The pent up energy opposed to Apartheid became more easily visible with the strike wave of the early 1970's. In it's turn this created a stronger focus for my political activities. The ANC, the Party, and SACTU had established their presence in London. The ANC with offices in Rathbone Street, the Party in Goodge Street. John Gaetsewe asked me to come to see him in London. He was the Secretary of SACTU. He rented the bottom floor of a house in Camden from an English sympathizer. It had three rooms the smallest of which he had as a SACTU office. John was always hospitable and we either had food at the flat or went out to a Greek cafe nearby. On this occasion we had a bite at the flat and he asked me if I would address a meeting on behalf of SACTU. I said fine but as I had no position in SACTU how should I present myself. He said well perhaps as a member. My look must have triggered something because then he said I should say I was a member of the NEC. Now in South Africa I had never been a member of the NEC nor even of a local committee. "No, no, that's all right". he said. So there I was elevated nem con to the highest body of the organization to which so many years ago I had served tea.
Many years later I learned that John was high up in the Party and they had discussed the resuscitation of SACTU after the strikes and had suggested that I be recruited to help.
SACTU activity became intimately linked with meetings. Workers Unity Editorial board meetings, NEC meetings, Office meetings, meetings with the AAM, meetings with this one and that one, plenty of meetings. At some meetings I was the star attraction and at others I was a fill in or a decoration making up the numbers. At others I felt distinctly uncomfortable. Like the time I was billed to speak at a meeting with all the big guns of the movement. We were in an adjoining room chatting and I felt very uncomfortable. I remarked to Alfred Ndzo that is was ironic that amidst all these dignatories I a "white Dr." was to represent the black workers !
However this happened many times. There were meetings in the UK, in Africa, in Europe, and once in New York at the United Nations. My credentials were seldom challenged but once in West Berlin some one from the crowd shouted that they did not want a white man to speak for the African workers. I replied that if the Movement in South Africa was fighting racism and was composed of all the people irrespective of colour. I represented the movement and my colour was irrelevant. I visited some forty towns in the UK and some thirty five countries. This involved travel by coach, train, car, airplane, hovercraft, and some times on foot, but I avoided that as far as possible. Once on a tour in Scotland I was led on a dash on foot from one office block to office block. My angina was playing up but there was little I could do without causing problems so I just had to grin and bare it. There was usually little time to see the sights on such visits and all one saw was the airport, passport control, customs, the hotel, the meeting place and then back to London.
Customs and passport control was always a drag with so much hanging about and waiting. If I was on an official visit and there was a government or ANC representative then one was treated with respect and courtesy. This was nor always clear. In Lusaka I was always of two minds. I could, and sometimes did, go through as a British subject. This sometimes lead to problems because my passport said that I was born in South Africa. Being white this raised suspicions on the part of the Zambian passport control because of the boycott. I usually declared that I was ANC and was herded through to the special cases room. There, unless you were on their list you had trouble. Much discussions took place followed by waiting and sitting about. The SACTU or ANC representative usually appeared and all was clarity and light. On other occasions one was just part of the apprehensive, confused, disorientated mass of humanity. Once on a trip via Moscow to Lusaka for a SACTU NEC Zola and I had to spend the night in transit at the Aeroflot hotel in Moscow. ( We usually went via Moscow not for political reasons but merely because it was cheaper.) I had some electronics for MK in my luggage. It could have been confused with the mechanism for a bomb. There was no trouble on the way into Moscow. On the way out there was a long que at the outward customs check. They were opening all the suitcases and giving them a thorough search. I became concerned but I could not tell Zola why because what I was doing was supposed to be to say the least, confidential. We slowly got closer to the head of the que. The last one before us was a smart Russian lady. The customs man on going through her luggage found a large bundle of rouble notes. I could not understand all the talk but I gathered that they were disputing the legality. We hung about waiting and Zola was getting angry while I was getting more worried. The customs man realised we were foreigners and waved us past. I never tarried to hear the outcome of the dispute.
On another occasion we were traveling from Dar-es-Salaam back to the UK using Alitalia. Ahead of us was a large group of Italian tourists. Very volatile and vocal. They were putting their luggage though the baggage check as a group and were all just about finished when the airline totted up the weights and concluded that they as a group were over weight and would have to pay baggage excess. Divided amongst them it would be very little. A heated row developed. Some protested most strongly. They were not overweight. Why should they pay? Others said it was only a little so it was better to spread the costs. Meanwhile we and about a dozen other passengers waited in the steaming heat. Eventually the concord broke down and all the luggage was brought back and weighed individually. Another endless weighing took place. Most of the Italians were satisfied. They were under weight or marginally above. Nothing to charge extra for. However one couple were vastly over weight and were clearly the cause of all the disputation. They had a massive excess to pay. Justice and fare play had won as had Alitalia who reaped a far higher excess baggage charge. Now a more reasonable solution would have been for a combined baggage check with the lower total excess charge being paid by the one couple over weight. Being greedy had cost them dearly. Perhaps it was the heat but lack or organisation cost. And we the innocent bystanders were delayed by nearly an hour.
With all this traveling in Africa I have never seen the Victoria Falls or visited a game reserve. This is partly my own fault. It seemed wrong for me, because I had the money, to go on a tourist trip when we were in the middle of a struggle for freedom. I did however do my best to visit art galleries and museums whenever I had the chance. The attendances at meetings varied from thousands in Trafalgar square, to one or two in a dusty yard. Some meetings lasted over a week and others merely an hour or less. I slept on the sofa in Jack and Rica' flat in London, in B.B.'s children's room in Lusaka (where I was offered braised steak for breakfast), on the floor in Eli and Violets front room in Dar making it Xmas for the mosquitoes. Perhaps the most sumptuous accommodation was at John Gaetsewe's friend, a civil servant in Lusaka. There Eric Mtshali and I shared the guest house in the gardens fitted with all mod cons. The meetings were held in posh five star hotels, Dacha's, in schools, in cellars, in bedrooms, bars, park benches, with snow on the ground and in tropical heat. Some were highly secret and others were held with as much publicity as possible. Compared to Oliver Tambo and the like, I was but an amateur at the art of meetings.
My first SACTU NEC meeting was to be held in Dar-es-Salaam in Tanzania, but it proved to be a bit more complicated than that. Guided by Jack Hodgson I had learnt how to make a false bottom for a suitcase. One of the problems was that the false bottom should not be flat, as many suitcases are rounded. This problem was solved by using the bottom of the suitcase , covered with a layer of Clingfilm, as a former for the manufacture of the shaped fiber glass base. This was later assisted by using plastic padding inside the case to round the inner corners of the base.
After much trial and error it was found that it was easier to merely cut the base out of an exactly similar suitcase (by cutting the stitching) and using this as the inner base. It was obviously the same shape and size as the actual suitcase base and inside it looked and felt the same. It was also in effect cheaper and easier although two suitcases had to be bought. The type of suitcase had to be carefully chosen some were more difficult to modify than others. It was also found that suitcases with the fancy cloth linings were easier to use since the same lining could be used after the false bottom had been placed in the suitcase. This avoided the problems with finding suitable lining paper and the task of neatly lining the case. Such cases are more expensive but still but a fraction of the total cost of operations where they were used.
The system was extensively used and some of the stories are quite exciting. For example Ray Simons well known by all authorities was given a suitcase to take to Harare. When she arrived at customs she realized that the suitcase contained some hardware in a false bottom. It was obviously very heavy especially for a venerable old lady like her. Customs would surely detect this. Fortunately she saw somebody she knew and they took it off her and through the customs. It was a matter of not having carefully planned the operation and having made a careless surveillance of the terrain. But I get ahead of myself.
At the time of my visit to Luanda on the way to the SACTU NEC the paper lining was stripped from the inside. The goods to be smuggled were affixed to the real bottom and the glass fiber glued inside covering the contents. The inside was then recovered with suitcase paper. It was not difficult. Provided that a neat job was performed and the false bottom was not too big a proportion of the depth, South African customs seldom discovered it.
SACTU was a trade union organization, Jack was acting on behalf of the Party, the comrades in Luanda were members of MK, the whole operation was under the umbrella of the ANC. In other countries, under different circumstances one could foresee contradictions, demarcation disputes, problems and tensions. There were none, only the difficulties associated with doing a job. An air ticket was arranged for me from London to Moscow, and from there by Aeroflot to Luanda. My luggage was all packed into a couple of suitable suitcases with a supply of resin, Fiberglas, suitcase paper, wallpaper paste, tools, glue, a few of the NEC documents and as an afterthought my personal effects, ticket and British passport. The passport problem had rumbled on until 1968. Till then I was classed as an alien (It sounds like from outer space) I was given British citizenship. Of course we were less alien than black aliens but I still had to report to the police and get permission each year to stay in Britain. After 1968 I suddenly was different. I was British.
Just as I was about to leave Bristol I got a message that they wanted some special medicated cream and would I bring it. The cream was in London at Jack Hodgson's. Fortunately my British comrade Jack Evans was in London at a meeting and could get it from him. I phoned the two Jacks and arranged a transfer of the cream Time was short but it was just possible that I could meet Jack Evans' train from London to Bristol on the platform in Reading. I had to get to Heathrow and as usual the easiest way for me was by train to Reading and then the coach. Jack and I arranged what trains we could take to meet in Reading on the platform. I dashed from the arrivals platform to the departure platform and positioned myself where the last coach of Jack's train would stop. Of course as his train came into the station I saw Jack leaning out of the window of the front carriage. I made a mad dash from the back to the front and just retrieved the medication before the train pulled out with him on board to Bristol.
The flight was uneventful if tedious. Luanda airport was a mess in a permanent process of being tidied up. The Congress people were special guests of the government and so I was met and taken through customs bypassing all the formalities. From there to a posh hotel in the middle of the city were Joe Slovo outlined the tasks ahead. The precious medication was delivered. It seemed that it was a cream which one of the comrades needed because when he shaved he came out in a rash. At the time I was a bit annoyed. All that dashing about because someone wanted to shave. Later when I calmed down and when I met and appreciated the work the comrade was doing I was pleased I had gone to all that trouble..
On Sunday Joe took me over the road to a apartment block to an iron grill behind which were the comrades I was to work with. The iron grill had been installed by the rich to keep out the poor. Now we were using it to keep our comrades safe from Apartheid agents. They were young people recently come from South Africa after the Soweto events. One of the young fellows had been a bodybuilder and had a remarkable physique. All were keen and anxious to get down to work. There were a few women amongst them but they slept elsewhere. The lads slept on mattresses on the bare floors and I don't remember any other furniture. Food was out of cans, mainly fish from the Soviet Union, with rice and cold drinks or tea. At lunch time and when we were finished for the day we chatted and I spoke to them of the trade unions and the workers struggle.
We soon got down to work. I brought over my suitcases and the resin, glass fiber and the rest. It did not take the comrades long to pick up the techniques. The women comrades were especially good at the job. They were neat and tidy, fastidious and paid more attention to the results than the men. Soon we were ready for more suitcases. There were a number of comrades around so their luggage and mine was nationalized when suitable. Then we ran out of resin and Fiberglas. I visited a cardboard factory that was in operation. It was one of the relics which had not been wrecked or removed by the Portuguese colonialists. I went down to visit it with one of the comrades and we obtained sheets of thick rather poorly made cardboard which however was a quite suitable substitute for the more elegant Fiberglas.
It was now midweek and we had all these half finished suitcases waiting for the hardware to pack into them. There seemed to be some hold up in the supply of AK 47's detonator cord and the like. One evening after the usual fish supper. (It seemed it was always fish because no other supplies were available in the newly liberated Angola.) Joe asked me if I would like to sleep with the comrades across the road. I was not quite sure what the question was all about so I remained silent. He gave a sort of shrug and a smile and then suggested that I share a room with John from SWAPO. He was a really nice fellow and we got on famously. Unfortunately he was a captive of the demon drink. I once succumbed to his requests to accompany him to the bar but the drinks were far too expensive.
