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Goodbye to the worst of years

Ryland Fisher

If Charles Dickens wrote his epic, A Tale of Two Cities, in 2020, he would probably only have described it as “the worst of times” and he might have left out the bit about “the best of times”. He would probably have said that this was the age when we needed wisdom but got a lot of foolishness instead.

The past year, 2020, has been one that has surpassed our wildest expectations, in mainly negative ways. No one could have anticipated the effect that the coronavirus would have on the world.

As the year came to an end this week, and people were beginning to hope that there will be a magical change in our fortunes as the clock strikes midnight on 31 December, 2020 reminded us, through a slew of CoVID-19-related deaths, that there is every possibility that 2021 might be even more frightening than the year to which we are saying goodbye.

As I am writing this, South Africa is in the midst of a second wave of the COVID-19 pandemic and in an intensified lockdown, and I am running out of fingers as I count the number of family members, friends and colleagues we have lost in the past few weeks to the coronavirus, as experts warned that things would only get worse before it gets better.

I have a philosophy: “No problems, no challenges, only opportunities” which I try to use as one of my guidelines in life. This means that, whenever there is a problem or challenge, I try to look at what opportunities it might present to improve me or to improve society. This is not the same as the many tenderpreneurs who only see profits in other people’s misery.

If there is anything positive to come out of 2020, it has been the way many of us have shown that we are able to adapt in the face of adversity. We have shown how, when we were unable to go to our places of work, we continued to find ways of being productive at home, our children have, on the whole, embrace a new reality of online learning, despite its many difficulties, and we have learned to appreciate the time spent with family during lockdown.

Many of us have also learned to reinvent ourselves as the industries on which we depended for a living closed down, forcing us to look at our skills sets and finding different ways of applying it in order to put food on our family’s tables.

There are many who might not have had the luck, the skills or the flexibility to reinvent themselves or to work from home and many have not had income for last parts of 2020. Too many people have had to depend on an inefficient government administration for pitiful social grants to feed their families. Too many people have lost their jobs without being able to qualify for government or any other assistance.

One of the things the coronavirus has forced us to do is to accept that we are part of an international community that is trying to grapple with similar challenges, including racism, inequality and poverty, and climate change.

It has also shown us that governments throughout the world are limited in their words and actions, and often only deliver if they are under pressure.

Throughout the world we have seen the growth in social movements aimed at improving the lives of impoverished people, whether through feeding schemes or helping communities to grow their own food.

The #blacklivesmatter movement, which started in the United States of America and quickly spread throughout the world, have once again put the issues of racism and discrimination on top of the world agenda. This will, no doubt, continue to be one of the contentious issues of 2021.

A personal highlight for me has been the publication of the book, The South Africa We Want To Live In, and I hope to continue this valuable project in the new year and beyond. It is important to keep South Africans talking and acting in ways in which we can improve our country.

There will be no major change in our lives or the world on 1 January 2021, but it does represent an opportunity to reflect on the year that has just passed: what is there to learn so that we can all try to turn the world and our country into the better place we all know it can be? Happy new year and I hope that 2021 will deliver all the positives that you missed out on in 2020.

(Specially written for this website on Thursday, 31 December 2020)

The end of a generation, COVID-style

Ryland Fisher

We bade farewell to my dad’s youngest and last-remaining sibling this morning (Thursday 17 December 2020). It was a fairly cold affair with short tributes inside the AME Church in Park Avenue, Mitchells Plain, while the body remained outside in the hearse.

It was the first funeral I attended since the start of the lockdown. I had refused to attend previous funerals, even of close comrades and friends, since the start of the pandemic – and was hesitant about this one – but, in the end, I could not let Rachel Wilhemina Miller (née Fisher) leave this earth without saying my final goodbyes. Also, her death signalled the end of a generation.

Auntie Rachel was born on Thursday 20 September 1945 and died on Wednesday 9 December 2020. She was 75. She had all the comorbidities that you can imagine. Apart from her age, she also suffered from high blood pressure and diabetes. Her death was attributed to COVID-19.

Her funeral has shown me the reality of COVID-19. It comes in a week when so many people I know have been diagnosed with COVID-19 and a dear friend, Debbie Michels, died after testing positive.

According to her husband, Uncle Norman Miller, Auntie Rachel had died quickly after her condition began to deteriorate. The family had to go into quarantine and, as a result, was only able to begin arranging the funeral on Monday.

All those who attended – and the numbers were restricted – had to give their names, addresses and contact details beforehand. In the end, there were probably only about 50 people in the church.

When the hearse arrived, there were intense negotiations between family members (who wanted the body inside the church during the service), church officials and the hearse driver, who pointed out that, because it was a COVID-19 funeral, the body would not be allowed inside the church unless all the mourners, or at least the pall bearers, wore hazmat suits and other protective clothing. In the end, common sense prevailed, even though it did remove some of the intimacy of the funeral.

The only time the mourners could see the body – from a distance – was for a few minutes after the service when the rear door of the hearse was open so that people could say goodbye before the body was taken to the Klip Road cemetery in Grassy Park to be buried.

I kept on thinking about, and getting angry at, the many people who still walk around without wearing masks, without social distancing and without sanitising their hands. Unless they change their behaviour, many more families are going to have to say goodbye to their loved ones in such an impersonal manner.

No one likes wearing a mask, and no one likes having to say goodbye to a loved one under conditions where the body is not even allowed to be inside the church.

There was a fair amount of social distancing inside the church, with only close family members sitting next to each other, and everyone wore their mask, with only one or two people letting their noses stick out over their masks. The priest was the only one who took off his mask when he was about the make comments at the pulpit.

The sermon was evangelical and fiery, with the priest, Reverend Alistair Didloff, exhorting that there was “only one way, Jesus’s way”.  I thought about what the many Muslim family members and friends in the congregation thought about this but realised that, on the Cape Flats, there might be many forms of intolerance, but often religious intolerance is not part of it. Most Cape Flats families, including mine, consist of Muslims and Christians and they co-exist quite easily.

Two small pictures of Auntie Rachel were displayed in front of the pulpit, but the absence of the coffin was glaring. On the wall behind the priest was a cross and, written in red and in capital letters: God Our Father, Christ Our Redeemer, Man Our Brother.

Two tributes, delivered by friends, spoke about her involvement in the church and a substance abuse programme aimed at young people in Mitchells Plain and Strandfontein, where she lived. Both described her as someone who was quiet but strong.

As I listened to the tributes, I thought of my own memories of Auntie Rachel, or Baby as she was known by her siblings. It was a name that was adopted by many others. She was, of course, the youngest and, in typical Cape Flats style, she earned the moniker “Baby”. I don’t know at which point she was able to shake off that name.

My dad’s family came from a Moravian background. My grandfather was Carl Fisher, from Mamre, who was married to Magdalene Valentine, whose family was also from Mamre. They gave some of their children German- or Afrikaans-sounding first or second names. My dad’s brothers were Adolfus, Stefanus, Carl, Andrew and Robert and he had two sisters: Gertrude and Rachel. I am sure that Gertrude, Carl, Andrew and Robert also had German- or Afrikaans-sounding second names, as did my dad, whose name was John, but I believe he started off as Joseph. I also heard a rumour that his name might have been Johannes, but I have been unable to confirm this. The six brothers originally had three sisters, but the oldest sister, Gwendoline, died when she was about five or six.

Some of the children changed their names to more English-sounding ones when Oupa Carl (also known as Kallie) moved the family from the Moravian settlement in Mamre to Cape Town where he took on a job in the city’s parks and forest division. He worked there for the rest of his life.

Because she was the youngest of the Fisher siblings, Auntie Rachel was like an older sister to us, especially to my older brothers and sisters. In fact, she came to live with us in Athlone when she was about 15 years old and stayed until she was 21 when she moved in with my great-aunt, Caroline Dantu (née Valentine), my grandmother’s sister. I was a baby then but learned about this later.

Admittedly, we have not kept in touch much of the past few decades, but when my parents were alive, my dad’s siblings used to visit our house regularly.

Auntie Rachel married Norman Miller on 6 January 1973. They would have celebrated their 48th wedding anniversary next month. She leaves behind her two children, Mario and Abigail, three grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Their third child, Jerome, passed away a few years ago.

Auntie Rachel might not have been well-known or a public personality, but she affected those around her in a special way. Her death brings to the end a generation of Fishers, which means that my siblings and I, and our cousins, are now the last line in the family legacy. I hope that our words and actions will continue to have the blessings and support of those who went before us. Farewell, Auntie Rachel. May you rest in peace.

