In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Apartheid at the Edges
  • Derek Cohen (bio)

July 1963. My mother is sitting at the wheel of her car at the main entrance to the fortresslike Pretoria Central Prison. She has just delivered four or five hot meals and various necessities to political prisoners who have been jailed under the Ninety-Day Detention Act (i.e., no charges have been laid; suspicion of subversive activity is enough to get you imprisoned). The glowering warder standing at the gate resembles a pile of rocks. It has been his responsibility to take the parcels from my mother and to see that they are delivered. To him political prisoners are all the same: they’re all communists: komunisse, he calls them in Afrikaans, a contemptuous hiss at the end of the word that shows his teeth and conveys his anger at those who wish to undermine apartheid and destroy white civilization. He resents having to serve my mother, in his mind also a kommunis, and then he has to carry her deliveries to the prisoners who are no better than filth anyway. So he doesn’t just dislike her; he despises her personally, viscerally. He makes no attempt to disguise his feelings. Without speaking, he narrows his eyes and waves a thick menacing forefinger at my mother, who does her best to ignore him. She is afraid of this man, but she takes it as a given that he will threaten her, and she will do her best to ignore him and take away his pleasure in being feared. She is afraid of the violence of his manner when he points his finger or mutters loudly, seeming to breathe physical menace. He is one of the large majority of white people who profoundly believe in apartheid and who would mow down its detractors without a second thought. These true believers are a legion of white men and women, mostly Afrikaners, who see opponents of apartheid as a satanic force—an enemy to their way of life and their future. And of course they are right. My mother is their enemy; she would like to see apartheid burnt to the ground. But there is no meeting of minds in these encounters of competing ideologies. Hatred and rage lie between the contending parties, and now apartheid is in the catbird seat.

Suddenly a black man in a prison suit of loosely fitting khaki [End Page 542] shorts and striped red-and-khaki shirt comes tearing past the car. Seconds later, in the rear-view mirror, my mother sees a white policeman in hot pursuit. Instead of running past the car, the policeman leaps into the passenger seat and hollers at my mother to follow the prisoner: “Volg daardie kaffer!” (Follow that nigger!) he bellows at her. The key is in the ignition. My mother turns it, but not hard enough to start the car. As she intends, the car coughs and dies. She seems to try again, disguising her motive with determined facial expressions to the contrary. The car splutters again, and again refuses to start. By this time the prisoner is out of sight and the policeman is out of patience. He jumps from the car with a curse and continues his pursuit on foot. The warder meanwhile has hardly moved. His physique tells you that chasing speedy criminals on foot is not his line of work. He has shouted after the escapee, but he has not shifted from his position. The scene over, he turns back into the prison. The street is quiet. There is a yell from one of the prison cells above, and a woman’s arm emerges through a barred window and waves at my mother, who looks for the source of the voice. She finds it, waves back, and starts her car. As she is about to drive off, the burly warder reappears. Pointing threateningly at my mother, he speaks, warning her of serious consequences if she ever again communicates with the prisoners by word or wave. My mother drives off, only to return the next day with her parcels. The waving arm between the prison bars belongs to Ruth Slovo, imprisoned without specific charges in Pretoria Central during...

pdf

Share