Read Online Are We There Yet? by David Smiedt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Smiedt
Ads: Link
rushed through parliament ensuring dire retribution against the organisers of such campaigns. Key resistance personnel were arrested daily. By October 1952, nearly 6000 protesters had been jailed. During the same period ANC membership exploded from 7000 to over 100,000. For every person jailed, seventeen volunteered to take their place.
Speeches delivered by a young lawyer named Nelson Mandela, who had worked on the mines as a security guard, rebounded off the museumâs concrete ceiling. As did the words of activist Steven Biko â Malcolm X to Mandelaâs Martin Luther King Jr â who died naked in the back of a police van after interrogation.
These utterances jarred with those of the gimlet-eyed Afrikaans politicians who beamed from a jumble of TV sets in a barbed-wire maze and whose speeches were peppered with the smug phrase âseparate but equalâ.
On one monitor flicked grainy footage of ANC leaders being lead to court for treason. On another a girl no older than fifteen lay face down on the street, her heart still rhythmically pumping blood from the hole in her head made by a rubber bullet. These images were interspersed with documentary evidence of the effect of apartheid on individuals: a letter from a pining mine worker to his wife far away; a photograph of a black maid carrying a silver-service tea set to the pool while her white madam reclined on a chaise longue; court orders declaring activists of all races banned, which meant forced deportation.
The museum is not a place of subtlety and its message is bluntly reinforced. Above the exhibits, spotlights, wailing sirens and surveillance equipment stand guard. Cages on all sides prevent visitors from wandering off the designated path. There are no seats.
Taking up the bulk of a wall ten metres wide and eight high is a billboard detailing every act that was passed over fifty years to reinforce apartheid. The degree to which the policy impacted on the minutiae of daily life was brought home by something called the Bantu Beer Act. The state decreed when, how and where you could sink a frosty.
Oupaâs path and mine finally converged in the next room, which was occupied by a yellow armoured carrier known as a Caspir. Riddled with bullet holes, it was like being inside a giant colander. Equipped with bullet-proof slits for gun barrels and an interior made entirely of grey steel cladding, these bright yellow vehicles were the first to respond to township violence and frequently left a smattering of corpses in their wake.
They took heroic pride of place in news bulletins where commentary praised their occupants for protecting us from what was known as the âswart gevaarâ â the black danger. These brave boys faced mobs so we didnât have to.
Inside the Caspir was a monitor spooling surveillance footage of township demonstrations taken from these very vehicles. Unlike the plodding âWhat do we want? When do we want it?â affairs common in many other nations, these South African protests featured heaving crowds, often brandishing tribal shields and spears, which fell into a rhythmic shuffle somewhere between a dance and a canter. Shot from the side of a road at the base of a small rise, the footage showed a tumultuous black cascade cresting the hill and tumbling towards the police line. The odd white face is also apparent and draws the cameraâs zoom lens. There is a curious energy about the gathering â part predatory, part celebratory. Although smiles are abundant and a curious sense of liberation is palpable, I was left in no doubt that it was only a matter of time before the sky was raining Molotov cocktails and hailing rocks.
The museumâs most chilling exhibit is a room painted black and from whose ceiling hang 121 pristine nooses. This macabre chandelier represents each of the South Africans executed between 1962 and 1986 for their political beliefs alone.
For all its fastidious detailing of the pain
Speeches delivered by a young lawyer named Nelson Mandela, who had worked on the mines as a security guard, rebounded off the museumâs concrete ceiling. As did the words of activist Steven Biko â Malcolm X to Mandelaâs Martin Luther King Jr â who died naked in the back of a police van after interrogation.
These utterances jarred with those of the gimlet-eyed Afrikaans politicians who beamed from a jumble of TV sets in a barbed-wire maze and whose speeches were peppered with the smug phrase âseparate but equalâ.
On one monitor flicked grainy footage of ANC leaders being lead to court for treason. On another a girl no older than fifteen lay face down on the street, her heart still rhythmically pumping blood from the hole in her head made by a rubber bullet. These images were interspersed with documentary evidence of the effect of apartheid on individuals: a letter from a pining mine worker to his wife far away; a photograph of a black maid carrying a silver-service tea set to the pool while her white madam reclined on a chaise longue; court orders declaring activists of all races banned, which meant forced deportation.
The museum is not a place of subtlety and its message is bluntly reinforced. Above the exhibits, spotlights, wailing sirens and surveillance equipment stand guard. Cages on all sides prevent visitors from wandering off the designated path. There are no seats.
Taking up the bulk of a wall ten metres wide and eight high is a billboard detailing every act that was passed over fifty years to reinforce apartheid. The degree to which the policy impacted on the minutiae of daily life was brought home by something called the Bantu Beer Act. The state decreed when, how and where you could sink a frosty.
Oupaâs path and mine finally converged in the next room, which was occupied by a yellow armoured carrier known as a Caspir. Riddled with bullet holes, it was like being inside a giant colander. Equipped with bullet-proof slits for gun barrels and an interior made entirely of grey steel cladding, these bright yellow vehicles were the first to respond to township violence and frequently left a smattering of corpses in their wake.
They took heroic pride of place in news bulletins where commentary praised their occupants for protecting us from what was known as the âswart gevaarâ â the black danger. These brave boys faced mobs so we didnât have to.
Inside the Caspir was a monitor spooling surveillance footage of township demonstrations taken from these very vehicles. Unlike the plodding âWhat do we want? When do we want it?â affairs common in many other nations, these South African protests featured heaving crowds, often brandishing tribal shields and spears, which fell into a rhythmic shuffle somewhere between a dance and a canter. Shot from the side of a road at the base of a small rise, the footage showed a tumultuous black cascade cresting the hill and tumbling towards the police line. The odd white face is also apparent and draws the cameraâs zoom lens. There is a curious energy about the gathering â part predatory, part celebratory. Although smiles are abundant and a curious sense of liberation is palpable, I was left in no doubt that it was only a matter of time before the sky was raining Molotov cocktails and hailing rocks.
The museumâs most chilling exhibit is a room painted black and from whose ceiling hang 121 pristine nooses. This macabre chandelier represents each of the South Africans executed between 1962 and 1986 for their political beliefs alone.
For all its fastidious detailing of the pain
Similar Books