(Written especially for this website on Thursday, 17 December 2020)

The funeral programme.

The funeral programme.

A view of the pulpit, without the coffin.

A view of the pulpit, without the coffin.

The last goodbyes.

The last goodbyes.

Uncle Norman listening to the priest.

Uncle Norman listening to the priest.

Shine on, strong, quiet man of the newsroom

Ryland Fisher

Vincent Naidoo was not a well-known name outside the media industry, but he was respected by those who knew him or were privileged to work with him. In many ways, he knew much more about journalism and the media industry than many of the editors he had to serve over the past two or three decades. He was a silent force of strength behind many great editors.

Vincent passed away on Tuesday (1 December 2020), at the young age of 52, after suffering a heart attack and his memorial service was held today (Saturday 5 December 2020). Like many of his former colleagues, I watched the service online. I wished I could have been at the service in Johannesburg and I wished that many more people paid tribute to one of the silent giants of the media industry.

I worked with Vincent at the Sunday Times 25 years ago, but we kept in touch over the years. He was one of the people I made a point of catching up with whenever I visited Johannesburg in the days before COVID-19 when we could still fly all over with gay abandon. I also saw him a few times when he visited Cape Town on business.

I was an assistant editor at the Sunday Times in Johannesburg in 1993 when my editor, Ken Owen, asked me to take on the project to transition the newspaper to fourth-wave technology. What this meant was that we had to move away from producing the paper on our archaic ATEX machines to personal computers. This involved formatting software which would enable us to write our stories and design our pages on personal computers. We would no longer have to cut and paste but could do everything online.

I had no experience of coding but with the help of Vincent and his IT colleague, Harry Hall, we managed to pull off the great transition. The editor agreed to let a sub-editor, Doug Goldsmith, join the team and we worked literally 24/7 for the whole year. We became close friends in the process.

On the night when we were ready to go live with producing the whole of Business Times on the new system, the four of us (Vincent, Harry, Doug and me) stayed at the office waiting for the paper to start printing. It was a Friday night (Business Times gets printed before the main body of the paper) and at about 11pm, we were called by the printers because they were ready to start our print run.

We noticed a rather serious gremlin in the software which we had missed, despite severe testing and, for the first and last time in my life, I had to shout “Stop the press!” so that we could fix what was wrong. I think we got home at 3am and were back at work at 8am to work on the main body of the Sunday Times on its deadline day.

I left the Sunday Times at the end of that year (1994) because I was offered a promotion at a paper in Cape Town, but never lost touch with Vincent.

Often on my trips to Johannesburg, we would meet up in Rosebank, so that he could stroll over from where he was still working for the owners of the Sunday Times, until they moved and we had to find a place to meet which was convenient for both of us.

Vincent would tell me about the work he was doing, which was not limited to traditional IT, but often involved helping with the redesign of newspapers. We also spoke about some ventures that we could tackle together.

He was sad when he had to leave the company a few years ago and tried to do some entrepreneurial stuff. Earlier this year, he joined Fundudzi Media, who had just bought over Sunday World from Tiso Blackstar, who used to own the Sunday Times and other titles.

A few months ago, Vincent called me and we spoke about his new job at Sunday World. He was very excited about the envisioned changes at the paper. That was the last time we spoke.

At his memorial today, Kabelo Khumalo, who represented Sunday World and Fundudzi Media, spoke about how Vincent was a loyal and competent colleague, but how he could also tell everyone what they needed to do in the newsroom.

Having known Vincent for so many years and having shared many discussions with him about the media industry and our mutual love, newspaper design, I think that he earned the right to tell editors and others how to do their work. After all, he probably knew much more than most of them.

At memorials and funerals, you often hear things about former colleagues that you might not have experienced in the workplace. It was no different in Vincent’s case, as we heard about his love for his family, his propensity to fix things around the house, his “blue” swimming pool and his cooking skills. We heard that he was an intelligent man of few words.

We knew some of these things. We knew his loved his family, because he would always show pictures of them when we met. We knew that he was a mean cook because he often shared meals with us, and we suspected that he was the kind of guy who fixed stuff around the house. He was like that at work too. We knew him as the soft, silent type, but we had a lot of respect for his knowledge.

It was clear at the memorial that his family is devastated at their loss. The media industry is also much poorer with the passing of a man who preferred to operate in the background but who could easily outshine many of those who stole the limelight.

I wrote this piece because I felt that I needed to pay tribute to somebody who helped me a lot in my journalistic career, but who will probably not be acknowledged with any awards or a proper obituary. Go well, my friend. Rest in peace.

(Written for this website on Saturday, 5 December 2020)

It was all about fear, love in 1985

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.)

Reflecting on a significant strike 40 years later

Ryland Fisher

Forty years ago, on 24 October 1980, I had been working as a journalist for only about four months when we began a strike that would, in many ways, redefine the media industry. But it did not come without a heavy toll on many involved.

I was a young journalist with roots on the Cape Flats and strong links with activists in the anti-apartheid movement. In June that year I had joined a newspaper called the Cape Herald, which was owned by the white-owned Argus Company and which targeted the “coloured” community, a definition with which I did not feel comfortable. But the Cape Herald, because of its wide reach and impressive circulation figures, was an important vehicle to help spread news about the struggle.

It was not long before we realised that white journalists employed by the Argus Company, mainly at “white” newspapers such as the Cape Argus and The Star, earned twice as much as black people with the equivalent educational qualifications and/or experience working for the same company.

So, on Friday 24 October, normally a slow day at the Cape Herald, we met in the advertising department’s office on the third floor of the Argus Building (which later became known as Newspaper House, 122 St Georges Street, Cape Town, to discuss our grievances with management. This had been the culmination of many meetings, but it was the most significant.

Most of us had recently joined the Media Workers’ Association of South Africa (MWASA), which was the first time a formerly journalist organisation (the Writers’ Association of South Africa or WASA) had transformed itself into a trade union for all workers in the industry. Suddenly, the messengers, secretaries, advertising sales reps and others were all part of the same union with journalists and editors.

The meeting in the advertising department was tense, but also angry. Aneez Salie, my newsroom colleague who was our union leader, spoke about the discrepancies in pay between us (we were all people who would be described in apartheid language as coloured) and our white counterparts at the Cape Argus, who worked on the floor above us. He told us that management would not accede to our demands for pay parity.

After a while, our discussion turned to the action that we could take to force management to change the discriminatory remuneration policies. My memory (and I could be wrong) tells me that I was the one who proposed that we go on strike, which surprisingly found unanimous support among all those present. From my recollection, the only person who was not there, and who would probably not have supported the strike, was the editor, Ted Doman. Even the editor’s secretary was at the meeting.

Warren Ludski, who was our news editor, was among those at the meeting. Warren sent me a message last week, saying that he will never forget this meeting because he got married the next day (Saturday 25 October 1980) and went away on honeymoon to Johannesburg for a week. When he returned, he “went straight into strike mode”.

It was important that we went on strike when we did. The last weekly paper for the month was normally the biggest and most lucrative from an advertising perspective and we planned to have a special supplement on the newly built Mitchells Plain Town Centre in that edition. In fact, I had spent my day off, the Thursday before our meeting, interviewing traders for this supplement, which was obviously not published as planned.

The strike lasted more than six weeks, as far as I can remember, and involved us putting all kinds of pressure on management.

1980 was a crazy year for community organisations. There were all kinds of boycotts going on in different parts of the country, mainly related to labour or community issues. These included schools boycotts (which started in Hanover Park and quickly went national); a red meat boycott (in support of workers who were fired for going on strike at the abattoir in Cape Town); a bus boycott (in protest at City Tramways putting up their bus fares); and consumer boycotts of products such as Fattis&Monis and Wilson-Rowntree sweets, in support of workers who were fighting for better pay and working conditions.

We decided to feed into the boycott culture by calling for a boycott of the Cape Herald, which for the period of our strike was being produced by the editor with the help of scab labour. We got the support of the Western Cape Traders’ Association, the biggest representative organisation for traders on the Cape Flats.

But we did not just leave it at that. We went to various shops on the Cape Flats and convinced the shopkeeper to accept delivery of the paper when it arrived on the Monday evening or Tuesday morning and again the Wednesday evening. (The paper had two editions a week, on Monday and Wednesday.) But we told the shopkeepers not to display the papers and not to sell it to anyone. As a result, when the newspaper distributors came to fetch the returns of the paper, they had to leave with all the copies. Not one was sold.

The support that we enjoyed among traders and community organisations was one of the key factors which made management concede to our demand for parity a few weeks after we decide to go on strike.

