Ryland Fisher
It is a pity the tumultuous events of 1985 have gone almost unremembered this year. We had protests in schools, communities and workplaces for most of that year, including the famous August march on Pollsmoor Prison that Allan Boesak organised, but could not lead because he had been detained a few days before.
We also had the Trojan Horse massacre in Athlone, on 15 October 1985, when police hidden on the back of a railways truck jumped out and shot dead three young people, Jonathan Claasen, 21, Shaun Magmoed, 15, Michael Miranda, 11, and injuring several others.
The government had responded to a surge in anti-apartheid protests with a state of emergency which gave police the right to detain those viewed as troublemakers, impose curfews, control the media, even control funerals. Thousands of activists were detained under the Internal Security Act.
I was a young journalist working for the anti-apartheid community newspaper Grassroots and active in youth and civic structures in Mitchells Plain, so I was not surprised on Friday 25 October to get an early morning knock on the door of my mother’s Rocklands house, where I was staying with my seven-months’ pregnant wife.
I had just completed an assignment on Nelson Mandela for another publication and still had several banned books in my room. Mandela, of course, was still in prison and it was dangerous to write anything about him as this could be viewed as promoting the ANC, an activity carrying a five-year prison sentence.
When I realised the police were standing outside the door, I pushed the Mandela books under my bed. (It was stupid, I know, but one does not always think clearly in situations like that.) Fortunately for me, the police were in a hurry and had no time to search my room.
The scary thing about state of emergency detentions was the police did not have to tell anyone where they were keeping you or how long they would hold you.
Some people, like me, were released after a few weeks. Others were held for more than two years.
The police took me to the Mitchells Plain police station, where they kept me in solitary confinement for a few days. At least I was fortunate to also be separated from the “ordinary” criminals, like murderers and rapists.
A few days later I was transferred to Victor Verster prison in Paarl (now known as the Drakenstein correctional facility), where I was reunited with several comrades. One of these was Mziwonke “Pro” Jack, who had already served five years on Robben Island, so being in prison was nothing new for him.
Pro and I had become close while working on the Release Mandela Campaign and other activities.
Pro was small and soft-spoken. I also knew him as being popular in his community.
He kept us entertained in prison by singing the hymn Let There be Love at the top of his voice. He enjoyed it when we joined in the singing.
One day, Pro, Mansoor Jaffer (who was also an activist journalist) and I were called to the administrative office and told to pack our stuff. We were put in the back of a police van, which drove off with us. We were not told any thing: whether we were being transferred to another facility or being released.
The policeman drove at high speed and made several sudden stops and turns and we were virtually flying around in the back. Pro knocked against the grid guarding the van’s cabin and wanted to fight with the police to get them to improve their driving.
Mansoor and I, new to all of this, pleaded with him not to upset the police lest they take us back to Victor Verster. But Pro already had five years on the island behind him so an extended stint at Victor Verster did not scare him.
After what seemed like an eternity trapped in the back of the van, we arrived at Bellville Station where we were told to go home.
We had to phone from a public phone to get someone to fetch us – there were no cell phones in those days.
Tragically Pro was gunned down outside his house in Nyanga East on 19 June 1991.
At first we thought he had been killed by apartheid agents, but at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings in 1999 it was revealed that he had been murdered by Yola Tembinkosi Yekwani, a member of the ANC-aligned self-defence units.
Yekwani admitted to killing Pro Jack, but said it was not intentional. Those who knew township politics at the time felt that Pro had been killed for political purposes.
The ANC distanced itself from Yekwani and opposed his getting amnesty.
I was reminded of Pro this week when a Facebook friend posted the words of Let There be Love. Mansoor Jaffer reminded me of the date of our release, 8 November 1985.
Since then I have been humming Pro’s hymn in my head continuously and I think I can see Pro smiling down approvingly. He spread love, in the same way he sang the hymn, during the short time that he was with us on this Earth.
(Originally published as a guest column in the Sunday edition of the Weekend Argus on 15 November 2015. I slightly adapted it this week.)
