Jonathan Ancer spent Mandela Day listening to the stories of Shirley Gunn and her assorted crew.
Cape Town - It’s a gloomy day – appropriately so, because it’s the first Mandela Day without Mandela – except that it’s not. Mandela is everywhere: in the black man and white woman walking hand-in-hand without fear of being pounced on by Special Branch. Mandela lives on in the rights we enjoy.
One person helping to promote Mandela’s vision is Shirley Gunn, director of the Human Rights Media Centre.
On Friday – Mandela’s birthday – she gathered 40 people to take on a tour of Robben Island. They have come to share their stories, stories of pain and discrimination, but they have one thing in common: they have survived.
We are at the Nelson Mandela Gateway, waiting for a ferry.
Two women busk nearby, dedicating their 67 minutes to raise money for sexually-abused children. “Give me hope, Joanna,” the woman sings.
But there’s no hope for a trip to the island because the weather is foul.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a hotline to God,” says Gunn. A spit away from the museum is, in fact, a hotline to God. However, Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu is too busy doing his own 67 minutes (although The Arch does his 67 minutes of goodness every 67 minutes). He is reading poetry to big-eyed pre-schoolers with oversized backpacks that make them resemble ninja turtles.
Gunn’s assorted crew continue to share their stories – stories of who they are and how they got to be here on Mandela Day.
“We must get on with the work of memory,” says Gunn. “We can’t rely on people living forever.”
We’re watching a video made 10 years ago of former political prisoners singing a freedom song – already a third of the people in the video have died.
“We need more story telling, we need more sharing,” says Gunn.
Thulani Nunu was too young to remember his story but he has a scar that won’t allow him to forget it. He and his five siblings were being looked after by their oldest sister Noluphiwo Kama, she wasn’t yet a teenager, because their activist mother was in prison. Thulani was shot in the head during a police raid on the family’s home in 1986. He spent months fighting for his life in hospital. He was just six. Twenty-eight years later he takes off his cap to show a bullet scar.
But some scars of discrimination can’t be seen. Like those 64-year-old Vuyiswa Kama carries. She’s been called uMlungu and inkawu (monkey) – and even worse than the slurs is the fact that her own family didn’t accept her.
Vuyiswa lives with albinism, a genetic condition. “It wasn’t easy because of my colour,” says 64-year-old Vuyiswa. “My parents didn’t accept me. They loved ‘the others’ – my siblings. I was sent to Athlone School for the Blind – a boarding school – and it felt like I was shipped away. On the first holiday the principal phoned my father to ask why he hadn’t come to fetch me. My father told him he forgot. My father forgot to fetch me. It was like a dagger through my heart.”
In Standard 9, she changed her name to Priscilla and went to Livingstone High.
“I didn’t have close friends so had to survive on my own.” After matric she joined the Western Cape Blind Association and studied aromatherapy. She contributed to the book Looking Inside, which aims to dispel myths about people living with albinism.
“Some people think we’re cursed or our body parts will bring good luck. It’s emotionally draining,” says Vuyiswa. “I find discrimination here and there but I cope. I ignore or confront the person and explain I am a human being just like you. I’ve accepted myself. I love myself.”
Some of the myths are so entrenched that even 24-year-old Bangelo Mandisi believed he wouldn’t die. “I thought I’d vanish like a ghost. It was only when I saw a dead albino that I realised the true story – I’m not a ghost.”
Chrisenthea Goba hopes her 4-year-old son won’t face discrimination. She was 16 when she gave birth. “I saw my son and was shocked. I didn’t know how I was going to handle it, but he’s a happy kid. He just wants to know: ‘How come I’m white but can speak Xhosa?’”
People with albinism tend to be sent to special schools but Vuyiswa believes they should be part of the mainstream.
“It’s only by getting to know each other that these myths will be demystified.”
Getting to know each other – African to African – is precisely Lumumba Chia’s mission. The 40-year-old filmmaker from Cameroon came to South Africa in 1999. He was a student leader who was oppressed because of his political beliefs. He chose South Africa because of its rich history of activism.
He said the deadly xenophobic riots in 2008 were traumatic.
“We came here to look for peace but we experienced Afrophobia,” he says.
He was involved in a project called Shades of Belonging, exploring African identity.
“There were people from Nigeria, South Africa, Burundi, DRC and Cameroon talking about what it means to be an African and what can we learn from each other. We learnt that we are all human. I also learnt that I’m not a foreigner. I am an African.”