Meanwhile since things were slack I went with Joe to a newly acquired property on the high ground overlooking the sea. Round and about were other ambassadorial properties. It had belonged to the South African embassy but the new government had given it to the ANC for it's use. The one next door was, if I remember right, Italian, but it seemed they were unhappy with the change in ownership. There I met some of the women comrades from the "school of concealment's". They were playing Monopoly recently received from overseas sympathizers. Joe Modise, and others were living there as well, so it was a nice reunion discussing how to get things into South Africa. There was talk of the Benguela railway, of bags of coffee beans and other plans which in the course of history came to nothing.
The hardware arrived and we got down to work filling the suitcases. There were problems especially because of the length of the AK47's. They were not easily dismantled but we managed to get one or two packed. Then came an urgent request together with a suitcase. Please pack some material into it. This we did. It was all quite exciting and full of expectation and progress. The material was hardly packed when the comrade was ready to go to Swaziland. The glue was still wet when he threw in his clothes and left. The stuff was delivered safely. The first of many successes.
The time was approaching when I must go to Dar. I needed something to keep my few things in. Would it be OK if I bought a new suitcase? So off I went on a shopping expedition. Luanda had been and will be again a beautiful city. Photo (31 & 32) The Portuguese had style. The streets were laid out with palm lined walks around the lagoon. Statues of great navigators or rather the plinths where they had once stood were placed in eye catching positions. All very nice. On the way I saw a strange sight in a main street lined with posh buildings. A pencil thin horizontal jet of pure water ejected itself from the seam between two sheets of marble. It performed a perfect arc coming from the impossible and disappearing. Real life outwits surrealism hands down. But no suitcases. Eventually I found one in a back street but it was so expensive that it was ridiculous. So I ended up with a grass basket tied with string. Real high class luggage to be proud of. On the Sunday before my departure Joe took me swimming in the Atlantic next to the lagoon. Bright sun, cool water, friendly company, one of those irrational silences in the cacophony of life. A week after arriving in Luanda I was off to join the NEC.
I had to change planes at Lusaka which gave me some five hours free so I decided to visit Ray and Jack Simons and pay my respects. I had not seen her since the time of my Secretaryship of the Textile workers. It was a bit of a hassle getting through passport control, trying and failing to get through on the phone, and hiring a taxi. I arrived and decided wisely not to dismiss the driver. Her house in Lusaka was in large grounds, with quite a few outbuildings and all sorts of fruit trees. I strode up to the door where a large five foot wooden elephant sculpture stood on the verandah. Jack answered the doorbell and when I asked if Ray was in he gruffly said no and although he did not shut the door in my face he certainly indicated that I was being a nuisance. What to do but, about turn and back to the airport.
It is funny how some people whom one tries to respect and hold in high regard just do not match up. Perhaps it was because I never had the opportunity do have discussions with him and our interactions were mediated by others. For example I wrote a number of small pamphlets for SACTU (l, m, & n) . I was told much later that the two on organising trade unions in South Africa had been severely criticized by Jack. I never heard what the criticisms were nor had an opportunity to answer them. He rocked my boat and I will never know if I have rocked his.
When I arrived in Dar-es-Salaam it was late afternoon and there was nobody to meet me. I had no phone numbers or contacts so I decided to book into a hotel and worry about it the next day. The hotel was very basic but clean and the people friendly. After breakfast it was easy enough to contact the ANC which was well known and respected. I was taken to the meeting. It was sweltering hot, humid and breezeless. The sun was high in the cloudless tropical sky. The streets and buildings were painted in bright primary colors. The comrades were sitting in a crowded room clearly exhausted. The bright white teeth flashed in the gloom as my eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows. So many comrades that I had last seen in South Africa. Faces that reshaped themselves in my memory. I had arrived very late. They were just concluding the business but welcome! welcome!
The strength of the movement rested not on guns detonators and explosives but on the understanding of the masses. On the understanding of how these dangerous tools of revolt had to be used with wisdom, skill, and reluctance.
When I had first joined the movement in the early 1950's communicating and exchanging ideas with ones comrades and with the ordinary people was relatively easy. There was our newspaper, New Age, leaflets, meetings, letters and phone calls. Exchanges were restricted but possible. Those with the desire for exclusivity power and wealth already knew the value of communications. Without communications there can be no democracy there can be no power for the people. Further the control and exclusive access to communications is the path to power for the few. Slowly the Nationalists tightened their grip on all the media, all forms of information exchange, all avenues which could free the creative power of ideas of freedom, of democracy. The banning of all the political organisations opposed to the charade of white exclusivity was a step in this process.
With the banning of the ANC and its allies the leadership determined to rebuild the lines of communication with the masses. In those early days underground working was unknown territory for the movement and it had much to learn.
The distribution of leaflets still took place. The technology of distribution was unsophisticated. We hung them on hooks outside factory gates, and threw them out of the windows of high buildings. We pushed leaflets under doors at the dead of night. Such routine methods although effective lacked the edge of surprise and spectacle. To break into the mass media meant to score a victory over the state's censorship and to let the world know about it. Our propaganda methods would have come of age. A long time would pass before this happened.
Painting of slogans on walls was quite exciting and very effective. Having done the job it was appropriate not to return to the scene of the crime but for me the prospect of photographing our handiwork was very attractive. As I came to photograph one example of the calligraphers art two street sweepers insisted that they be in the picture. It was nice to be in tune with at least a small representative sample of the masses. The work of a small group of comrades could compete with the hoardings advertising cigarettes and whisky. We found that crude bitumen was best because it was difficult to remove. The tar acids eat into the stonework and even when attacked with solvents the words of the slogan were still visible.
It was sometime in 1959 that Jack Hodgson asked me to help with the filling of balloons with gas. The idea was to make some large polythene balloons about one cubic meter, fill them with hydrogen and suspend an ANC flag from them in various townships. I advised him that although hydrogen could be made from readily available chemicals it was extremely dangerous. Helium would have been safer but one could not obtain it is any quantity without the regime finding out about it. Coal gas was a possibility since it was more easily available. It was highly flammable and not as buoyant but it would work.
We assembled in the front lounge of Mick Harmel's in Orchards Johannesburg. Amongst the armchairs and coffee tables we made giant balloons out of polythene sheeting stuck together with Sellotape and tied down with strings. We fed the gas from Mick's gas fire through a rubber hose into the balloons that all but filled the room. The windows were open but the curtains were drawn and the balloons threatened to burst or rip. It was really ridiculous and dangerous. We bundled the enormous highly inflammable balloons into a panel van. It set off with its explosive load. I understood from Kathie (Ahmed Kathrada) that he launched one from the roof of Colvad House. Others went skyward in Soweto. They mostly broke their moorings and were only a partial success. Never again was it tried.
Some 10 years later I was living in Bristol in the United Kingdom. Jack Hodgson who was also now in exile in London approached me to develop a loudspeaker system. "It would be exciting", he said, "for our leaders to speak to people."
When I was a teenager I had made my own radio and amplifier system so I knew where to start. Clive Sinclair was selling small audio amplifier modules for the home constructor. (He was later to become famous for his do it your self calculators and home computers.) The flat modules measured five, by eight, centimeters. They were quite crude with poor sound quality. The power output was about 20 watts. At this time tape recorders were quite large and expensive. Sony had not yet produced the Walkman but a portable tape player was available. I fitted the amplifier into the tape player. This operated normally and could be smuggled into South Africa as a present. However when the back was opened it revealed a small plug and when replaced the amplifier module came into operation. The attachment of a large external speaker and some large batteries turned the weak hand held tape player into a public address system.
There had to be a delayed action system so that the operatives could get away before the police arrived. The system is shown in. The modified cassette ran for five minutes. Then a conducting strip spliced into the tape shorted out two metal pins. This turned on a relay that then started the amplifier. The recorded message boomed out.
It proved very successful in the field. The underground used them several times in the 1970's. Leaflet bombs accompanied the speakers. The following is a press report.
"Leaflets from the banned African National Congress were distributed in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth on Friday. In Cape Town, a tape recorder also broadcast ANC slogans from the roof at the entrance of the railway station. At 5.38 p.m. an ex-Rhodesian police officer who was driving down Strand Street extension saw a crowd of about 50 nonwhites standing outside the station entrance' the paper reported. Through the closed windows of his car he heard a penetrating voice over a loud speaker speaking in an African language. 'I've seen excited crowds in my time, and this was one of them. I double-parked my car and called the railway police' he said. 'On a ledge above the station entrance I found a paper carrier bag through which ran a chain attached to something inside and locked to a pole on the ledge. ' 'The railway police looked in the bag and told me there was a tape recorder inside. They had to cut the chain to remove it.'"
It proved to me the value of rather minor events. Technical devices at the appropriate time can contribute significantly to the arousal of the masses. The ANC was reportedly dead. The broadcasts and leaflet bombs created a sensation. Their effect created an impression of organisation far in excess of actuality. A Bucket Bomb was used at that time. It required considerable skill to make the device and it was large and cumbersome.
Many years later I attended the funeral of the late Moses Mabida in Maphuto. There a comrade Sue Rabkin told me that she had been the one who had used both the bucket bombs and the loudspeaker system so successfully. She had not known of my efforts nor me of hers. I had however heard of her exploits and of her arrest and imprisonment. Both of us had successfully contributed to the struggle, each in our own way. At the end of the day however it is the operative on the ground who contributes most, and suffers the heaviest consequences.
Later I also learned that in the early 1960's, J.S. and his comrades set up the first loudspeaker system. They assembled a conventional tape recorder, amplifier, and loudspeaker in a car. They parked it where the people congregated and a timing device set it off allowing the operatives to escape. Nationally the impact was however small. The main problem was that the equipment used was very bulky. It was also a terribly expensive way to do it since the car and all the equipment became police property.
About 1978/9 the internal propaganda comrade Peter Mayebuye reordered 14 and I made these to a new design. This time the amplifier, similar to the Sinclair but more powerful and of better quality was put in a box with a timing device. A small box about six by four by two inches had to be smuggled in. The tape recorder ( the Walkman had now become a common item amongst the young), speaker, and batteries were added in S.A.. The cassette had no modifications made to it. Thus the tape could be recorded anywhere without special preparation. An instruction sheet, was sent off with each gadget. I never heard if they were used or not.
In 1984/5 Lusaka ordered a further twenty. This implied that the movement had used the previous batch. These new ones were of a more advanced design with a 60-watt amplifier module.
I think it was Jack Hodgson who suggested that a rocket could carry leaflets aloft and drop them on an unsuspecting population. His question was, "How could it be done." Jack was always full of such ideas but did not have the technical background to accomplish it. So I felt obliged to get down to developing the apparatus.
A rocket clearly required a propellant. So the first thing to do was to try to make gunpowder. This proved more difficult than I had imagined. The books were clear and precise on the matter and it was easy to obtain the components. Flowers of Sulphur, one of the constituents, is used by gardeners to suppresses fungi on plants. The local chemist understood this and sold it to me without even a query in his voice. Charcoal was easy to make. Make a bonfire in the garden and collect the charred wood. The main problem was the Potassium Nitrate. It seemed quite reasonable to plunder the chemistry department stores for a quantity of nitrate, after all we were fighting a just cause against an illegal regime. I am a law-abiding citizen, logic and a necessity require it. I always stop at a red traffic light. If a law is unreasonable that is another question. I am not sure how one justifies the breaking of the law in the country of exile in my case Britain, to restore the rule of common justice in another, South Africa. However the ability of the human brain to self-program is immense so I set out to 'get' the nitrate.