I was one of the happiest people at the Cape Herald: my pay increased from R250 to R500 a month.

But, while we were happy with management meeting some of our demands and decided to go back to work after a long and exhausting strike, our decision was not supported by colleagues in Johannesburg and Durban who had gone on a sympathy strike, but had added some of their own demands.

They saw our going back as a betrayal of the strike. I remember one of the union’s national leaders, Joe Thloloe, coming from Johannesburg in an attempt to convince us to continue the strike. He had to return with his mission unaccomplished.

We felt that we had done our bit. We had sacrificed for many weeks and needed to return to work after achieving a considerable victory. We needed to do this also to hold on to the unity that we had built among the Cape Herald staff before and during the strike.

The additional demands included that all strikers should be paid for the period of the strike and that management sign a national agreement with Mwasa.

Most of the journalists at the Cape Herald could see the logic in an extended strike – to push for complete victory – but we had to take into consideration the views of those who did not have the strong anti-apartheid views and beliefs in social justice that we had. Most of these people were found in departments other than editorial.

Our main argument in favour of returning to work was that we led the strike and we should have the right to determine when to go back. Having won a considerable pay increase, which was at the heart of our demands, represented a good enough reason to call off the strike.

The national strike, which started as a support action, eventually petered out and left Mwasa much weaker than it was before the strike. In the end, only a handful of mainly journalists remained on strike, having alienated many of their colleagues. The union never recovered from that setback and, with hindsight, would probably agree that our decision to go back when we did was correct.

In the immediate aftermath of the strike, there were serious tensions between the Cape Herald staff and journalists from other parts of the country, particularly Johannesburg and Durban, who felt that we had betrayed them. It took years to rebuild the trust and the good relationship that we had developed in forming the new union.

Unfortunately, many of the salary victories we won in 1980 have been undone over the past 40 years, with some media companies finding new and innovative ways to introduce pay disparity between blacks and whites and between men and women. In many ways, we are back to before 1980, with the difference being that pay disparities are no longer only driven by race, but also by gender and class. If you are a woman or from a working-class background, you are likely to be offered a lower salary than if you are a man from a middle-class background.

Media freedom is a complex issue and fingers are often pointed at those, especially people in government, who try to interfere with the workings of the media. But media freedom is as basic as making sure that journalists and others in industry are paid properly so that they can focus on delivering an important service to society: to make sure that everyone has the opportunity to be informed, educated and entertained. Much like we did at the Cape Herald before and after the groundbreaking strike of 1980.

(Written as a blog for this website on Wednesday, 21 October 2020)

Time to put the 'diener' back into the police force

Ryland Fisher

Growing up on the Cape Flats about half a century ago, we had many names for policemen, most of them derogatory. We would sometimes call them “boere”, which could be translated from Afrikaans into farmers, but which means white in this context. We would also call them “varke” or pigs. Sometimes we would call them “mapuza” which I believe is a Xhosa slang word.

But there was one word which we often used to refer to the good policemen who one would encounter from time to time. The word was “diener”, which roughly translates from Afrikaans into “servant” or “server”.

If one has to believe all the negative reporting around police activities recently, including large-scale corruption, then it appears that the dieners have lost out and the mapuzas, boere and varke have taken over the running of the police force.

How else does one explain the details that have come to the fore around the assassination of gang investigator Lieutenant-Colonel Charl Kinnear, who was gunned down in the driveway of his Bishop Lavis home in broad daylight two weeks ago?

While the investigations are still continued, there are early and eerie indications that elements in the police force might have been involved. A suspect has been arrested and has been charged with murder, but more arrests are imminent, if police sources are to be believed.

One hopes that the bluster displayed by police minister Bheki Cele at Kinnear’s funeral last Saturday will lead to some positive action. Cele undertook to get rid of rotten apples in the police services. But this is something that we have heard before, not only from Cele but also his predecessors.

How else does one explain the police’s seeming inability to stop the persistent gang violence on the Cape Flats and elsewhere that has cost thousands of lives over the years? It seems like the more honourable policemen such as Lt Col Kinnear do to counter gang violence, the more their work is undermined by rotten policemen who derive benefit from the ill-gotten gains of gangs.

How else does one explain the continued corruption at all levels of the police? According to Corruption Watch, almost 10 percent of their whistleblower reports last year related to the police, making it the biggest sinner in the public service as far as corruption is concerned.

Corruption Watch’s executive director David Lewis believes, “If we are to tackle corruption, and many other social ills like gender-based violence it is necessary that there be trust in the police”.

Since South Africa became a democracy more than 26 years ago, we have seen the police services embroiled in one controversy after the other. It has been difficult to keep up, with successive national police commissioners being disgraced, and incidents like the arrest of 42 people, including 22 police officers, in Pretoria a few days ago for allegedly looting R85 million of state funds.

Sometimes one would wonder aloud about when the police became so corrupt and lost the trust of the public. The truth is that it is not a phenomenon of the past two or three decades. It is something that has been going on for years.

The relationship that most people in South Africa had with the police during the days of apartheid was different because the police were perceived to be propping up the apartheid mechanisms. They were often in the frontline of the defence of apartheid, whether it was through beating up protesters or arresting and sometimes killing opponents of apartheid. It was almost natural that we would have an adversarial relationship with the police and that we would not trust them.

Like so many other institutions of government, we had high hopes that post-apartheid police would be different. We were supposed to trust them when we reported crimes, that they would investigate, and that they would protect us.

We had hoped that the first description that would come to mind when thinking or talking about the police in post-apartheid South Africa would be “diener” because they would truly have become servants of the people.

Instead, we have seen how confidence in the police have been eroded over the years.

There are some people who argue that they reason police are so easily corruptible is because they earn so little, making it easier for them to fall to the temptation of dirty money offered to them by criminals.

But it is much more than that. Being a policeman is supposed to be about more than money. It is supposed to be about service. It’s about being a “diener”. There are many other professions where the money is little, but the people still practise their craft to the best of their ability. Money can solve some things, but not everything.

There are many things that will need to happen to change the culture in the police force to one where service becomes the most important thing. One of it is to change the mindset of policemen from the top to the bottom.

We will never be able to change the mindset of the majority of policemen if this change does not come from the top. If the leadership is perceived to be corrupt, then what’s to stop the rank and file from following suit? Unless we have urgent changes in the police services, we will never be able to deal with the rampant crime in our society.

One can only hope that some day soon most policemen will live up to the name “diener” and will truly be servants of the people.

(Written as a blog for this website on Tuesday, 6 October 2020)

Is there any hope for the ANC?

Ryland Fisher

At a recent webinar hosted by the Mitchells Plain Development Action Collective on the history of the United Democratic Front (UDF) – which was formed in Mitchells Plain on 20 August 1983, 37 years ago – former ANC deputy general secretary and UDF leader Cheryl Carolus justified her continued support for the ANC, even in its flawed state, with words along the lines of: “We will not allow tsotsis to steal our history and our contribution. We have sacrificed too much to give up on the ANC.”

Many who were tuned into the webinar, mainly former activists who were involved in the UDF (which led internal resistance against apartheid until it was disbanded by the ANC after the organisation was unbanned in 1990) nodded in agreement. In some ways it signalled a desperation among those who grew up politically in the ANC for the organisation to reform itself from the ugly creature it had become in the past 26 years of democracy, with a process that started even before Jacob Zuma became president more than a decade ago.

There are many people, including me, who supported the ANC during the struggle against apartheid and who have been desperately clinging onto reasons to continue supporting Africa’s oldest liberation movement as we have seen a decline in political leadership and morality over the past two decades and a bit.

Over the past 10 years or so, specially since Jacob Zuma took over the ANC presidency from Thabo Mbeki, there have been some former ANC supporters or activists who left for what they assumed would be better, and I suppose more honest, political prospects, but many have since returned. There are others who have left but would like to return.

No one is quite sure when the rot started, but it could be around the time of the arms deal scandal, for which the only high-profile “victim” appears to have been Tony Yengeni, who served time for fraud: he was found guilty of accepting a discount on a luxury car during a tender process for the arms deal which he was supposed to oversee as a member of the parliamentary committee on defence.

Yengeni was sentenced to four years in prison in the mid-2000s but served only four months in the modern prison in Malmesbury. If proper justice had been done, one supposes he would have been sent to the overcrowded Pollsmoor Prison in Tokai.

But Yengeni’s star in the ANC has not dimmed, despite his conviction. He remains on the national executive committee, the ANC’s highest decision-making body outside of their national conferences.