Lumumba has fled his home and built a new home in South Africa.
Thirty years ago, Katie Ncisana refused to flee her home. She had been protesting against forced removals and being sent to the Transkei as part of apartheid Bantustan plan. She had been deported and jailed. “Enough was enough,” she says.
A group embarked on a hunger strike. “It was meant to be a three-day fast,” says Katie, who was breastfeeding her eight-month-old daughter, “but 23 days later…”
She survived on a spoon of olive oil and, because she was breastfeeding, a glass of guava juice. “The first four days were tough, but then your body gets used to it. Thanks to water and prayer we were sorted.”
The government backed down and she was eventually moved to Khayelitsha, where the 69-year-old woman still lives.
“It’s our responsibility to share our experiences,” says Gunn, “to give people back their dignity, to acknowledge their contributions.”
Some people can’t tell their stories. Like Ashley Kriel, a 20-year-old anti-apartheid activist killed by police in 1987.
Bradley Barrow, a member of the Khulumani Support Group, says one of his goals is to make sure his former comrade is acknowledged – he is campaigning for Bonteheuwel High to be renamed Ashley Kriel High.
Bradley was recruited into the Bonteheuwel Military Wing (BMW) when he was 14, making him a child soldier. At first his job was to keep an eye out for the police. “Then I was deployed to do operations, attacking government targets.”
He specialised in making weapons, pipe bombs and zip guns. “I ran a weapons factory from my parents’ home – and they had no idea.”
In 1987 he was arrested and charged with 22 others in connection with 300 crimes. It was a marathon trial and eventually the case was thrown out. Two years later the police crushed the BMW.
“I was arrested and tortured. A plastic bag was placed over my head. I couldn’t breathe. I’d pass out only to be slapped awake again. I sang freedom songs to give me hope,” says Bradley.
His 15-year-old daughter Kesha says: “We’re free because of great people like Nelson Mandela and my daddy. Now I’m more tolerant of my dad singing freedom songs.”
Bradley says telling his story has made him strong. “I don’t feel the hurt so much any more.”
Neither does Theophilus Mzukuwa. In 1987 Theophilus, an MK member, was convicted of terrorism and sentenced to 25 years in jail. Three years later, he was on the ferry back to freedom.
“I have good memories of Robben Island,” he says, recalling the political lessons and camaraderie. “But I also have bad memories. They tried to break us.”
Rehana Odendaal also spent about three years on the island, but has no bad memories. Her recollections are of a carefree time with friends. She wasn’t confined in a cage. She was 6 years old and her father managed the museum.
Rehana is now 21 and studies history – she’s fascinated by memory.
“It’s important that people’s stories are heard. It’s important to share memories so that young people can know where they come from and understand why the world is the way it is. People think we have to be in a classroom to learn history, but talking to your grandparents can teach you stuff books can’t.”
I’m in a reconstructed Robben Island cell. It’s dark – too dark to take notes. Gunn is sharing her own story. I need to listen carefully. I need to remember.
Gunn was once captured and now she is in the business of capturing, except she’s not capturing people; just their memories.
In 1985 Gunn, an ANC activist, was detained and spent 113 days in detention. She was arrested again in 1990 and held in appalling conditions with her 15-month-old son Haroon. “We were tortured,” she says. “Haroon almost died.”
The police separated her from her baby – accused her of being a bad mother and then played recordings of him sobbing and calling “mama, mama” as part of her interrogation.
Last year Prime Evil Eugene de Kock asked to see her. Gunn travelled to C-Max. “Your baby saved you,” he told her.
“I wanted to vomit. De Kock is the trophy for us, but there are many others who have got away – perpetrators who haven’t come forward to tell the truth. I have mixed feelings about ‘forgiveness’. I don’t forgive the people who did terrible things and are hiding. When will I let go? I don’t know. Not yet.”
The day ends with a 67-minute discussion about Mandela’s legacy – and what it means to each person there. People talk about the triumph of the human spirit, about celebrating our humanity, doing good deeds every day, and bridging seemingly insurmountable gaps. Someone spoke about doing brave things – not necessarily Mandela-sized brave things, but having courage. Another person talked about the power of healing and treating people with dignity.
We can also honour Mandela’s legacy by remembering; by sharing our stories, and hearing other people’s stories. A story shared is a story remembered. We’ve got to remember before it slips away.
Cape Times