The making of the gunpowder was easier said than done. The grinding was a lifetime job and the product was nothing like the factory produced material. In any event I managed to produce a workable product. However, this was only the first step to the making of a rocket. How many leaflets could the rocket engine lift? I bought a set of scales and set up an experiment in the bath. The rocket engine sat on one side, the weights sat on the other. I lit the gunpowder and stood back. I had hoped I could measure, in a crude way, the power of my rocket engine. All I produced were clouds of smoke and a dirty bath. It did not take a long time for me to abandon the experiment. Jack as usual was right. "Never make something you can buy" It is always better to buy a commercial product. It has been developed, tested, and successful enough to be worth selling. The home inventor cannot compete. I still do not agree with him but he had a point.
Then something prompted me to remember that the boating fraternity used rocket distress flares. These were easily obtainable at the local boating shop. I bought two pretending that they were a birthday present.
The next thing to do was to see what this rocker flare was all about. I motored out into the countryside. It was a dry, sunny day and very pleasant. The problem, as always in Britain, is to find somewhere where there are no people. Well I was lucky and after driving around for an hour or so I found a lonely spot. Tall trees in their new summer foliage lined the narrow lane contrasting with the darker green fields that lay on its flanks. It was early Sunday morning. Even the birds had gone to church. I left the engine running and jumped out. Hold the rocket flare and pull the string. It seemed simple enough. Whoosh!! It soared off at what seemed a hundred miles an hour, trailing fire and smoke. Off across the nearby field it sped at the height of a man. In my anxiety to avoid it going straight up I had held it close to the horizontal. Fortunately the shock did not cause me to freeze but it did cause me to drive off at speed. I was terrified that I might have killed someone. I never saw if the red parachute flare opened or not. It simply disappeared into the distance away from the sun.
Well, it worked a treat. Jack was right. Now I had a working engine to propel the leaflets skyward.
I had to find out how it worked. In the spare bedroom, where I had all my tools, I took the second flare to pieces. The outer cardboard tube in which the flare rested had a draw string. The flare was about forty centimeters long. It had the rocket engine in the bottom and a compartment at the top that held the parachute. From the parachute dangled a cylinder about five centimeters in diameter and six centimeters in length. This was the part that burned with the bright red light. Between the engine and the compartment that held the flare proper was a small hole. When the rocket fuel was finished, a small charge drove the parachute out. With hindsight I must have been mad to potter about with such dangerously inflammable materials while my daughter was doing her homework next door and the wife was cooking and smoking downstairs. She was always smoking.
It was immediately obvious that the parachute compartment was too small to carry an adequate quantity of leaflets. After some thought, I arranged the leaflets in a spiral around the outside of the parachute compartment. A can held them in place. The cylinder of wood in its turn held the can in place. Blowing the can clear would release the leaflets.
I went to bed tired but satisfied.
At the weekend, on the Sunday, I decided it was safe to try it out. Our house on Ashley Down Road stood on the brow of a hill. There was a long, sloping garden at the back. Beyond was a lane and beyond that again was a derelict tennis court overgrown with bracken and weeds. It overlooked allotments that flanked a railway cutting There were houses beyond but far enough away not to be in the firing line. Dusk was falling and most people were at home watching telly. It was sufficiently dark for my activities to go unnoticed. I hoped that the flames from the rocket exhaust would not be too obvious in the half light.
The launcher with blank paper 'leaflets' was set up among the scattered bricks. I pulled the igniter string and off it went. It arched into the sky and rose about twenty meters. There was a noticeable flash. The can shot off and the leaflets scattered like rain on the vegetables in the allotments. Here was perfection at last, just what Jack had asked for.
After discussions we agreed that I purchase five rocket flares and get them to London with full instructions. Obtaining the five rocket flares presented no difficulty as there were many ships chandlers in the West Country and they encouraged the sale of safety equipment. On my next trip to London I duly delivered them to Jack.
Three weeks later I received an urgent call to come up to London. At their flat in Eton Hall, Chalk Farm, I found Jack busy at the dining room table with bits of gray plastic and glue. His wife Rica was proud of that table but it availed her naught when she discouraged its use as a work bench. He was making a toy rocket set to be used as a cover to smuggle the leaflet launchers into South Africa. "There was a problem." said Jack. He and Ronnie Kasrils had tried the gadget out just as I had directed but it had not worked. "Impossible." I said. "Well tomorrow we will try it again." Jack replied.
We had a few drinks, and after eating supper, the three of us chatted about the struggle and the latest gossip and news. I slept in the lounge and early next morning we drove to a small wood not far from his flat. A thing one would not normally expect to find in the middle of a metropolis. It was damp with a slight mist on the ground. The water droplets tumbled on to our heads and clothes as we walked between the trees and pushed our way through the undergrowth. The launcher was exactly as I had tried it at home in Bristol. Everything seemed as it should be. We set it up, stood back and pulled the ignition string. The demon rose off the ground, tilted over, and came straight at us. Before we had time to duck, it veered off between the trees and disappeared. I saw a man walking his dog where the rocket had gone and we decided it was time to scarper.
"Well, we can't succeed every time", I said. Jack took it in good spirit and forgave me almost instantly. "Ronnie", he said, "A long time ago, I learned that it is a law of nature. It always works until you have to show it to another comrade."
We had been using leaflet bombs for sometime and they were very successful. Joe Slovo, J.S. as he was generally known, however was always looking for better and more spectacular methods. He had witnessed a demonstration in East Germany of a leaflet thrower that the underground Communist party had used against the Nazis during the war. It had been very impressive. Would I go to Germany and learn how it was done? He asked. I would be away for a week or so. "When?" I asked. "Let you know" he said. "Make it during my holidays." I said. I was a lecturer at a Polytechnic so although I had long holidays it was difficult to get off work during term time. It was early 1974.
Just when I had forgotten all about it, Jack summoned me to London to receive instructions on the trip. The comrades in the G.D.R. needed a passport photograph of myself. That was no problem. On this trip I would have to buy the ticket and go to East Berlin under my own steam. That meant more work. I was scheduled to arrive in West Berlin on the first of April. This was not during my holidays and I would have to make yet another excuse to get off work. However the prospect of the trip and of doing something useful and constructive was more important than working for a living.
J.S. then outlined how I would rendezvous with the comrades in East Germany. I would fly to West Berlin and make my way through Checkpoint Charlie. I was to go to a caf( in East Berlin called The Cubana. A comrade called Swartzberg would meet me. The comrades would take over from there. Nothing was to be written down and nothing taken with me other than the usual tourist luggage.
It made me tingle. It was just like the spy stories I loved to read. I kept repeating to myself "There is a black mountain in Cuba". This would help me remember. I can never remember names. "There is a black mountain in Cuba." Today, I still remember I had to meet Swartzberg at the Cafe Cubana.
I booked a flight with Lunn Poly and paid for the ticket, hoping I would get the money back. The plane, BE616, left from Heathrow at 10.30 am and I arrived at Tegel Airport in West Berlin at 12.15. The flight was uneventful and customs and passport control treated me as a tourist. Then I took a bus to town after getting a map from the information desk. The weather was fine. West Berlin was much like any large town in the west. It was brash, crowded, - loud in colour, sound, and smell. According to the map the best route to Checkpoint Charlie was down the Bismarck Strasse, via Strasse des 17 Juni to the Unter Den Linden. The street was broad and lined with trees and grass verges. As I walked along, I began to sense that the traffic was getting very thin. Out of the corner of my eye on the opposite side of the road I saw a lone parked car. A young fellow was sitting in it and as my eye caught his he became all flustered and embarrassed. I can only guess what he was doing but I had the feeling that I had interrupted something indecent. My pace quickened. In front of me was a large ruined building with blackened columns. A tall diamond-mesh fence confronted me.
Realising that I had taken the direct but incorrect route, I followed the fence round to the south. A pleasant stroll led me through a grassed clearing with the occasional tree. Time was passing and I began to get anxious. At last I came to the famous checkpoint. The passport check was unusual because it was so easy. The impression from television and the newspapers was that to see East Berlin you had to climb some steps, and look over the wall into a land of dread. It was really not like that. As a British tourist I asked for a visa, paid few pounds and passed through without any trouble. I also had to exchange some sterling for G.D.R. marks to spend while in East Berlin. In this way the G.D.R was assured that some hard currency bypassed the black market.
All I could see were ordinary people with clean streets and few cars. I walked up Friedrich Strasse, crossed Leipziger Strasse, and off to find the Cafe. A middle-aged man appeared in my path. He seemed surprised, and a little startled. Why? I do not know. It was Comrade Swartzberg. He recognised me from my photograph.
Before long I was in the back of an estate car driving in the countryside with three other comrades. Swartzberg had introduced me with my consent as, Singh. I do not remember the names of the two middle-aged comrades. One was past his prime and getting fat, and laid back. The other was fitter and more in earnest. Both were clearly experienced and knowledgeable. I remember the name of the third one. He was called Christopher. He was about twenty years old, thin, with blond hair. He was the understudy and deferred to the two older comrades but there was a certain questioning and uncertainty in his attitude. We stopped in a laybye and they asked me to get in the back and to lie down in a sleeping bag. They covered me completely and I could see nothing. It was, I presumed part of their security measures. We drove off and I mused to myself while the car went I knew not where.
We had arrived. Some scrappy grass and a few tall trees struggled without success to enliven the surroundings. On one side of the track was a bunker dug into the side of a small hill. This was to be our home for the next week. There were two rooms, the first a sitting room with chairs and a table. The second room served as a bedroom. It was quite cosy with built in ventilation and all amenities. On the other side was a large open space, barren and uncultivated. I could see no houses or people. Next to the track just opposite the bunker was a small pit. This comprised the test site for the mortars.
With hindsight, I suppose my work mates back in Bristol would have been shocked. There was Dr. Press, senior lecturer in chemistry and a pillar of society consorting with the dastardly Stasi. I still remember them as decent people, professionals teaching me how to fight the apartheid system. One of them liked his five star Bulgarian brandy. Christopher was a young man trying hard to learn. The last of the trio seemed just ordinary. It is hard to remember them as part of a terrible repressive system. We ate and slept together in the bunker, chatted and joked and exchanged stories. We were working for a better world. They remembered the war against fascism and the terrible toll it took of humankind.
The German communist party managed to survive throughout the war. Small cells continued to operate. They wanted me to know how it was possible that under war conditions and highly organised repression, they still communicated with each other and the public. The older comrade told the story of how for example a comrade was a member of a football team. As such, he could travel from time to time. Messages were written in invisible ink on the bladder of a football. Each message was in code. They then inflated the bladder in the ball. At the appropriate place and time the comrades exchanged footballs. If the Gestapo suspected that the ball held a message they would have to deflate it and extract the bladder. They would see nothing unless they developed the secret ink. Even then they could not decipher the message. Our level of security was considerably lower.
There were many such stories but Germany under the Nazis was a very different place to South Africa under the Nationalists. We too were subject to repression but our people were educationally, technically and financially a disadvantaged majority. I marveled at the level of sophistication and expertise of the Communists under the Nazis. I invented reasons for our lack of them. I was here to learn from the professionals.
I spent most of the week learning to produce the mortar, which could throw leaflets into the air.
A small charge was prepared with a short length of fuse that led through a hole in the center bottom of a can. It was the first time I had seen and handled commercial gunpowder. It was not a powder at all but came as pellets. These were black, shiny and in assorted shapes, from the size of a pea to the size of a broad bean. On top of this charge lay a small cardboard disc. We glued a tube to one end of a length of cloth. This was twenty centimeters wide and sixty long. Old newspapers cut to size simulated the leaflets. These were spread along the cloth. The whole was wound in a spiral with the tube at the center. The spiral then fitted snugly into and on top of the cardboard. This was the mortar 'bomb'. The fuse sticking out of the bottom of the can fed through a hole in another disc of cardboard or felt. This would slip into the mortar and lie between the can and the main charge.