The only other person who could be seen to have been a “victim” of the arms deal and related corruption was Jacob Zuma’s former benefactor and friend, Schabir Shaik. He was found guilty in 2005 on two charges of fraud and corruption in a trial in which the main feature was the perception of the “generally corrupt relationship” he enjoyed with Zuma. Evidence was heard during the trial of politicians seeking kickbacks from companies that had benefited from the arms deal.

Shaik, of course, was found to be “terminally ill” in 2009 and released from prison after serving just over two years of a 15-year sentence for fraud and corruption. More than 10 years later, he is sometimes seen on golf courses or fighting with strangers in parking areas of mosques.

Zuma lost his position as Deputy President of the country as a result of this case, when he was fired by Mbeki, who he later fired as President of the country when he became president of the ANC. After installing Kgalema Motlanthe as caretaker President for less than a year, Zuma finally took over the country’s number one position in 2009 and lasted almost two full terms before being removed by the ANC now led by Cyril Ramaphosa.

The arms deal started while Nelson Mandela was President – and this does not mean that Mandela knew or was involved – but the corruption only really came to the fore while Mbeki was serving his second five-year term in office. Corruption in government appears to have escalated over the past decade.

While I understand the position of people like Cheryl Carolus and others in the ANC veterans group who have been pushing for reforms in the organisation, it is difficult to justify continued support for any organisation with so many rotten eggs. There are many hard-working, honest people in the ANC, but their good work is being undone by the shenanigans of those who have only their selfish, corrupt interests at heart.

It has become so bad that one is unable to keep track of the number of corruption allegations senior people – and some who are not so senior – in the ANC face. It is also difficult to keep up with the amounts mentioned. When one hears allegations, whether at the Zondo Commission or in the media, that billions have been squandered by this or that “comrade”, it becomes just another number, even though it is a number that most people cannot fathom, or it would be enough to feed a few villages for a couple of years.

Whenever there are arrests and prosecutions, like in the case of former member of parliament Vincent Smith this week, our hopes go up that maybe, just maybe, there is hope that the ANC will come right.

Over this weekend, the ANC is having another crucial (aren’t they all?) meeting of its national executive committee and some political commentators are hoping that corruption will be discussed. From the agenda, it looks like the focus will be on the “extraordinary measures” needed to rebuild the economy. The cynical among us are already seeing images in our heads of comrades licking their fingers at the prospect of having more opportunities to loot the state.

Many of us are going to be disappointed again when the ANC’s top six report back on their meeting on Tuesday or Wednesday next week or as details leak over the next few days. I suspect that there will be more promises, but no real action.

In a perfect world, with our progressive Constitution, we should have been much closer than we are to the South Africa we promised our people, during the struggle and in the first few elections of our democracy. But the best plans can be waylaid by bad implementation and bad intentions. I don’t think any of us anticipated the levels of corruption that we have seen.

The ANC is an important organisation, not only because of the role it played in the liberation of our country, but also in the important role it played in determining the kind of society towards which we should be striving.

Not many of us considered during the struggle that the party who led the struggle might possibly not be the correct choice to govern after liberation.

But what other choices did we have? What other choices do we have at the moment?

I have always thought that the best opposition to the ANC would have to come from inside the ANC, but after looking at the performance of COPE and the EFF, I have reviewed my thinking. Both have their flaws: the one has no show, the other is all show, but there appears to be nothing concrete or constructive in anything they do.

The less said about the DA, the better.

The best opposition to the ANC will be one that is truly mass based (and here I am not talking about Twitter followers), embraces the values that are enshrined in our Constitution and are prepared to listen to what so-called ordinary people have to say.

The ANC, like all other political parties, has become an organisation for the elite. It caters to the needs of its upper- and middle-class members and forgets the poor people who vote for it election after election.

In some ways the ANC has gone back, or maybe it never was any different, to the organisation of middle-class gentlemen it was when it was founded as the South African Native National Congress in Bloemfontein on 8 January 1912.

Over the past few years, while reflecting on the waywardness of the ANC and listening to hundreds of people involved in all kinds of amazing activities in many parts of our country, I have realised that the best way to put pressure on the ANC and other political parties (because they are all bad to a greater or lesser degree) is by building strong community and civil society organisations which can hold parties to account at all times and not only when there are elections. If we do this properly, political parties will be forced to listen better and act more responsibly.

I have always believed that the best way to counter crime is by catching criminals, making sure that they are brought to justice quickly and, if convicted, making sure that they complete their prison sentences.

The same should apply to politicians. They are less likely to commit acts or fraud and corruption if they know that they will be held accountable and, if they transgress, they will be prosecuted and convicted.

There is nothing that deters people with criminal intent more than the prospect of spending time in prison and, unfortunately, there are many criminals and potential criminals in the ANC. And there are enough equally corrupt people in business who are willing to encourage them to break the law.

For the sake of people like Carolus, who gave most of their lives to help build the ANC and its fraternal organisations, I hope that the party can be saved, even though I do not hold out much hope.

(Written as a blog for this website on Friday 2 October 2020)

Let our beautiful heritage unite and not divide us

Ryland Fisher

When you look at me, what do you see? When you listen to me, what do you hear?

We all have our prejudices and pre-conceived notions of those who do not look or sound like us and it becomes particularly glaring for me in the week when we, as South Africans, celebrate Heritage Day.

Heritage is important. It tells the story of where we come from and it should be able to help us navigate our way to where we want to be.

But, in our attempt to identify our heritage, we often end up focusing on the things that make us different as opposed to the things we have in common.

Our heritage is inextricably linked to our culture and identity. It could lay the framework for liberation, but it could also lead to stigmatisation and prejudice because of the narrow definitions attached to the three: heritage, identity and culture.

Identity should be about what makes you unique, but quite often identity is used to put people into boxes which are associated, in a limited manner, with certain cultural and other behaviours.

For instance, when people look at me, they might see a man who is of a certain age and a certain skin colour. Based on that, they will make assumptions about what I should be interested in, and it could have to do with anything, from the kind of food I am supposed to like to the kind of music I am supposed to listen to.

Years ago, when I worked at Newspaper House in Durban, I remember going to the staff canteen and noticing that they had three lunch offerings: one with fish and salad (which, I learnt from canteen staff, was meant for whites); one with curry and rice (aimed at Indians); and one with meat and pap (meant for Africans).

Of course, I confused the canteen staff (and they were not too blame because they were merely following orders) when I ordered meat and pap. The woman behind the counter told me politely, “that is not meant for you”.

I asked what was meant for me and she said I should try the fish and salad. She assumed that I would be most comfortable with the meal meant for whites. She had no idea how much I love curries and would have preferred for her to recommend that I have that instead. But I stuck to the meat and pap.

I like music, and always have, but I have no real preference for any one genre of music. What I listen to depends on my mood. Sometimes I like classical or jazz or hip hop or R&B. Sometimes I listen to rock. Most of the time I like local music, irrespective of whether it originated in Soweto or on the Cape Flats. I even enjoy listening to gospel music from time to time.

But I grew up on the Cape Flats and have strong memories of listening to singers like Elvis Presley and Cliff Richard, the young Michael Jackson and Donny Osmond. I also remember, as a youngster, listening to artists such as Richard Jon Smith, Lionel Petersen, The Rockets, Margaret Singana, Harare and others.

At some point, I lived across the road from the house where a minstrel troupe would practise, so I learned the words to all the moppies and other songs they sang. Sometimes, I can still hear these moppies in my head and find myself singing along silently.

Growing up on the Cape Flats also meant that there was always a blurring of religious activity and affiliation. All my friends, Muslims and Christians, attended Muslim school and Sunday school, and we learned to sing the songs they sang at Muslim prayer services and in church.

All of this impacted on the identity that I would develop and taking bits from each of these experiences, whether it be in terms of food, music or other activities, has made me a better person, I believe. It is difficult to box me because of my being exposed to so many different experiences.

Identity is not only about the way you look or sound. It is about much more. It is about what finds resonance inside you. So, if I want to eat pap and meat and listen to ghoema music the one day; and eat curry while listening to hip hop the next day, it should be fine. No one should be restricted in their choices because people might have bestowed a certain identity on them.

Identity can play itself out in various ways and sometimes it is possible for different parts of your identity to conflict with other parts. Identity can be based on politics, culture, social issues, the environment, language and many more. There is no rule that says that one should only stick to one identity.

