did some theory as well as practical work and studied bookkeeping and other management skills. Our two year course included an introduction to forestry and veterinary science - some students stayed on longer to study these in depth.

We were very busy, but did have time for other things, particularly at weekends. I was still a keen sportsman and took part in athletics and rugby. Also, I found out that a former teacher from Lovedale had become principal of a nearby school, Mkubiso Secondary School, and I used to visit him.

It was there, in the second year of my course, that met one of his students, a beautiful young woman called Letitia Lindiwe Hina. I fell in love with her.

To be in love with a girl in those days had to be an underground affair. Parents were very strict with their daughters, who would always have to be at home or accompanied if they went out. Letitia was lodging in the village at Mkubiso, and the people she stayed with were as strict as her parents.

Usually, if I wanted to see Letitia in the daytime in Mkubiso or at her home in Mxumbu, I would have to stroll past the homestead as if were heading for the next village. Once she saw me, she would take a bucket and go to the river to fetch water, and find me waiting there. If I wanted to go to her home I would have to find a really good story. I did it once when was walking past, coming from the railway station. It was a very hot day and I went to ask for a drink.

Other opportunities arose for us to meet on Saturday or Sunday afternoons when there were competitive games between local schools and our college, and students came to support their teams. We always had to part early, but not before making plans. We had to get back to the college to milk and tend to the animals, and she had to return to her lodgings.

But when we had done our chores, had our supper and supposedly gone to bed, we waited for lights out and then sneaked out to visit our girlfriends.

Letitia shared a hut with another girl, but she was co-operative and did not raise the alarm when I climbed in through the window. We had many happy hours together.

I reached the end of my course and was awarded a diploma in agriculture. I had to decide on my career. It was expected that we would all become government agricultural demonstrators, but I was reluctant to do that. I had always thought I would prefer to farm for myself rather than be employed, but by now other factors had been added to that.

The National Party had been in power for more than four years, and their apartheid policies were politicising the whole community, including me.

The Nats had made the mistake of banning the South African Communist Party (SACP), and communists had taken their militancy and organising skills into other organisations, including trade unions and the African National Congress (ANC). The ANC had been transformed into a mass organisation, running campaign after campaign against the oppression and injustices of apartheid.

Politics spread everywhere, even to villages and schools, and I found myself attending local meetings addressed by ANC leaders. I was not a member but was caught up in the general wave of political enthusiasm and was prepared to support ANC policies.

I learned from the ANC that agricultural demonstrators were used to carry out the government's dirty work. Their duties included instructing and persuading African farmers to cull their stock - reduce the size of their herds - and poor, as they were, to pay for fencing the grazing lands.

All this was to be done, it was said, to prevent soil erosion. It was true that our land was deteriorating because it was too small to support the sheep and cows that we needed. But literally across the river, all land was controlled by just one farmer - white of course. He had plenty of grass for all his hundreds of animals. What our people needed was more land, not less stock. I was not prepared to be a government stooge, urging stock culling.

The only option open to me was to work in town again, so I could acquire money to buy tools, seeds and stock, and use my diploma knowledge to farm as best I could. There was another complication. Letitia had told me she was pregnant. When I told my mother I knew what her response would be - she said we must get married, and that she would send people to Letitia's parents to discuss it. I persuaded her not to make any moves until I had discussed it further with Letitia.

Letitia thought that her father, a tribal chief, would take it very badly, as would his whole village. So we decided we would marry secretly and both leave our homes. She would go to relatives in East London, and once there ask them to write to her parents informing them that she was married and pregnant.

My mother accepted this and agreed to delay sending my uncles to Letitia's people until we had carried out our plan.

In January 1953 we got married. Letitia went to East London and I set out once more for Cape Town to look for work.

In due course my uncles made peace with Letitia's family. Of course their discussion involved the payment of lobola, the price expected when a woman leaves her father's home to join a husband. Neither Letitia nor I agreed with lobola, but my mother said she would be shamed if we did not pay at least a token. She was prepared to part with her own livestock for lobola if necessary, so to avoid this I did pay something later. I had help from Letitia, as well as from my mother and brother.

Freedom in our Lifetime

by

Archie Sibeko (Zola Zembe)

with

Joyce Leeson