The mortar itself consisted of a length of metal stove pipe about twelve centimeters in diameter and sixty centimeters long. A disc of wood, securely fixed, sealed one end. The detonator wires fed through a small hole just above it. The detonator fitted into a small plastic bag filled with gunpowder and secured with Elastoplast. It seemed to me that Sellotape would be easier but they said it was scarce in the GDR. At the time this seemed very strange that in a developed society a simple consumer product like Sellotape could be scarce.
The can with the leaflets made a snug fit in the mortar tube. Its fuse rested on the propellant charge in the mortar bottom.
In operation, the whole apparatus was buried in the ground with a light covering of dirt to camouflage it. A timing device set the detonator off. With a thump, the can flew forty meters into the air. The initial charge ignited the fuse for the secondary charge in the can. It exploded at the apogee of its flight. The spiral of cloth spun the leaflets into a wide arc and they descended high in the air like enormous flakes of snow.
I get ahead of myself. It took much repetitive, painstaking work before I had this spectacular success. They obliged me to make dozens of leaflet bombs and quite a few mortars before I satisfied the comrades that I knew what I was doing. It got so wearing that I started complaining and joking about tearing up newspapers and manufacturing wooden discs. They also insisted that I collect all the bits of paper scattered by the bombs. They took the opportunity to photograph the various stages in the manufacture of the mortar. Somewhere in the records of the Stasi are photographs of my hands cutting wooden disks and tearing up newspapers. I mention this just in case in the new order in Germany there is some confusion over this.
We also discussed different mixtures that could be used instead of gunpowder. Our problem in South Africa was that because of apartheid, the main force for change, the African people, did not have access to guns or explosives. The apartheid regime did not trust black people. However, I told them of a mixture developed, by Cape Town activists that used easily obtainable chemicals. We tried it and they were most impressed. At least information passed both ways this time. The great advantage was that I was so relaxed. There was no hassle about being overheard. I could let charges off without any worries. Facilities were basic and adequate. Time and expertise were in plentiful supply.
They explained how the comrades had made and used the mortars during the war. The manufacture was divided into separate operations. A different person did each task:- preparing the cans, lengths of stove pipe, and wooden disks, writing the text, doing the printing, and so on.
They only knew about and did that particular task. Two groups performed the really dangerous tasks, those that assembled the mortars and those that planted them. Even with this high security one group was caught and killed. It seems the Gestapo plotted on a map where and when each leaflet bomb went off. They gradually built up a picture of the probable location of the center of operations. They cordoned off a whole district and made a thorough search of all the houses. The Gestapo arrested the comrades and they were tortured to death.
Similarities and differences spun through my mind but one thing was for sure the anti- apartheid movement in South Africa had a lot to learn and a hard road to travel. In the wildest flights of our imaginations we did not guess what really lay ahead of us.
The job was done but before we left the bunker I had to make notes. Accordingly they should have been in invisible ink, code, and concealed. They let me off having them in secret ink. But I wrote them in code and hid the spill of paper in a felt tip pen. Then off we went, but not to East Berlin. The comrades however insisted that it be called 'Berlin Haubtstad de D.D.R'. Again, I had to travel lying down in the back of the estate car completely covered by a sleeping bag. At the same laybye the comrades let me out and we traveled on in comfort.
Swartzberg asked if it would be all right if I met the Mayor of Berlin for a supper before I left. I was not keen as I am not really a social animal. I suddenly got the feeling that the comrades thought I was going into the underground in South Africa and they were protecting my anonymity. Was I a fraud? I was merely a technician not an operative. This was getting out of hand. There was little I could do, so I duly met Madam Mayor. It was a pleasant dinner. They were very ordinary working class people with a sincere desire to help. I have as a duty to the movement met with lords and millionaires since then. I had dined with the upper echelons of the business world before. In the past I always feel out of place in their company. In Berlin that night I felt comfortable.
It was time to go back to Bristol. First I had to return to West Berlin. This time I went by S- Bahn to Friedrichstrasse. Comrade Swartzberg followed me at a distance until I had passed into customs. Again there was no trouble. The only thing that niggled was that I never got to spend my East German marks and I could not change them back into Sterling.
In Bristol I returned to lecturing at the Polytechnic. The only evidence of my visit to the GDR was the spill of paper with the coded instructions on how to make leaflet mortars. In the quiet of my workshop I dug it out of the felt tipped pen. The black ink of the felt tip had broken through the plastic in which I had enclosed the paper and obliterated half the message. Just as well I did not need it.
It was a few months later that Jack asked me to pass on the skill of producing leaflet launchers on to Victor. He came to Bristol and for security reasons stayed in a local hotel He came to the house over the weekend to see how it was done. Together we attempted to make a leaflet mortar. We did not have gunpowder or the constituents to make the South African mixture. We decided to use chlorate and sugar. I had not tried it before. All I knew was that if there was too much sugar it acted as an incendiary and if too little it changed from an ordinary explosive to a dangerous high explosive. The latter would shatter the mortar. The problem was that we had no time or facility to test for the correct percentage. I made up the mixture as I thought best.
We drove out into the Somerset countryside and, finding a lane with a ditch at the side, planted the device set the timer and drove off. Time dragged past. Nothing happened. It was wrong to return to the seat of the crime, but we decided at least to drive past. As we approached the lane I saw flames rising from the ditch. We drove on. Apparently the mixture had too much sugar.
The comrade had to go back to London that day. So that was that. I never had enough time or facilities to do a thorough job. This was always the problem. We had no secure base. We had no time. As politicians we were tops but as far as the use of technology was concerned we were amateurs.
I soon realised that the whole system was too complicated. For our purposes we needed a simple, no-nonsense device that anybody could make after a few lessons. The mortar was spectacular but in all honesty it was unnecessary. That would have to go. The leaflet bomb was still too complex. The use of the cloth spiral was not essential. In our conditions in South Africa the main thing was to deliver the leaflets without being caught. A small explosion was useful since it drew the attention of passers by.
The minimum requirement was a can, a charge, a detonator, the leaflets and a timer.
Assembly skills, availability of components, and how to smuggle the items into South Africa all needed to be considered.
The most difficult item to make was the timer mechanism. I would probably have to do this in Bristol. Detonators were available to Mkonto we Siswe, the African National Congress military wing in Luanda. This complicated the supply lines. I worked on the problem and ended with a small mechanism based on an NE1043 timer (set for a fixed ten minutes). This was a development from previous device of which I had supplied some 200 to MK. A photographic flash bulb replaced the detonator. The whole measured one centimeter square by three centimeters long. Attaching a PP9 battery started the ten minute delay.
The chemical components of the charge were regular household items. White households would have access to them but this excluded most of our activists. I thus decided to make up a three-compartment sachet. Each compartment would hold one chemical required and all that would be needed was to open the sachet and mix them.
The sachet and the timer mechanism would have to be smuggled into the country.
The South African Communist Party was to be celebrating its birthday and it seemed that there had been a bout of socialist competition between the London and the Lusaka comrades of the Party. I am not sure of the details but the London side was to arrange a leaflet distribution in South Africa. Aziz and Doc did all the organising and arranging and I was asked to teach the technicalities to the operatives. Two brave British lads were going to do the job. Their story was that they were going down to look for work as computer programmers since they were fed up with their jobs in the rescue services in the UK. They were bright intelligent and good with their hands so the teaching was easy. They learnt to make the leaflet bombs from the bottom up, the electronics, the propellant mixture, the container and assembly. Fortunately we had sufficient time and facilities and with such good pupils everything looked extremely hopeful.
They had a very successful trip and the SACP 60th. anniversary leaflets were propelled into the South African skies by British Communists. One of many true acts of international solidarity.
I was asked to train two comrades, a married couple. They were long standing friends of mine. Neither were trained technicians and this should prove if the system was simple enough for general use.
We only had an afternoon for the whole assignment. The facilities were the dining room of a friend's first floor flat in a London suburb. Our workbench was the table. Lace curtains hung on the only window that looked out into a side street. There may have been prying eyes but we had no option but to disregard them.
I let them do most of the work. The system had been so simplified that it did not take long. The only tools needed were a can opener, a pair of scissors and a sharp knife. As so often, I found that the wife Hilly was much better than the husband Pregs. Within a few hours, we had a working model. Now, I believed, it was only possible to go our various ways and hope that it would work in the field.
"No" said Pregs. " We must try it."
"No way." I said "It will go off with a bang. We'll wake the neighbours."
My protestations had no effect.
Remembering my trip to the GDR I said, " The bloody leaflets will go all over the place."
"Not if we only use a small charge." Said Pregs.
Much against my better judgment I agreed. Then we argued about how much explosive to use. With much trepidation on my part and much excited expectation on his we prepared the experiment. Hilly kept silent, watching the children play.
We set the leaflet bomb on the table, attached the battery and hoped for the best. The bang was loud enough to attract the attention of the whole neighbourhood. The leaflets flew about the room. Thick smoke obscured the pictures on the wall. The smell of sulphur filled the air. We started to cough. Pregs sauntered over to the window, opened it, and stood there trying to wave the smoke into the street. I thought of fire engines being called by the neighbours. Fortunately Londoners seldom take any notice of what is happening around them. We closed the window and tidied up.
"Too much Garam Masala." Said Pregs who was a dab hand at making a good curry.
Unfortunately we could not quite clear up everything, because there in the ceiling was a neat half-moon hole. I never found out what Pregs told his friend the owner of the flat.
That did not matter. We were elated. The system worked.
Pregs and Hilly disappeared into Africa. Others followed them. Reports came that the underground was using the system. Time and again I went down south to Lusaka or Maphuto and I got requests from various underground operatives for various items. The movement was full of structures and this was sometimes quite a problem. Occasionally I passed these requests on to the leadership. Sometimes they were quite sharp in their replies. Clearly they could not satisfy every request and bypassing structures created problems. I learned not to act without the approval of the relevant structures. So I told the comrades that there was no problem with my making more of the various gadgets but they had to get the permission and the money.
By the late 1980's we had eventually perfected our propaganda methods. By then the mass movement had grown and expanded to such an extent that our devices were no longer useful. When the ANC was unbanned, what was the use of leaflet bombs and loudspeakers?
Organizations are the interconnections of individuals. SACTU in the twenty or so years it operated in exile was of a size where the individuals were too few and interconnections some times became tense. I often did not understand these tensions and differences. In a different context and years after the last NEC on the Internet I wrote in reply to Lisa Rogers.
From owner-marxism@jefferson.village.virginia.edu Tue May 30 07:38:24 1995 Date: Tue, 30 May 95 07:11:14 BST From: Ron Press <anclondon@gn.apc.org> To: marxism@jefferson.village.virginia.edu Subject: philosophy/science Sender: owner-marxism@jefferson.village.virginia.edu Reply-To: marxism@jefferson.village.virginia.edu Hello From: Lisa Rogers EQDOMAIN.EQWQ.LROGERS@email.state.ut.us A proposition therefore: perhaps science is, in fact, not characterized by consistency at all, but by inconsistency. It seems to me that philosophy is the effort to create consistency throughout human thought, whereas science seeks only to embrace , as precisely as possible, the immediate and definably external, and create consistent relations there ................................................. Although I have no serious disagreement with the above statement I do not think either philosophy or science are always either consistent or inconsistent. I would suggest a better way to look at it is as follows. One is in an art gallery. There is a picture on the wall. The philosopher stands back and tries to get the overall view. The scientist gets closer and closer to the canvass and views the detil. It is the same picture for both, and both have an incomplete picture. The picture raises emotions in both but they are different emotions. For the philosopher the detail gets in the way. For the scientist the detail is the picture. Both are right and both are wrong. Ron Press.