For instance, I could describe myself as a man, as black, as a father and grandfather, as a journalist and a former editor, as a political being, as someone who is fascinated by race and diversity, as an expired activist, as a couch potato sports fan, as someone who grew up Afrikaans but took a conscious decision to speak English, as a failed golfer, as a bad Scrabble player, as an average guitar player, etc. All of these things, and more, are part of my identity and could define me sometimes but not all the time.

Of course, it is possible that anyone who looks at me might come up with a completely different set of identity markers. That is their right, just like it is my right to choose the identity markers with which I feel comfortable.

My involvement in the United Democratic Front in the 1980s is part of my political heritage.

My involvement in the United Democratic Front in the 1980s is part of my political heritage.

Culture is something that can sometimes be used in a negative way, especially in a country with a troubled history such as South Africa. Culture, often used in tandem with tradition, often refers to those things which are unique to certain groups. The problem quite often happens if you dissociate yourself from some of these cultural features, despite sharing some characteristics with a certain group.

Quite often, cultural identity gets morphed with other identities. For instance, just because you share a cultural identity with someone does not necessarily mean you share a political identity.

Heritage, in some ways, is the ability to sift through all of this and to look for the beautiful things that we would like to preserve. But heritage should go beyond this and should go beyond personal identity and culture. Heritage should also include our history and our environment. How we leave the world for future generations is part of our heritage.

Heritage should never be used as a weapon against people who might look and sound different to you.

One of the biggest problems with Heritage Day is that people expect you to dress and act in a certain way, based on your perceived heritage.

My heritage is a combination of many factors. They include food, music, culture, religion, language, politics and many more. Don’t judge me if I focus on any of them at what could look like the expense of others.

On Heritage Day, I might decide to dress up in Khoi traditional gear, I might decide to listen to Kwaito music, I might decide to braai and have deep conversations about the state of our politics and our economy. Or I might just cuddle up in bed and listen to classical music or binge-watch a television series.

South African heritage is beautiful and we must learn to embrace it instead of being scared by things we might not know anything about – yet. As we celebrate Heritage Day on Thursday, don’t be scared to explore and engage. We will all be better off if we understand where we come from. It could help us on our journey into the future.

(Written as a blog especially for this website on Tuesday, 22 September 2020)

Farewell to my larger-than-life friend who refused to be boxed

Ryland Fisher

Easily one of the most progressive people I have ever met is an Episcopal (Anglican) priest who grew  up in America’s Deep South, in the kind of small town where white nationalism thrives and, not too long ago, black people were being lynched for merely being black.

But the Reverend Kent “Buck” Belmore was never one to fit into boxes and when I met him in 2003, he was running a busy church in Atlanta, Georgia, a predominantly black city. He quickly became one of my best friends and his family became my second family who I love almost as much as my own.

Buck was one of the most colourful characters that I have ever met. He lived life in an uninhibited manner, driven by a huge love for humanity. His actions would sometimes make other people in the priesthood feel uncomfortable. He had a huge influence on me and we hit it off immediately, even though we came from very different backgrounds. We disagreed on many things, but we agreed on the core values one needed to serve people in whatever capacity. He taught me that skin colour does not necessarily impact on whether you become progressive or not.

Buck passed away from organ failure in Las Vegas, Nevada, late on Saturday afternoon, at the age of 68. It would have been early Sunday morning in South Africa.

When Buck’s wife, Connie Dee, called me on Saturday morning, SA time, to tell me he was in hospital, I knew it would not be long before she called me again, which she did on Sunday morning to confirm the worst.

I met Buck the first time when I was offered a Research Fellowship at the Center for the Study of Public Scholarship at Emory University in 2003. Through my good friend, the Reverend Courtney Sampson, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu, I learned about this priest in Atlanta who had been the Archbishop’s chaplain when he was recovering from colon cancer in Atlanta. As chaplain, Buck would pray with Archbishop Tutu every morning.

After we were introduced via email, Buck called me to ask when I was going to arrive in Atlanta. I gave him a rough idea but did not confirm the time or day.

After I arrived and had settled into the apartment where I was going to stay for the next few months of my fellowship, I called Buck. He was disappointed because he wanted to fetch me at the airport.

“I would have been the guy with the huge South African flag,” he said. From my experience with him later, I knew that he would have done that. He was always larger than life. But he also loved South Africa and considered moving here after he retired from the priesthood.

We connected almost from my first day in Atlanta and I ended up spending most of my free time with Buck, Connie Dee and their beautiful children, Thomas and Sarah. It helped that their home was just down the road from my apartment and my office. They adopted me and I adopted them.

With the Belmores at their home in Atlanta in 2003.

With the Belmores at their home in Atlanta in 2003.

One time, Buck and Connie Dee had to go out of town and asked me to pop in as often as possible to see their children, even though they had hired a babysitter. One day, I received a call at their house, which I thought was strange. The person on the other end of the line started speaking to me in Afrikaans and I realised very quickly that it was Archbishop Tutu. He was flying through Atlanta to see his daughter and wanted me to join them for supper that evening. It was an offer I could not refuse and that night I braved driving Buck’s car on the American roads (they drive on the opposite side to us in South Africa). It was one of the most enjoyable dinners I had. It also gave me a great insight into the thinking of Archbishop Tutu.

When I left Atlanta, there were tears all around the Belmore residence because we all thought it was going to be the last time they would see me. But we saw each other a few times after that, in South Africa when Buck came to visit with some of his family members or in America when I visited them.

Buck was very proud of his church in Atlanta, and told me about how his conservative mother came to visit him one day and said, “Buck, my son, when are you going to get you a real church?”.

Just before I left Atlanta, Buck got a visit from a church council delegation from Mobile, Alabama, one of the towns in the Deep South. They wanted him to become the priest at their church. We talked about it a long time and Buck eventually decided to make the move to Mobile. He justified his decision on the basis that they had a good outreach programme and, of course, the money was better.

The family moved to Mobile and, as Buck started preaching and word got out about this progressive priest, more black people, gays and poor people started coming to the church, which upset the church hierarchy. It turned out that while they might have had a good outreach programme, they did not really believe in reaching in. They did not want blacks, gays and poor people to come to their church.

Buck also upset the church hierarchy with his political statements and once, when Barack Obama came to speak in Alabama during his first election campaign, Buck was asked to do the opening prayers, which also did not have the approval of the church hierarchy. He was also openly supportive of trade unions and other progressive organisations.

The relationship with the church in Mobile lasted just over a year and then Buck found himself unemployed and stuck in Mobile, because none of the churches to which he applied would offer him a position. Strangely, he would be shortlisted, but not get called for interviews. He discovered later that the Mobile church leadership had intervened in his attempts to find other work.

I remember once having to go to a meeting in New York and I decided to spend a few days extra so that I could visit Buck in Mobile. It was quite a mission getting there, with a flight from Newark Airport to Atlanta and then a connecting flight to Pensacola in Florida, followed by an hour’s car drive to Mobile.

But it felt good to connect with my friend and to see his family again. He shared with me all the drama that happened in Mobile.

When I returned to South Africa shortly before Christmas, I arranged to have supper with Courtney Sampson and Archbishop Tutu to inform them of Buck’s plight. I didn’t know whether this was proper, but I asked the Archbishop whether he could use his influence in America to find Buck a home in the church. I also asked him to call Buck to show his support, to which he agreed.

A day after Christmas, I received a call from Buck to tell me that he had been offered a job to become the prison chaplain in Las Vegas. He also told me that Archbishop Tutu had called him on Christmas Day.

The last time I saw Buck and his family was in 2010 when my wife and I went to spend some time with them in Las Vegas to coincide with my 50th birthday. It was a memorable trip because it coincided with Sarah’s high school graduation ceremony, which was a great experience. Buck had arranged for an Elvis impersonator to meet us at the airport, we attended some shows and spent some time together at the Grand Canyon. I also visited his place of work, the local prison, where I realised that prisoners throughout the world have a lot in common, but the ones in America seemed scarier than the ones I experienced in South Africa.

Since then, I have been trying to get back to America to visit, but, as the rand declined in value, it became more and more difficult to pay for personal overseas trips and I was doing less academic and corporate travel.

But we spoke often on the phone because Buck could never get his head around technology.

In all our calls, we would express our love for each other. When I spoke to Connie Dee and Sarah on Sunday morning SA time, we did the same. The words “I love you” were important to Buck because it underlined everything he did in life. He loved unconditionally and based his service to humanity on this. One day I hope that I will be able to do the same.

Rest in peace, my friend. The angels have no idea what they are letting themselves in for.

(Written especially as a blog for this website on Sunday 20 September 2020)

Buck in full voice at a party in Cape Town during one of his visits.