SACTU was the picture and the details were the individuals. I came from a different cultural, economic, emotional and educational background. It would never be possible to understand the subtle tensions that arose.
One day after the hurly burly of serious debate a group of us were discussing men and women. Eric Mtshali said that a man was not a man unless he had slept with many women. This proved his manhood. I disagreed. If a vote had been taken I would have been the only one against with perhaps one abstention.
On another occasion Moses Mabhida and I were discussing another aspect of the same subject. I said that my father had told me never to sleep with a girl friend on the grass. Bring her home and treat her with respect. When Estelle matured and started going out with boys I remembered my father's words and tried never to interfere. It was her life and she was old enough. It was her home as well as mine. Moses strongly disagreed. To sleep with a woman in your father's house was to defile it. For him it was very wrong. There was no bridging this gap. Nor was it necessary to do so.
Cultural differences were sometimes a distinct advantage. When we traveled to and from Lusaka the African comrades generally did not like caviar at all. I grew to appreciate it's fishy tang and on one occasion I gathered together four helpings on the plane. On other occasions they were a just awkward. In the early days of travel I used to take a bottle of duty free down with me for the comrades. On my measure of reasonableness was there too much drinking anyway. Then the next year the bottle became a point of departure for favourable reactions. To whom did one give the bottle? There was only one solution, no duty free alcohol. That annoyed everyone equally. Of course one cannot be ridged and I often took a bottle together with the obligatory cigarettes for Sybil back with me to London. The cigarettes were bad for her lungs but good for her psychology. The alcohol just got stored so I cut down on that as well. I did however slowly gather together a collection of wood carvings which were of course duty free.
But there were other gaps which it was essential to narrow and to if possible eliminate. Archie Sibeko was in the treason trial with me but he had lived in Cape Town. I never worked with him until both he and I were on the NEC. He left South Africa, joined MK and become a commander. Because he was a hard man he got the nick name Zola Zembe, which meant iron ax as I understand. Zola had been active in the Railway Workers Union and been a member of the Party. Both he and I were later resident in the UK and so we became close. We often traveled together to NEC meetings in Africa, we served together on committees and gained experience of trade unionism in the UK. He worked in an engineering factory for a time. He had a son from South Africa studying in the USSR. He lived in Manchester with his wife Joyce, a doctor.
It was after a meeting in Dar when the question of a treasurer for SACTU had been raised. We were constantly losing treasurers because we were particularly strict on money matters. We all had the experience of petty expropriations by penurious trade union organizers back home. It was inevitable in their necessity to survive. But here in exile it was unnecessary as all the comrades minimal needs were looked after by the ANC. Zola had been proposed. I personally was very much in favor because I had a high regard for his honesty and integrity. We were just sitting down to supper in a local hotel when in conversation I said that the Treasurer must reside at headquarters. Zola exploded. "It is all right for you whites but you want to separate me from my wife." I was stunned. It was so unusual for any apparently racist statements to be made at any time. I protested that it was not that at all it was a matter of reason and good management. Once again reason had let me down. As he pointed out to me at a later date he had meant to point out that by and large the white comrades had their wives with them but the African comrades did not. I had interpreted it differently. The next day Zola was duly elected and it was agreed that he would operate from the UK but would come down to Africa as necessary. A collective form of reason had prevailed and Zola made a good Treasurer.
) Zola, Solly and Me often traveled together. In Moscow on the way to an NEC meeting, just prior to May day we got friendly with a workman hanging up flags. He obliged us by taking our picture. On May Day we were in Maphuto. Early in the morning all the ANC comrades assembled in a square ready for the parade. It started to rain. It continued to rain. The rain was warm and wet. We waited. The day was steamy but the rain made it bearable. None of us had any raincoats or umbrellas and there was no shelter. First my shirt got soaked. Then my trousers hung limp and heavy with water. Never before or since have I been soaked to the skin, underpants and all. But it was fun. We eventually marched in the rain past the Presidential stand and got a mighty cheer. It was fun being part of the movement, black and white together. Then we stood watching the rest of the groups march past. A drummer beat a wild tattoo on a piece of corrugated iron. The rhythm of the drummer, the beat of the rain and of our spirits created an atmosphere of hope and good humour.
The next day Zola and I went to the NEC meeting. I began to have my say on practically every item on the agenda. I was clearly being carried away by my own importance. It was very hot and the meeting was being held in the yard of the MK house. A trestle table was set up in the open under some shade provided by a few trees. My feet had begun to swell in the heat and everyone was becoming exhausted. It seemed that I was getting swollen headed as well but did not realise it. After the break for lunch Moses Mabhida called me to sit next to him. He said he wanted me to assist him. I soon realized that he was exercising a gentle form of control. I eventually appreciated this act although at the time I was a bit put out. Zola also corrected me along these lines from time to time but in a much more direct manner.
At this same meeting the question of the farm was raised. By now it was evening and some lights had been strung up attached to the trees and the washing line. They flickered from time to time and a comrade fiddled with the bare wires to improve the electrical contact. I was amazed at the unconcerned manner in dealing with 240 volts. When does irresponsibility differ from inventive leadership? Some years earlier John Gaetsewe had called me to his flat in London and suggested that SACTU buy a property in Botswana. We could establish a cafe and then the truck drivers who plied the rout to South Africa could use it as stopping off point. In this way it would become a center where we could infiltrate material, pass messages and perhaps personnel into South Africa. It sounded like a good idea and I agreed that it would have my support. He would set up a holding company called Northern Properties and Dan Tloome would be one of the directors. I asked how it would be financed but John said he would handle that. It was a top secret project and I was to say nothing to anybody about it.
The next time he discussed it he presented me with the outline of the property he had purchased and showed me a map. It was very large, more a township with over a dozen houses. It far exceeded the idea of a small cafe. It had belonged to some mining company and had been used to house senior staff. I started to question his judgment in this regard. He said no to worry it would turn out all right and he was getting the money from donors. There seemed to be little talk about the establishment of the Cafe. I was merely a passenger in the project and sworn to silence.
Later John G. confessed he had a some problems. The project needed a manager. There were questions of water, maintenance, collecting rents from the tenants and he was having difficulty in paying the mortgage. There was no talk of the underground purpose of the project. My suggestion was that as the place was so big we should sell half. I queried the whole thing. I felt that J G was getting restive with me and my approach. The next I heard was that he had borrowed money from the bank and anticipated that what with further donations and the rent collected by a new more honest manager the money problems would be covered. Now it was all money and management and no politics or underground organisation. Again I complained but the only result was that I never got called upon again to discuss the matter. Being a disciplined comrade I never discussed it with anyone but the secret was becoming known. Zola, BB, Eric and others hinted at the "Farm", and Turneresque picture began to emerge. Rumor and dark figures of thousands of Pule were hinted at.
At the Maphuto meeting it came to a head. At the NEC the farm was mentioned for the first time. BB in particular, always one with a good nose for the smell of money, demanded explanations. Zola wanted to know that there was no money going astray but did not want all the details of purpose and operational use. I held my peace. John G. sat quietly building up steam. Then he exploded with a quiet threat of dire consequences. Clearly the virus had escaped. Moses the Chair at this stage suggested an adjournment. Cleverly it was put back into the test tube by the appointment of a commission of inquiry chaired by Moses. I could continue to hold to my silence.
All the commission ever reported was that the project was genuine and under control. The report while satisfying no one did stop any further discussions. Then John resigned as general secretary and retired to Botswana. The "Farm" became a hidden variable, beloved by the practitioners of quantum mechanics and other esoteric arts. The bank was paid. There was no underground operations ever reported to the NEC, even after liberation. John died. SACTU claimed the farm from the estate. John's wife died. The claim became less sustainable . Time, the great obscurer, is ever less likely to tell the true tale. Who succeeded, who failed, was it all planned? Was it revolving around a epicenter far removed from SACTU? I for one would like answers but then I am pleased JG stopped me early on from asking too many questions. I regret I kept my promise of silence because I am sure Zola for one would have helped me to adopt a better position on the question of SACTU's Farm.
Zola and I had our differences and it was clear to me that he was not always happy with me. I think one of the problems was that I was reincorporated into the Party on a formal basis and became a member of an underground unit. As far as I know Zola was not. In many respects I began to respect his approach to many questions. For example one comrade was accused of being a police spy. The ANC security had arrested him and he had been removed to Luanda. Zola was angry because he said that SACTU was an organization in it's own right. They had no justification for taking such decisions without even telling us let alone consulting us. I was much more compliant. I did not know any of the facts. How could I even consider the question. I was in fact avoiding an unpleasantness. He was right, I was wrong. To my credit I did support him in the NEC and we agreed to protest to the ANC security. The poor fellow may or may not have been guilty. There were certainly some strange aspects to his behavior. Nothing was ever proved one way or the other and he later came to study in the UK and was a member of the ANC branch.
On another occasion John Nkadimeng was accused of stealing a large sum of rands. The problem arose when a comrade from South Africa was instructed to take some money home with him. There was a mix-up about the source for the funds and where it was destined. As with so many of these sorts of problems some were so intent on proving John's guilt that the facts did not matter. Others were extremely keen to make sure that if there was any blood spattered about none of it would be theirs. In my understanding John had not been entirely clear as to where the money was going but he had handed it over and had in no way stolen any of it. Zola was even clearer he realised that it was not a question of John being a thief but of John not taking the proper administrative steps and ensuring that proper accounting was done. At the next NEC the comrade who had taken the money home, confirmed that he had received it from John and confirmed to whom it had gone. What had been done was all in order but what had been recorded was not. Personalisation of the episode had not helped clarify the issue. Largely due to people like Zola injustices were often avoided.
Later in 1987 I decided to take early retirement from my teaching post in the Polytechnic. The policy of NATFHE my Trade Union was against all redundancies but when I told them that I was going to work full time in London for SACTU they agreed. It was all in a good cause. I bought a flat in East Finchley from Ray Harmel, the widow of Mick and came to work for SACTU. I had discussed it with Zola who was in charge of the office now in Flowers Mews Archway, London. The staff variously consisted of Ilva MacKay, Mark Sweet, Molly Marcus, and volunteers. I was never a one for taking orders and often queried his decisions. One day it got really heavy and he angrily said that I was after his job, that I had been put there for that purpose, that I was educated and he was not. This was not true and I made it clear that as far as knowing about the trade unions at home and understanding the African workers I could not even compete. There was no truth that I was after his job. We settled down to working together. He was the boss but I was no yes man.
A few years later a number of young white comrades had joined SACTU and were present in Lusaka for a "national" conference. There must have been about 50 activists gathered from the different countries where SACTU comrades were scattered in exile. I summed up my understanding of the problems of whites in SACTU as follows. It was very satisfying that young white comrades were joining in the trade union struggle. It was easy for whites to assume a position of superiority. Apartheid was our historic experience. We had the education, we were skilled in the use of words, we could unjustifiably assume a leadership role. On the other hand we could try to be subservient and docile. This was relatively easy but we could not then make as full a contribution as we should. What was very difficult but essential was to be neither superior nor inferior, but equal.
At the end of 1992 Sibyl asked me to take her out for a drive. This was a form of relaxation for her which I quite enjoyed especially when I was not busy. We often went on holidays that involved driving from place to place just looking at the scenery, the great houses and castles. Except for cigarettes she was a very undemanding wife. We drove out to Barnet and Arkley and then home for a cup of tea. I went into the bedroom to take my coat off and she took hers off in the small lobby of the flat and thumped down in the doorway. She went blue and then seemed to recover. She said "Oh Ron" and went silent. It was much more than that short string of letters suggest. It voiced a cry of pain and an expectation that I would be able to help. It encompassed the years of our life together as her eyes flickered recognition. I touched her forehead. Her colour returned. I remember thinking that perhaps it was a stroke and the best thing to do was not to disturb her. I phoned for an ambulance. This was at the time of the ambulance strike in London. I waited over half an hour and phoned again. I berated them and they promised someone would come. Eventually a quarter of an hour later two soldiers arrived. I don't know why but my first remark was " How do you like being scabs?" They were taken aback. Then they recovered and started attending to Sibyl but it was too late, she was dead. They were only young lads I felt sorry for them in the end.
There followed calling the doctor and then the police came. They asked me all sorts of questions which was a bit off putting. I suppose they had to do so in these circumstances but it was anything but helpful. I felt that I was been accused of something. We had always said that when we died we wanted our remains to be sent to a medical school to help the students in their studies. But it seemed in cases of sudden death this was not possible because an autopsy had to be done.
Sybils death aroused a set of contradictory feelings for me. On the one hand I was pleased that she had died before me. I was haunted by a fear that I would die first and she would be left as a serious problem for my daughter and her family. Although Estelle loved her mother she did give the impression that Sybil had been a burden for her. I am sure that one of the reasons Estelle married relatively young was because living at home had its trials. Schizophrenia is not an easy illness to live with especially for a young girl who needs a mother to discuss things with. For me Sybil was both a good companion and a wife but also a burden. All the usual decisions in a family were my responsibility. She was unable to discuss problems and I felt that to do so usually distressed her so I avoided it as much as possible. But she was loyal loving and very gentle and kind when in one of her more rational modes. She bore my political activities without a murmur of objection and I always felt she was on our side. The ANC helped arrange the funeral without any religious ceremonies. Zola come to me after the funeral and said that he could see that I was managing. This was a comfort and an encouragement. We have been so long in the struggle together that we have submerged the divisions that could have kept us apart.
Another comrade that I was friendly with was John Nkadimeng. I mention him because he taught me the importance of being close to the people especially in their time of need. In the late 1950's we gave out leaflets together in the anti-pass campaign but shortly thereafter I went to Springs and we did not meet again until I became active in SACTU in exile. Our friendship was uncomplicated. I used to stay over with his family in Lusaka. It was very homely and relaxing, playing with his grandson floating boats down the gutter, talking to David his son, visiting his married daughter and her family, clearing the table after a meal, watching tele and talking. John once said that during one visit his wife had said to him " If only all whites were like him we would be all right." It was a great compliment. Joe Modise and his family lived next door so I used to pop over from time to time to discuss Communications with Jackie, and admire her baby daughter.
John took me round and about. We visited this one and that about this and that problem. It seldom concerned me but it was a good thing because I began to acquire an understanding of the lives of the people. Many a times he took me to funerals and wakes. He always told me to just tag along and say nothing. This was good advice because I knew so little about the customs or niceties of the cultures. I believe however that my presence was appreciated. One major funeral was when an NEC meeting was scheduled for Lusaka in March 1986. When we arrived from London we were told that Moses Mabidha the General Secretary of the Communist Party had died and his funeral was being held in Maputo. A goodly crowd assembled at the airport in Lusaka where a special plane had been chartered to take us to the funeral. There we stood and milled about for quite some time. There seemed to be arguments about security and the suggestion that we would all be photographed. For some it seemed that it was wrong because it could compromise those in exile by exposing them. For the government it seemed important so that they could be sure of who went and who returned. Eventually it was agreed and we were photographed and flew down.
The funeral was a big affair with all the big guns being present. It started with a lying in state in the town hall where together with others we stood and paid our respects. Then we drove to the cemetery in a convoy of cars as for a state occasion. For the small fry it was merely a matter of being well behaved and solemn. The cemetery was an old colonial one with some large mausoleums. Moses was buried in a special plot with all the honors and dedications. One of which was that he would return to a free South Africa. Personally I could never understand this. When you are alive you are treated as a human being. Sometimes insulted, seldom praised, often criticized, but looking back often appreciated and loved. Only your immediate friends and relations ever care if you have enough to eat or if you have a roof over your head. When you are dead and are in fact so much kitchen waste, you become larger than life. You must be buried in an expensive coffin, with a marble tombstone, and be returned thousands of miles to be buried with your ancestors. And nothing ill is said about you. It is as if reality is buried with you and hypocrisy remains alive. In these thoughts I am probably in a minority of one. But at least, when I am no more, those who remember me please note.
At such times two quotes seem appropriate,
From Oedipus Rex,
None the less the funeral was dignified. Afterwards we all went to a large covered area where rows of heavily laden tables groaned under fried prawns, snacks, drinks, and goodies of all sorts. On such occasions I always wondered about those whose leaders we were and who had nothing to eat. Then back to Lusaka only to overhear on the plane some of the MK cadres saying how they had been frustrated because they had though that this was an ideal opportunity to have smuggled some cadres into Mozambique for return to South Africa. They had apparently been prevented from doing so by the representative of the ANC in Maphuto who objected on diplomatic grounds. One of the myriad of unresolved differences of opinion.
But funerals are not my only memories of John. When in 1991 I returned for my first meeting of the NEC back home I met John in Shell House. A few of us were sitting in his posh office when his lunch was brought in. He immediately invited us to share it with him. It was just natural for him. For me this put him above so many others.
There was Eric Mtshali, Vanguard, Phyllis, BB, Baba Steve, Ilva, John Gaetsewe, William Kanyile, Mark Shope, Kay, Eli, Norusha, Martin Sere, Mcebesi, Thozamile Botha, Thozamile Makheta, old man Khumalo and others. William Kanyile was murdered in the Apartheid raid on Matola in Mozambique. Photo (48) Matola Residence. We often had disagreements and misunderstandings. There were problems associated with relationships to trade union organizations at home and abroad. Most of us were, for example, convinced that we were affiliated to the WFTU but there was considerable pressure from circles around the ICFTU to get us to deny this. This would, it was said, give us a greater chance of assistance from trade unions in the western ambit. I remember once at an international gathering in Italy having serious discussions with one of the leaders in the ICFTU during the Fatti's and Moni's strike by the Food and Canning Workers Union. They said they could not help us because we were affiliated to the WFTU. I said that I could not see the problem after all it was a justifiable strike of workers under extreme oppression. What did it matter if someone else was also their friend. Surely the cause was more important than international differences. He did not agree and no direct help was forthcoming.
On other occasions there were more serious problems to solve such as our relationship with a group which eventually took the name of the Marxist Tendency of the ANC.
Under the leadership of John Gaetsewe the SACTU newspaper 'Workers Unity' was restarted just after the Soweto events of 1976. An editorial board was set up with John G, Gill Marcus, myself, David Hemson, Paula Ensor, and Rob Peterson. Our method of working was for articles, news items, statements, NEC reports and so on to be commissioned, written and submitted to the board where we would discuss, modify, comment, and finally agree to their publication. We never had an editor as such but more an organizing editor who had to work within the decisions of the board. No red pen for him.
The paper was produced and printed in the UK and distributed quite broadly world wide. Its main target was the workers in South Africa, where it was banned. The target was unfortunately thousands of miles away and we had limited success. However all went well for a couple of years. Then tensions began to mount. Rob, Paula, and David, began to steer the editorial policy towards a more "revolutionary" line. They were influenced by Militant, a British left movement, which adopted a more insular, self-righteous, combative line. This was out of keeping with the way of working of the Congress Movement. SACTU was not a Communist front. It was a militant non racial trade union movement, in an alliance with the ANC and the SACP. We had no political aspirations outside of this alliance. This was not good enough for the group. John Gaetsewe had asked Rob to draft a statement for SACTU on the political situation and the tasks facing the workers in South Africa, it was produced under the title "Looking Forward". When it became more generally available it became more and more clear that the document was out of line with alliance thinking.
Rob and the others issued an ultimatum to SACTU in London, they would work for SACTU if they could adopt the general policy line as represented in the pamphlet. We had always worked by consensus. The NEC seldom if ever took a vote even on the most contentious matters. We argued it out until exhausted or the minority felt that they had had a fair crack of the whip and nothing would be gained by pursuing the discussions any further. The ultimatum and the pamphlet were discussed at the NEC. There was no way that we would even consider an ultimatum. The pamphlet was withdrawn an not representative of SACTU policy. Rob and Co left SACTU and pursued their political ambitions elsewhere.
Janet Love came to work at the SACTU office at about this time. She was young and restless not like a bumble bee more like a humming bird. She had clearly learnt her politics in the "student school for arguments" but her innate good qualities took command in the long run. The offices were up two flights of stairs and along a corridor above a warehouse. Sunny, quite big, and they overlooked a canal. I remember that it was decided that a computer would be a useful tool. I had been using one at work and was sold on the idea. We bought a Commodore Pet with the usual word processor program and a dot matrix printer. SACTU often lead the movement and in this we were the first. It was almost a disaster. Janet grew to hate the very sight of the machine. After a month she was prepared to give up. Then the tide turned. She got the hang of it and slowly discovered more and more of the good points of computing, until she was converted and became a high priest.
Later when she joined the SACTU office in Lusaka she went down with the then state of the art IBM PC. My abiding memory of her there was in the cool after a long meeting of the NEC sitting under an avocado pear tree. Opposite sat Moses Mabhida in earnest conversation. The young white revolutionary debating with and imbibing the experience of age. She then disappeared. Comrades would ask, "What happened to Janet?", implying that perhaps she had deserted the cause. Then I saw her about a year or so later. She never offered to say where she had been. Then she disappeared for many years. I thought, oh well so it goes. Then her name appeared in some of the Vula communications as someone who should be recruited to helping operation Vula. Her computer skills would be useful for communications and she was there in South Africa under an assumed personality. She became one of the operatives and did a good job not only in comms but in many other ways. From time to time I met her in London.
So life is a process, a flux where one never knows where what you put in will come out.
Many thought and said in print and in public that SACTU was Communist. There were certainly Communists in SACTU but there was no party line. I never got any instructions from the party concerning SACTU. There were occasional statements of a general political nature but they never got down to details. Then in 1983 I was asked to come to an extended Politburo meeting which was to be held in Moscow. I was contacted by Brian and directed to see a Mr. V at the Soviet embassy. He met me in one of the embassy houses and arranged all the details like a visa and tickets.
By now flying back and forth was almost second nature but this had an added bit to it. I had never attended a meeting of the leadership of the party and although I had a pretty good idea of whom I may meet it was all new to me. I was met at the airport and ushered for the first time to the VIP lounge. Passport and luggage formalities were handled for me while I sat chatting and drinking coffee. As usual my passport was not stamped and the visa was a separate document. This was done deliberately for my protection. It would serve no good purpose for my passport to proclaim that I had visited Moscow. Not when the cold war was at it's height and particularly when I was part of the Anti-Apartheid movement. Then off in an official car to a Moscow suburb. It was May and quite mild with spring well under way. We arrived at large steel gates with a sentry post, then up a long driveway under green trees past outbuildings to a large double story house. I found some of the comrades already there and I shared a ground floor room with Martin Sere. It was all very pleasant. Quiet, graveled garden paths, good food in a separate lounge, all mod cons and comrades for company.
We were left to ourselves and did not see our hosts except for lunch and once when they took some of us to a polyclinic. I was walking in the grounds with Moses when the conversation came round to health matters. He was going to be taken for a checkup. At the time I was suffering from angina and it was worrying me. I plucked up courage and asked if it would be all right if I went along. They agreed that it would be a good idea and arrangements were made. We were taken to a nearby complex which was a cross between a doctors surgery and a hospital. It was all quite efficient and one was guided from room to room where tests were done questions asked and measurements taken. Their diagnosis was as I already knew but they did prescribe and give me a supply of a drug called "systac". It was evidently a slow release dinitroglycerine tablet made in Yugoslavia. I was quite amused because I would be returning from the USSR to the West with a supply of a dangerous high explosive.