Buck in full voice at a party in Cape Town during one of his visits.

The President’s lonely Jerusalema dance

Ryland Fisher

One of my biggest take-outs from President Cyril Ramaphosa’s address to the nation on Wednesday night was that he expected all of us to do the Jerusalema dance challenge on Heritage Day. My reaction to the speech is a bit flippant, I know, but I have been struggling to take politicians seriously for most of my life, and especially over the past few months.

As the lockdown regulations, instituted to halt the spread of the coronavirus, reduced from Level 5 to Level 1 over the past few months, so has confidence in the government, the ANC as the governing party, and the leadership of President Ramaphosa.

It was a mere six months ago when almost everyone in South Africa, along with international organisations such as the World Health Organisation (Who), congratulated the President and government for their decisive action in dealing with the COVID-19 pandemic.

But, if a week is a long time in politics, six months is a lifetime. 

The announcements made by the President in Wednesday’s speech could turn out to be the best thing for our country. It could also turn out to be the worst thing.

That has been part of the problem that the President has had to deal with during this crisis. Closing down a country to save lives does not sit well with the populace when you are destroying jobs in the process.

The President has not been helped by what appears to be deliberate attempts by people who appear to be in a different faction to him in the ANC undermining him and his government at every twist and turn. He has also not been helped by Ministers, some of them in his camp, who have come across as completely ineffective and inefficient during this crisis.

I understand that the President, in his speech on Wednesday night, had to deal with attempts to get the economy back on its feet, especially after the damning information from Stats SA last week which showed that the country’s Gross domestic product (GDP) had shrunk by just over 16 per cent between the first and second quarters of 2020, mainly attributed to the lockdown in response to the threat of the coronavirus.

I listened attentively as he went into great detail about the return of international flights, in a sense trying to convince himself as much as trying to convince us. It was like he was trying to say, “I know overseas tourists probably brought the virus to our country, but we need their dollars and Euros.”

This was probably the most difficult decision that the President and his band of advisers had to take in the past week. Opening the country’s borders means it is highly likely that there could be new imports of the virus, even though he was at pains to say that no one would be allowed to visit from high-risk countries. I wonder how American president Donald Trump will respond when South Africa tries to block American citizens from entering our country? A not-so-gentle nudge from the leader of the world’s biggest economy could quickly see South Africa changing its stance on the countries from which it will allow visitors. America, of course, leads the Covid-19 infection rates by a country mile.

I understand the logic for allowing more people to attend funerals and events, but I was disappointed that he said nothing about relief for the arts and culture sector, whose members had protested in Cape Town and Pretoria in the morning. He also said nothing about sport, which convinced me once again that the President and the government have no clue about the business potential of the two industries.

Arts and Culture is more than just something to entertain people or about drawing pretty pictures, and sport is about much more than two people or teams competing against each other on a sportsfield, something using balls or different shapes and sizes, and sometimes using only their physical strength. Both have shown that they have great economic potential and should be taken more seriously by government, especially one who is desperately trying to convince young people to vote for them. If government cannot support arts, culture and sport for the role they play in uplifting the nation, then maybe they should look at its economic potential.

It is ironic that the only reference to arts and culture was what seemed like a poor attempt to jump onto the bandwagon of the global Jerusalema dance craze. At the time of writing, something like 130 million people internationally had already viewed videos of the song created by producer Master KG with singer Nomcebo Zikode.

It was good to hear that business and labour appeared to be working together to come up with a solution to our country’s economic problems. Often the two are at odds about the economy, even though both are elites. The unions would not like to admit it, but they are elitist by virtue of representing workers who have jobs. Often in these discussions, the voices of the unemployed, who are fast becoming one of South Africa’s biggest constituencies, are not heard.

I was less happy that the President chose not to address the huge elephant in the room more aggressively: what is being done to bring to justice the many people, some of them in government, who have looted the money meant for Covid-19 relief? We don’t only want to know about monitoring that is happening now. We need to know what will happen to the people who have already stolen millions, if not billions.

The President could also have given more of an indication of how he intends to deal with incompetent ministers or those who intentionally set out to undermine him during this difficult time. One of the ministers who come to mind is the Minister of Defence, whose actions in taking an ANC delegation with her on an official trip to Zimbabwe could be seen as a slap in the face of the President’s attempts to promote clean governance.

The more he allows ministers like Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula to defy him with apparent impunity, the more his credibility will suffer. It is not enough that the ANC intends to pay for the trip. Everything about it is just wrong.  

It is time for the President to rise above his position in the ANC and to give priority to his position as leader of the country. That will mean taking decisions in the interest of the country that might upset his comrades in the ANC.

If he does that, I might even be tempted to join him in a Jerusalema dance on Heritage Day, even though I have two left feet.

(Written as a blog especially for this website on Thursday, 17 September 2020)

Many unanswered questions in evocative short film

Ryland Fisher

Watching Address Unknown, the evocative short film written by Anton Fisher (no relation) and directed by Nadine Cloete, as part of the Durban International Film Festival over the weekend, left one angry and uncomfortable, and feeling the need to watch it again as soon as there is another opportunity.

The 24-minute film is beautifully shot in parts of Woodstock that resemble the old District Six and the characters, with their minimalistic dialogue, transport you to a time and place not too long ago when the people of District Six were being forcibly removed from the outskirts of Cape Town’s CBD to the unfriendly sand-swept townships on the Cape Flats. The simple guitar music, played by members of the Cape Cultural Collective, with its ghoema-based melancholy, adds to the construction of an image of a time gone by.

The story is simple: a postman called Joey has to mark many letters as “Address Unknown” because the District Six houses where they were supposed to be delivered does not exist anymore and there is no record of where the old residents are. The houses were bulldozed as soon as its inhabitants were removed.

The letters are supposed to be returned to the postal depot but, at the end of the movie, we see the white postmaster, a young white man who Joey calls “Baas”, burning the letters in a fire. One can only imagine the love stories, the financial dilemmas, the academic achievements, the health updates, the family relationships and many others that were burnt in that fire.

Joey holds on to some letters, addressed to his best friend, Ebie, who was moved to Bonteheuwel on the Cape Flats, but who he has not heard of since. The postman, Joey, then sets off via public transport to Bonteheuwel to find his friend to hand him the letters but also to rekindle their friendship.

Ironically, Joey, who would have been classified as “coloured” under apartheid, also lives in District Six and faces forced removal like everybody else in the community. The post office will be closed and, very soon, letters to him will also be marked “Address Unknown”.

For me, the scenes where Joey speaks to his white boss, brought back memories of going to work as a teenager with my father, a labourer at a shopfitting company, and hearing him address the white bosses as “Baas” or “Meneer” (the more liberal ones) while they called him by his first name. That humiliation of my father in part inspired me to find ways of actively opposing apartheid in the 1970s.

The backdrop to this short film is growing anger against apartheid, as seen by protests in Bonteheuwel where Ebie’s political awareness has grown. When they eventually meet, he tries to convince Joey to join the struggle against apartheid.

Because it is only 24 minutes long, many things are left unsaid, which is the mark of good short films.

Hopefully as this film makes its way around the international film festival circuit, there will be more opportunities to watch it online. But this is the kind of film that should be screened at schools and universities across the country, followed by discussions about the damage done by apartheid to our country. It could also be used in corporates to develop a greater sense of our apartheid history.

The barren land that was once District Six stands as testimony to the story told in Address Unknown. It is as relevant today as it was then.

(First published as a blog on this website on Monday, 14 September 2020)

District Six Museum: keeping our memories alive

Ryland Fisher

Next year, on 11 February, it will be 55 years since District Six was declared a white group area and, soon afterwards, government officials accompanied by bulldozers and police, began the process of forcibly removing from the area more than 60 000 residents who were not classified white under apartheid.

Homes were demolished by bulldozers almost as soon as the inhabitants were placed on the back of trucks with their belongings and taken to destinations on the Cape Flats where they were housed in smaller, more cramped houses with few amenities and far away from their places of work. The resentment and anger were soon overcome by new feelings of fear as the residents realised that they would now have to deal with a whole new package of scourges, such as gangsterism and drugs, teenage pregnancies, gender-based violence and other evils which flourish in overcrowded, compact spaces.

Many of these new residents of places such as Hanover Park, Manenberg, Heideveld, Langa and Mitchells Plain survived mainly because they had hope that one day they would be able to return to District Six, the place they loved and called home.

I remember going to Gatesville in the early 1980s to visit Naz Ebrahim, one of the women who had resisted removal from District Six until the very end. She told me that she had to give away some of her furniture because it could not fit into her new house.