We returned to our deliberations. At no time were our hosts present nor did they in anyway participate. I never expected them to. But it gave the lie to the propaganda so prevalent in the West. I also do not remember any discussions which took decisions which had to be adhered to. It was more a meeting to encourage and coordinate our efforts rather than to lay down a line for SACTU. Unlike the meetings of the Trade Union Advisory Committees of the British Party that I had attended in the past which assumed a much stiffer adherence to decided positions.
One evening after supper Ray Simons asked me to have a chat and a drink in her room. I went upstairs to see her and was immediately struck by the large rather more up market atmosphere. I remarked on the television set and the luxury. I said that it seemed that some were more equal than others. She was taken aback. But then I never found out if Ray had a developed a sense of humour. It was however indicative that the Soviets felt the need for a hierarchy. It seemed out of place.
Late that night after we had completed our agenda Joe asked me if I had a short wave radio. We were gathered on the steps outside the house and he tuned into the SABC news bulletin. It was not clear but when turned up loud clear enough to decipher the news. He was excited and intent. A large car bomb had exploded outside the Pretoria offices of the intelligence section of the South African Air Force. He beamed and exuded satisfaction at a job well done. He was at the time in charge of special operations which of course had nothing to do with SACTU but everything to do with the struggle against Apartheid.
The next day the PB met on it's own. I was however called in. The Secretary Moses congratulated me on the success of the Pretoria operation in that I had made the remote control ignition device. It was all very formal and serious. I said that congratulations were not in order. Thanks and respect lay with the comrades in the field. I had done very little. Moses, Ray and others were taken aback. Only Dan. Tloome immediately understood what I meant and accepted my approach. Still it was nice to be recognized. I was, however, right. We did not know it at the time but the comrades who set the device off were too close to the bomb and lost their lives.
The next time the Party discussed SACTU was some years later in Lusaka when an enlarged PB meeting was again held. This time there were many more comrades present. The main item on the agenda was the future of SACTU in the light of the establishment of a single major trade union center in South Africa, COSATU. Should SACTU continue or should it dissolve? The two congresses had established links and there were few political, organizational or other differences. There were other problems mainly of the spheres of influence, and personal power that could sometimes loom larger than their innate importance. This was the first time that I knew who on the NEC was a party member and who was not. Membership had been kept strictly secret. Some of course I suspected, some I knew because of other party activities but many I knew for the first time. While the discussions proceeded various points of view and differences of approach emerged. This was quite natural and healthy. Memories also crowded in of SACTU NEC meetings where these same comrades had interminable arguments on important policy matters. They were all members of the same communist party. Just as I had had no party directives on so many issues so indeed they had not. In SACTU we acted as communists but not as puppets of the center.
It revealed to me an important aspect of "party work" in other organizations. On really major issues party members would generally think alike and it was not necessary to have a party line handed down from the top. Contentious issues and matters of tactics were left to the comrades to sort out for themselves in the discussions in SACTU itself. I now realized that since party comrades often adopted opposite sides on the NEC divisions between the "party" and the "others" never emerged.
During one of the tea breaks Joe Slovo and I went for a walk in the garden and sat down in a rondavel out of the sun. He said that he thought the value of SACTU was now past. But it was clear that most of the comrades did not think so, so perhaps it should be left at that for the moment. I had been advocating the dissolution of SACTU both for political reasons and I suppose because I did not have a personal stake in it continuing. Many of the comrades had positions in SACTU and with these came certain advantages such as an office to go to, a job to do and the satisfaction that came with these. In Lusaka I suppose it also meant certain privileges that went with the job such as access to transport for one. The discussion on whether SACTU should dissolve was wide ranging and came out on the side of supporting the continuation of SACTU for the time being. My contribution to the discussion was that although I was in support of the dissolution of SACTU. One should consider the matter as one would consider the wearing of a new pair of shoes, new shoes tend to pinch and need to be got used to, old shoes are comfortable. Perhaps we should not yet throw away the old ones. For what was supposed to be a Stalinist Party according to so many in the British Party the SA party was quite open and free with it's decision making.
There was at least another meeting of the SACTU party comrades but this was a very weak affair with nothing to fix it in the memory.
From the early 80s I began to attend Party Unit meetings in London. This meant attending meetings of about 10 comrades every so often where we discussed the usual party matters. There were documents, statements, circulars, and so on but most active work was done by comrades in other structures and because of the problems with security these were seldom discussed. We also had a sort of election system where we chose our district committee. This was technically difficult since we did not know who were or were not party members except by chance or if they were members of our group. Still we were asked to submit names and then the district would be chosen from those names who were in the majority and who were in fact party members. It was strange because we never knew the results except in as much as one of the chosen were members of our unit. Still it was the best that could be done under the circumstances. Of course we paid subscriptions.
I once represented the party at a meeting of the World Peace Council in Moscow, having been asked by Doc. Dadoo. It was a very big affair with hundreds of delegates. I was part of the higher echelon and as such met and ate with the leaders of the other delegations. There were some very good people there especially amongst the Americans. The Minister form what is now called Shri Lanka was there and on one ocassion produced a rather nice painted and carved mask which he gave to me. It seemed he had earlier given similar items to others. I thanked him and during the conversation asked about how the conditions of the tea workers had improved. This raised some nods of approval but embarrassed him. I was not a diplomat. I was really out of my league. These people had the experience of dozens of peace meetings and conferences behind them. The western press was at the time using the question of dissidents in the Soviet Union as a cold war tool. This was taken up by some of the delegates and although relevant in a minor way was not an issue that should be allowed to disrupt the real issue of Peace. One of the Slovo daughters was a delegate. In chatting to her she was all excited about seeking out and talking to one of these dissidents. I tried to dissuade her asking what purpose would be served. She was however all hyped up. My well meant shower of cold water acted as a catalyst to the fire of her passions so I turned it off and left her to her devices.
At the end of the proceedings I found an electric samovar as a parting gift in my hotel room.. I thanked the interpreter but asked if it was not a bit excessive. She returned and said that it was a gift from the Trade Unions and all the delegates had been given one. From these uncomfortable heights I returned to my accustomed normality.
In the early 90s when the Party emerged from the underground the unit structure was closed and we became one United Kingdom Branch. The membership of this branch consisted of those left in the UK and who wished to continue their membership. One would have thought that people would have been proud of their contribution to the struggle as Communists and that now that the dangers of membership were largely removed they would continue in the easier climate. Some quite prominent members denied that they had ever been members. They were content to have the companionship and solidarity of their comrades when it suited them. Now when they thought that being publicly known as a Communist might damage their careers they left the party. The party has left it to their consciences so I will do likewise. We are now a small group of comrades left in the UK for various reasons such as family, age and health. We regard ourselves as a Party group rather than a branch and do what we can to assist the Party at home.
Parallel to this political activity I continued to earn a living. I remember saying at one SACTU meeting that I was the only worker on the NEC. All the rest were full time functionaries of one sort or another. Meanwhile my work environment had changed. I had been employed in the Bristol Technical college as an inorganic chemist. It was not my first love but a job has to be done. There was however a laboratory in the grounds of the college which as part of the chemistry department was concerned with chemical industry. The College of Advanced Technology which shared the College site in Ashley Down moved to Bath and became a University. The laboratory which occupied a prefab in the grounds was left by them to the Tech. It was used by the chemical technicians courses. I was keen to get involved since the apparatus was of a larger scale and semi-industrial and I slowly began to do more courses involving the "Chemical Plant Laboratory." Then the GRIC (Graduate of the Royal Institute of Chemistry) course required that the students have some Chemical Engineering content to their studies and I had my chance to indulge myself when I was given the subject.
In their infinite wisdom it was decided to establish the Bristol Polytechnic. The staff and the courses were split along the lines of advanced and non advanced courses. Education like so many institutions is subject to contradictions. Nothing moves or is accomplished in the world without the actions of a worker's hand guided by a worker's brain. It is necessary, inevitable, that groups are formed some of whom are happier working more with their heads than their hands and others who are more satisfied by physical than mental activity. There develops an arrogance that mental ability is superior to operational skill. It has always been my belief that the division between the two is a false one. No matter how hard I have tried and how long I have thought about it I have never been able to run a marathon. I have marveled at the skills of the pattern maker who like Bill Gilchrist could shape a piece of metal to within a hundredth of a millimeter. Equally awesome is the ability of the mathematician like my Polytechnic colleague Chris Philipidis to manipulate Hilbert Space equations. But both have been my friends, both have seen the welfare of mankind to be held back by divisions between the manual and mental workers fostered by the selfish, the arrogant and the ignorant. When I decided to return to the UK from Ghana I consciously decided against applying for a post in a university since I had a greater affinity to practical working people than the theorizing of intellectuals. So when I was asked where I would like to work, in the Tech. or the Poly. I answered in accord with my theoretical position, that I would be happy teaching in either.
In practice the staff was split not along the lines of qualifications or ability but of expedience and favor. I was placed in the Tech. I realized that I was in effect being taken advantage of. Others with less ability and lower qualifications were being put into the Poly. The rules of the game were not based on my theories of the equality of mental and physical labour but on whose face fitted. On their criteria I was being put down. It was their world and I decided to adopt their criteria and object. My objection was accepted and I ended up in the Poly. I must have had a strong case. By whose rules do you play the game? Where is the boundary between principle and expediency? It is never simple at the personal level. I was certainly happier in the Poly than I would have been in the Tech but perhaps I was being less than thoroughly logical.
There followed many years of great satisfaction. I developed student experiments, designed and together with the technicians made the rigs and constructed the equipment. The Poly decided to construct a new Unit Operations Laboratory on the Site in Coldharbour Lane just outside Bristol. Together with Jim the technician, and the architects we agreed the layout and construction of the new laboratory. The Jim made models of the equipment and we constructed a model layout of the new labs. We moved and bought new equipment and established the whole section. It was a job well done. According to the accepted terminology I should have written that I built the laboratory.
I was invited to a peace meeting in Greece in 1986. In the plenary session they were going on about Greece being the birth place of democracy and how in ancient times they had built a great civilization, the Acropolis, the temple of Poseidon, the various shrine and cities. In my contribution I welcomed their invitation and support for the struggle of the South African people and of how they themselves in recent times had struggled against fascism. I was naughty however when in my speech I pointed out that the great cities and buildings had not been built by their architects and philosophers but by the slaves who did all the work, that the great democracy of Greece was based on slavery.
Well I can genuinely say that together, we set up, built , commissioned and in many cases designed the equipment in the laboratory. First experiment sheets were duplicated for the students and eventually a booklet produced. This proved especially useful when we started a Food Technology course with Seal Hayne in Somerset and I was given the engineering principals side of the course. In all these efforts the various technicians especially, Jasper Morrison, were an essential part of the team. There was and I suppose still is a false division between lecturers and technicians. I only became interested in and developed the use of computers in the control of the equipment in the laboratory due to the interest in the subject by Jim who asked me to order a computer so that he could get to know something about computing. This was way back in the early 1980's before the first PC's had hit the High streets. It was a small affair with a simple number keyboard and a LED output screen. We soon replaced it with a Commodore Pet with a whole 16K memory and 'basic programming language' built into the system. Eventually we coupled it to the heat exchanger and used the computer as a temperature controller. Certainly we were not the first to do this sort of thing but we were the first to do it in the department.