The government’s plans were to build houses for whites in the repossessed area which they renamed Zonnebloem, but these plans never materialised, in part because of strong community resistance to these plans, led by people such as Ebrahim.

So, over the years and still today, the memory of District Six is kept alive by the barren land that is standing out like a sore thumb close to the Cape Town city centre. By not building on the land, the apartheid government unintentionally helped to keep the area’s memory alive.

On the outskirts of District Six, closer to the city centre, another institution has been helping to keep the area’s memory and history alive since it opened its doors as our country entered its democracy. The District Six Museum has done this without any government support and has done well until being forced to close temporarily – like most of the economy – when the lockdown started in March 2020. Now there are fears that the museum might be forced to close permanently as it struggles to get back on its feet as the economy slowly reopens.

Before the lockdown, the museum was thriving, with thousands of people, local and international, taking advantage of this opportunity to learn about the history of the area. Since the reopening, the museum has struggled to reach anywhere near the pre-lockdown figures.

The museum has started a public campaign in which it is asking people to make donations of any size to help them keep their doors open. They suggest that donations start at R50, the normal prize of entry fee. Donations can be made by EFT to their Standard Bank account 0707 293686, branch code 020 909. The Swift code for foreign donations is SBZ AZA JJ.

My own association with District Six and the District Six Museum stretches over many decades. I was not born in District Six, but I spent a significant part of my youth in the area, visiting family and friends before they were all removed. It was strange, especially in the 1970s, to visit family or friends the one week only to discover the following week that they had been forcibly removed and their house razed to the ground.

I have fond memories of celebrating new year in District Six, waiting in Hanover Street for the klopse troepe, especially the Acha Americans to walk past. I remember, as a little boy, being chased down Hanover Street by the voorloeper of the Achas, dressed in a red devil’s outfit and carrying a fork made of wood. I also have fond memories of sleepovers at friends or family and appreciating being so close to the city centre and also Table Mountain which is a big feature of many of our lives in Cape Town.

In more recent years, my association with District Six has been in support of my parents-in-law who have been desperately trying to move back to the area. For more than 20 years, my father-in-law has been going to meeting after meeting to hear about the progress with regards to the development of the area. Now 85, he fears that he might not be alive by the time he is granted a house in the area where he grew up.

The District Six Museum, and in particular the District Six Homecoming Centre, where they have all their public meetings, have become a huge part of my life over the past few years. I probably visited the venue a couple of times a month before lockdown to attend one of their interesting programmes and I have been honoured to host a number of dialogues at the Homecoming Centre and relate my story to one of their monthly Supper Club meetings where, as usual, one could enjoy the most delicious samosas and koesisters, along with home cooking such as tomato bredie, breyani, curry and denningvleis.

In many ways, the battle to keep the Museum’s doors open, is personal. But it is much more than that.

In a country where we do not always appreciate our history and legacy, the work done by the District Museum takes one greater significance. It is important to keep alive the history of District Six, not only so that we can learn from it, but also to remind us of the stupidity and cruelty of apartheid. “Never and never again”, as Madiba used to say.

I support the campaign to keep the District Six Museum alive and I would encourage everyone I know to do the same. I would also like people in government to hang their heads in shame for not properly supporting such an important initiative. Use it as a learning experience and see how we can replicate this model so that we can keep alive the memory of other similar areas in the country.

(Written especially as a blog for this website on Thursday 10 September 2020)

The uncomfortable transformation discussions we all need to have

Ryland Fisher

I do not agree with the EFF on most things, but I appreciate the way the pressure that they sometimes bring on a variety of players can force us to have uncomfortable but necessary discussions.

My differences with the EFF are not based on policies, but on their actions and strategies and the fact that they appear to have a different set of values for their leaders as opposed to everyone else.

The pressure they are putting on Clicks for racist and derogatory advertising of hair products will hopefully have the effect of making more corporates look at the culture in their organisations which allow things like hurtful images in advertising to slip through the cracks.

The people who allowed these images to appear on the company’s website and social media must have felt comfortable and protected in their jobs for them not to have seen the potential hurt that could be caused by calling black women’s hair “dry and damaged” and “frizzy and dull” while describing white women’s hair as “fine and flat” and “normal”.

Most companies see transformation as a hassle and not as something which could potentially boost their bottom line. It makes simple sense in a way: do you want to target a minority or do you want to target the majority? Surely, reaching a broader market could potentially mean more sales and profits?

Most companies only deal with transformation at a numbers level, which means that they carefully monitor whether they have enough blacks (African, coloured and Indian), women and disabled employees in order to improve their broad-based black economic empowerment (B-bBEE) rating, which makes it easier for them to do business, especially with government.

They pay scant regard to cultural issues which need to underpin any transformation initiative.

And hair, as Clicks has now discovered, is a sensitive cultural issue in South Africa as it is in most parts of the world.

Years ago, after the publication of my book, Race, which deals with issues of race and racism in post-apartheid South Africa, I ended up lecturing in quite a few countries and also did some work with corporates in South Africa, advising them on transformation issues.

However, I soon discovered that most of the corporates were not prepared to discuss transformation issues because it made the companies’ leadership feel uncomfortable.

I stopped doing this kind of work out of frustration, but I suppose, with hindsight, I should have persisted. However, it is difficult to pursue something that you are passionate about if it does not put bread on your table.

My biggest challenge was to convince companies that they needed to talk about transformation. Once they saw the process in action, they inevitably began to accept and embrace what we were trying to do.

I remember after one workshop, the chief financial officer of the client company came to me and said, “I can now see why this is so important. We should rather spend our money on doing these cultural interventions than spending money on employing people to monitor our staff demographics to make sure that we comply with BEE requirements.”

What I have discovered in my years of working in corporates and with government, is that the situation in most big companies is that they might have changed the colour of their leadership, but quite often they did not change the culture. It is a case of the people who live in the house first making the rules and all the others who follow living by those rules.

This is why, for instance, golf has become such a big thing with black executives. They are merely emulating the white people who led the way for them to assume their positions.

Racism continues to exist at many companies now run by black executives. It will not surprise me if the staff at Clicks and TRESemmé, whose products Clicks advertised through their racist adverts, include many people from previously disadvantaged backgrounds who felt that, in order to protect their positions at these companies, they should not speak out even when they feel uncomfortable about something that is blatantly racist.

I have seen many black executives adopting the same attitudes as their white predecessors in the way they manage people and that goes contrary to transformation. But, in their minds, this is what is expected when you lead.

Transformation means much more than demographics. It is about changing mindsets and attitudes. It is about creating an environment in which all staff – black and white – will feel that their worth is being appreciated. Transformation, by its very nature, will always make some people feel uncomfortable. For me, transformation is most successful when everybody feels uncomfortable.

I hope that the staff of Clicks and TRESemmé will have some uncomfortable conversations over the next few weeks and I hope that this conversation spreads to more corporates throughout the country. It can only benefit our country and our economy.

(First published as blog on this website on Monday, 7 September 2020)

Why I will continue to be on lockdown level 5

Ryland Fisher

There are different kinds of people and, depending on the kind of person you are, this would have guided your response to what President Cyril Ramaphosa said when, on Saturday night, he announced a relaxation in the lockdown levels in an attempt to repair our very broken economy.

There are people who always follow rules and wait for guidance on what they are allowed to do, or not to do, from those with power and authority.

These people would have dissected the speech and would have rejoiced at the announcements that alcohol and cigarettes will be on sale again – legally – and that family visits can now also take place once again – the first time since the national state of disaster began five months ago.

They would also be happy that they will now be able to visit their favourite pub or restaurant – if it has not closed down permanently, like the oldest pub in South Africa, Perseverance Tavern or Persie as it was called by the regulars. (The pub announces last month that it was closing its doors after 212 years.)

Those who have been feeling trapped, not only in their homes but also in their province, would have rejoiced at the news that they will once again be able to travel to different provinces even though that visit to the family in England will have to wait for another while.

I am not one of those who listened in anticipation of a relaxation in lockdown levels to the President’s speech. Part of the reason is because I am not one of those who always look to people in authority to tell me what to do. I prefer to assess the information at my disposal and let that guide me in how I should approach any matter. I have always believed in doing what is right and not what the law or regulations say is allowed.

In the case of the coronavirus, I am not entirely convinced that relaxing the lockdown levels was the correct thing to do, even though I understand the President’s dilemma. South Africa had a weak economy even before the lockdown began – it was necessary at the time and probably still is, but it has only become worse over the past five months. Urgent steps were needed, and are still needed, to try and salvage what is left of the economy.