The hierarchy of education is interesting because from the outside many people think it is democratic, logical and run by level headed highly intelligent intellectuals. This is just not true. Once I attended a set of seminars on quantum mechanics of molecules and chemical bonds. A number of the big names were there and gave lectures. People who had had books published and theories named after them. One of them gave a lecture on covalent bonding and said how they had used this new bigger and better computer to calculate some energy levels and so on. The next professor took over and said how he had done this and that much more complex calculation using a piece of paper and a slide rule. In the midst of all the high powered intellectual talent lurked childish point scoring.
Then there was the time when the boss Dr Green announced that there were some Principal Lecturer posts available and those who thought they deserved promotion should apply. I duly applied as did a number of others. We were interviewed and two were given promotion. I was called in and told that I really deserved promotion but there were not sufficient vacancies, I would certainly have been eligible had there been another position available. About a month later the unforeseen happened, another post was notified. I went into the boss and said that in view of his statements of a month ago, and in view of the fact that nothing significant had changed since I was turned down last time I assumed that the new position would be mine. "Oh no, no," Said Dr. Green," it did not work like that". I did not get the post. Hypocrisy, lies, cheating, favoritism and the power struggle rules just as strongly in academic circles as it does in industry. The only difference is the pretense that the academics are above that sort of thing.
But there were good people at the college. By default I became the union representative of the science department in the college branch of NATFHE, the lecturers union. It was not particularly revolutionary or onerous but it did mean that from time to time I pointed out the undemocratic nature of the system. Every one got to know me as the Communist but it seemed that it was in spite of being a Communist that they respected me. There was one lecturer who was a confirmed Tory, and a member of the territorial army. He had very different views from mine. but we got on quite well because he like me believed in fair play.. At the farewell gathering when I left for London I was asked to say the usual farewell after the speech from Dr. Green the Head of Department. I said how much I had enjoyed working there and that I was looking forward to a different life in London. I thanked Dr. Green (I always refused to call him Trevour although he expected that. I never wanted to get close to my boss.) I thanked him for all that he had done and said that I realized that he was not a free agent but had to do things he did not always agree with. I had begun to learn the art of diplomacy although I never mastered it. The art of sincere ambiguity which cuts through all the crap, as the Americans say, but does so with the sterile scalpel.
It is difficult to relate some things to particular times and places because they evolve. Before, during, and after the time I was at the poly I was busy trying to develop various devices of use on the less diplomatic side of the struggle against Apartheid. For example the radio control of an explosive device. These sort of things were the stock in trade of other liberation movements and naturally our leading comrades wanted to have them in our armory.
The idea was to be able to control the timing of the explosion. This requires a line of sight of the target where the device was waiting and the timing could be in theory perfect , i.e. just as the target came within range of the planted bomb. It required that the radio receiver which controlled the detonation be coded to prevent interference and premature ignition. The device must be planted and the transmitter must be powerful enough to set it off from a safe distance.
The first device I made was based on a radio transmitter and a receiver with latter tuned to the TX frequency. A tone was transmitted for a short period followed by a set delay and a further tone. The receiver was set to respond to this simple sequence. It worked intermittently but the main problem was that it could go off arbitrarily. I remember to my embarrassment when attempting to demonstrate the device to a comrade who had come to Bristol for instruction in the use of the various devices we had developed. The "Bomb" consisted of the receiver with a relay and a lamp to indicate when it went off. The transmitter needed only the depression of the fire switch. We were walking down Ashley Down Road to demonstrate the system when I noticed that the "Bomb" had already gone off. Back to the drawing board.
Then the new digital encoded radio controlled model aircraft TX/RX systems became available and they were tried. The transmitter had two joy sticks which each moved in two directions. The radio signals from the TX moved the rudder, elevators, ailerons and power in the model airplane or other devices in say a model boat. The idea was to have the joy-sticks replaced with set points. The receiving relays were set so that when the TX was turned on the fingers of the four relays all set micro-switches in the on position. The device was bulky especially the receiver. This time I tested the device much more extensively including one time when I set off a "Bomb" held by a comrade at Archway roundabout from the transmitter held on the Archway bridge over a half a kilometer away. It was sufficiently promising to be tried down south prior to being used in South Africa. They asked for a few more sets to be made and sent down where they were used successfully in several areas. One operation in particular was successful where some army trucks were attacked. Unfortunately, as with so many military operations, some civilians were injured. It made the front pages of the press with emphasis on the civilian casualties. The resultant political effects meant that the movement decided to hold back the future use of the device. It had however demonstrated the growing power of the movement.
After these experiences I was told that a greater range was needed so experimentation continued. The next idea was similar but the range did not seem to be sufficient. A Linear amplifier was added to the transmitter but without the promised increase in range or reliability.
I am not sure that the main advantage of the device was fully appreciated, i.e. the possibility of exact timing using line of sight to see that the target is within range of the bomb.
About this time the possible use of walkie-talkies became apparent. I found that there were amateur handheld radio TX/RX's which could be used with a DTMF tone pad to call another similar handheld set at the same frequency. It was made by a firm called IQD. I got a pair and tried them out. The system worked fine. I was sure it could be modified to set off an explosive device.
At the same time we had been told that somebody on the continent had devices which were successfully being used for the same purpose. I was sent over in 1987 together with an Indian comrade to get the know how. The contact was not made and we returned home. I remember staying in this posh hotel worrying about the price of the rooms. We even phoned a contact but he was away and very cautious. Later I learned that he in fact was the contact but had not been informed of how and where to meet us.
Another comrade went over and this time made successful contact. She came back with plans for a system much as I had thought of independently. It was however a single tone device. The two handhelds were set to a particular frequency and a tone sent and picked up, and then decoded with a Phase Locked Loop (PLL) circuit. An XR2213 chip was used with a simple 714 op amp notch filter preceding it. The system worked well but had certain problems. The PLL had to be narrow to prevent interference, but narrow PLL would drift and not operate properly.
It was decided to change the audio transmissions to DTMF (this is the system used on modern touch-tone telephones). This was in line with my previous thoughts. The problem seemed to be that a two-number code would be too complex in the field, but a single number could lead to triggering by interference from other DTMF devices. After experiment it was found that if the oscillator frequency of the crystals controlling the transmitted and received DTMF were slightly changed, then the system still worked. With the modification however some numbers using the standard crystal on the transmitter still triggered some numbers on the modified receiver. Provided these numbers were not used then only our modified transmitted DTMF would trigger the remaining numbers of our modified receivers. We made about 12 of them and sent them down. We know that at least one was successfully used in the field as the media reported that a radio transmitter had been found after an explosion. Later, while in Lusaka for a SACTU meeting, some of the big chiefs asked to see me. We discussed various matters and I was asked to make 50 of the devices. I pointed out that this would cost some 10,000 pounds. The chiefs appeared to dismiss the cost as of no importance at all so I left it at that. Next day I spoke to the one of the chiefs again and we agreed that if the money was forthcoming then I should get on with it, but not otherwise. Liberation came first.
From a scientific point of view it is interesting to note that the historic evolution of the radio controlled bomb as used by liberation movements in different countries developed along very similar lines and stages. Personally I think that the use of a two or three-digit DTMF signal would be better and safer but it would be more complex for the operatives and that always has to be a major consideration. I remember one incident in Lusaka when testing and demonstrating the device. We were parked on an open road and I was sitting in the car with some MK comrades. Another comrade walked into the distance signaling from time to time if the receiver indicator light went on when it received my signal. He eventually disappeared into the distance over the hill. It was working really well. A car suddenly stopped and a man came over to us and asked what we were doing. I tried to hide the transmitter under the seat while the comrades showed their ANC passes. I showed him my passport. He seemed satisfied. Later we learned that he was from the air-force security and had checked on our credentials. Seeing a white man in Lusaka had made him suspicious, since there were South African spies operating in Zambia. It was good to know that we were amongst friends.
The question of secret writing, of coding and concealed messages has clearly been a constant problem in the movement. From time to time I was called upon to get various chemicals from work which was generally easy but sometimes they had to be bought but being a "Dr." made even this easy. I remember Vitamin C, Zinc Oxide, Dithizone and others. For example a walking stick was hollowed out on the lathe at home and Silver Nitrate secreted in it, and similarly with a wooden sculpture.
From time to time comrades asked for places to hide their papers, records and later computer disks. Aziz was always moving and always needed a new hiding hole. One was behind a small fancy ornament frame which was affixed to a partition wall in his girlfriend's flat in Constantine Road. The cut in the hollow partition was made so that it was covered by the frame. The frame, fitted with hidden recessed hinges, made the door to the hole, Next time it was behind a light fitting in the kitchen ceiling in Leighton Road, where I fitted bookshelves and fused all the lights by drilling into an electric cable. In Anson Road it was fixing a secret drawer fitted by Jack Hodgson in Stephanie Sachs's flat. I also made a hollow Formica top for her fridge. For myself in Park Gate and Tim in Camden Road it was false ceilings to cupboards, hollows behind partition walls, hollows under baths, and double bottoms in drawers.
In the late 1980's a Tory rightwinger started a scare campaign about military links between the ANC and the IRA. I had in my possession at the time a number of devices used for our military campaign which, if they had been found in my posession, would have given credance to this campaign. I got in touch with others by phone and suggested that we hide securely whatever we had in our posession.
I got in touch with 'J' in Bristol using a public phone and asked him to assist me in a project. Without hesitation he said come over and we will see what can be done. I took the next train with a briefcase of electronics worth nearly a thousand pounds. I cannot be sure that I was not followed but all seemed normal when I arrived at his 'Granny' flat in Horfield. 'J' had a small self-contained flatlet attached to his daughter's house. I immediately started to explain the purpose of my visit but he stopped me in my tracks and said he did not want to know what was in the briefcase and would take it and put it somewhere safe. Together we went up into the loft of the main house. It was a a bit unusual in as much as it was not separated off as is normal but accessed by a set of stairs and clearly used from time to time by the members of his daughter's family, including the children. At the apex of the roof space was a water tank and 'J' stashed the briefcase away at the side in the dark. A good lunch set me up for the return to London, well satisfied with another act of unselfish solidarity.
The scare had long passed by when I received an agitated call from 'J'. His voice was apologetic and he asked me to visit him urgently. It seemed that his daughter had been pottering about in the loft making it tidy when she came across the briefcase. She thought it strange and when she opened it and saw the electronic gear she decided that her son had been stealing and that she had found the hidden goods. She promptly got rid of them. 'J' never told me if his grandson had been unjustly punished. He was extremely sorry and offered to pay for the loss. I assured him that it was just one of those unforseeable things for which no one was responsible and about which nothing could be done. As with the squirrel some of the nuts get lost.
Other than the use of secret inks the movement used number codes which were cumbersome. I was now becoming familiar with computers which in their turn were emerging into the public domain.
I thought that the movement could simply type out messages on a computer, it in turn would change the letters into ASCII code, add a random number, and bingo a coded message. The message could be saved on cassette tape and the tape sent into the country where it could be decoded.
There were a number of things wrong with the system but the concept was basically correct and, as history proved, quite workable. I bought a small computer and started the learning process.
About this time Tim Jenkin came onto the scene and together we worked to develop the successful system used in operations Vula and the subsequent Eugene in the 1990s.
The idea of saving to tape was accepted, this was the way the popular home computers worked at that time. The question of random numbers just being added was not. I thought that it was too simplistic and anyway numbers generated by computer were not genuinely random. So we went for a system where a book code (page, line ) was used instead. Using an Oric home computer I developed a program for typing in the message, followed by the book code. The latter was typed in twice with an error checking system. It worked but was cumbersome.
About this time I wrote a memorandum about the use of computers. Perhaps it was too much ahead for its time or too fanciful but I never heard much about it. I must say that I did get the encouragement to press ahead with our experiments.
Tim boug