I fear that the relaxation in lockdown regulations might lead to some irresponsible behaviour over the next few weeks and months, and I am not only talking about people getting excessively drunk or stoned.

As far as I am concerned, I will continue to operate as if I am at lockdown level five and not level two. And this is not only because, in the middle of the lockdown I had a special birthday and I suddenly found myself falling into the vulnerable group who are most susceptible to the virus. I would have done this irrespective of my age or my health.

I do not have any allegiance to smoking or drinking but feel that these two vices often get a bad rap when there are other vices – such as consuming too much sugar – which can sometimes be more dangerous. But I don’t want to give the government any ideas, because there are some people in government who have seen how they can control us using the guise of the pandemic, and they seem to love their newfound power. I suppose many people in government are closet dictators.

I don’t know if I will go and visit family and friends, unless it is in an emergency and we are able to observe safe protocols. I don’t know if I want to go into anyone’s house but my own. So, I suspect, if I have to visit anyone, I will probably find myself talking to them from a distance outside their house. I will not encourage anyone to visit me: family or friends.

The same rules will apply to restaurants. My first choice would be not to go but, if I go, I will sit outside and very far from the person I am meeting, unless I am going for a meal with my wife or my daughters who live with me.

I don’t think that I will attend any live events for a while, even if government allows it again any time soon.

Irrespective of where I find myself, I will continue to apply the diligence and protocols that I have applied for the past five months: I will wear a cloth mask whenever I am in public; I will wash my hands with soap and water for at least 20 seconds as often as possible; I will sanitise my hands in between; I will ensure that there is enough social distance between me and others who do not live with me; I will work from home as far as possible and will try to meet most people only virtually, unless I have no other choice….

I will do this not because the President or someone in government has told me to do so, but because I believe this is a small contribution I can make to keep myself and my family safe and also hopefully contribute to the fight against the coronavirus which has already killed so many people.

I intend to stop doing so only when a proven vaccine is found for the virus – and not a moment sooner, irrespective of whether government ends the lockdown and the national state of disaster in the next few months. I believe it is the right thing to do.

(Written especially as a blog for this website 16 August 2020)

Why we should not talk about the 'new normal'

Ryland Fisher

(This is a part of my notes for a webinar on “The New Normal - the essence of adaptability”, hosted by Resolve And Change Systems (RACS) yesterday. I responded to inputs by media owner Ingrid Jones and RACS staffer Amaan Phiri)

I want to thank RACS, in particular the CEO Craig Arendse, for giving me this opportunity to share my views with you. I believe in thinking out of the box and sometimes my ideas can make some people feel uncomfortable, especially when it goes against what is considered conventional wisdom.

For instance, I believe that we should not talk about normal, whether it is the old normal or the new normal. The reason for this is that what we considered normal was never sustainable and was built on a societal model that is seriously in need of review.

What Covid-19 has done is to expose the absurdity of what we considered normal.

  • Normal means huge inequalities between rich and poor – the biggest Gini coefficient in the world;

  • Normal means one of the highest unemployment rates in the world;

  • Normal means rampant poverty, much higher than in most countries in the world;

  • Normal means that, at the same time as our extreme poverty, we have a small percentage of our population owning and controlling most of the economic wealth in our country.

Our normal is premised on a set of power relations that determine much of what happens in society. These power relations are based on economic power, race, gender, sexual preference and other ways in which we allow ourselves to be divided. They find expression in things like racism, economic exclusion and gender-based violence. They also find expression in our obsession with material things. So, we think we must drive the best cars, live in the best houses in the best neighbourhoods and send our children to private schools. If we fail to do this, the assumption is that we have failed. This means that the majority of people in our country have failed, because the majority are poor and vulnerable and do not have material possessions to show off.

So, I prefer to talk about a new reality and, through the Covid-19 pandemic caused by the coronavirus, we have been presented with a beautiful opportunity – as both Ingrid and Amaan said – to define what we want as a new reality.

We should start operating now in the way that is different, that challenges the societal norms and that speaks to the kind of country and, indeed, world that we want to live in. We should all want to live in a society that is more equitable and in which things like racism, sexism and other inequalities – and the violence that often accompany them – are a thing of the past. We should want to live in a society based on mutual respect for everyone, irrespective of their status in life.

In defining this new reality, we should start off by defining ourselves. Who are we? How do we describe ourselves? How do others describe us? What do we want to do with the remaining years of our lives? What kind of legacy do we want to leave behind?

When you explore these questions, you can do it in different ways. One method that I often use on myself is to do a personal SWOT analysis. I try to identify my strength and weaknesses, and identify the possibly opportunities and threats. In this way, I am able to identify my weaknesses and see whether I am able to turn them into strengths.

Part of redefining ourselves – whether it is personally or for a company or organization – is to understand the environment that we are operating in and to understand the possibilities that exist. Sometimes, like Ingrid said, you should explore the things that you are passionate about but never pursued for whatever reason. You might find that you are good at it and are able to turn it into a remuneration possibility.

I like the part that Amaan said about the past informing the future, or words to that effect. Over the past few months, I have drawn on my experiences in life, in the media industry where I have spent 40 years and in the struggle against apartheid which informed much of who and what I have become.

When Ingrid spoke about how we used to do things in organisations, it brought back so many great memories.

In the early 1980s, I worked at an anti-apartheid community newspaper that was owned by organisations such as trade unions, civic and ratepayers associations, churches, sports organisations, youth groups and the like. Most of our decisions had to be taken in consultation with representatives of all these organisations. We had a lot of meetings, but surprisingly, we also got a lot done. We learnt that consultation, if done properly, does not have to slow you down.

I learnt most of my management skills during my time at Grassroots.

Years later, just after we became a democracy, when I became editor of a major mainstream newspaper, I realised that I would have to transform the paper – not only in terms of demographics, but in terms of how we worked and how we were perceived by the public.

I held a workshop with my staff where I tried to look at the strengths and weaknesses of everybody and asked them what they would like to do and where they saw themselves in future. I started with myself and said that if the consensus was that the best role for me was to sweep the office floors, then that was what I was prepared to do.

It was a difficult conversation because it went against the fearful culture that was predominant in our parent company at the time. This was a handover of a previous era, apartheid, which was based on keeping people in subjugation through instilling them with fear.

One of the things that I learnt early on in my management career is that it is never a good idea to think that you, as the leader, have all the answers. Even though you might have certain preferred outcomes, you need to be able to take your staff with you. Sometimes this involves making compromises. You need to value the collective input of your staff.

About 10 or 15 years ago, I wrote a book called Race and I conducted many workshops with companies and advised some CEOs about how to transform their companies. The first thing I would do was to tell them that transformation is more than replacing a certain skin colour with another. It is much more than a numbers exercise. It is much more than ticking boxes. Transformation is an uncomfortable process that should test all of us in terms of our beliefs and our values. But ultimately, transformation is about accepting the value of everyone who works for you and treating them with respect.

This lesson has been hammered home to us again and again during this pandemic. The virus does not know colour, class or gender. It doesn’t care how many cars you have or how fancy your house is.

Over the past few months, we have seen the importance of people we thought were not important. They have shown us that they can be more important than the CEOs and government ministers, at different times during the pandemic. I am not only talking about frontline workers such as health workers, but also cleaners, security workers, farm workers and shop workers, and others who we easily dismiss as being unskilled.

We need to go beyond saying that we appreciate their roles. We need to find tangible ways of paying them more and listening with greater appreciation to their voices.

Many of us have also had to revisit the way we view the most vulnerable in our society, especially people such as the homeless. Because of the huge economic impact of the pandemic, those in the middle class have begun to realise that there is vey little standing between themselves and being homeless.

One of the other things that has been exposed by the pandemic is the archaic management style of many of our leaders in organisations. Many leaders do not trust their workers and need to micro-manage them. Because of corona, managers and leaders have had to learn to trust their workers more, because they were not able to micro-manage them as in the past.

What the pandemic has shown is that work should not be about the hours you put in, but about your output. We have seen in many industries that output does not depend on where you work or when you work. We need to embrace technology, but we also need to embrace certain realities or life, such as that many women have been victimized in the past because they tried to balance their careers and looking after their children.

But we are all different. Some of us are morning people. Some of us like to work late at night. Working from home over the past few months have shown why it is important to be outcomes-based as opposed to worrying about working hours and when people take tea breaks.

Working from home has become the new reality for many of us. In many instances, this has not led to a reduction in productivity. It has in fact led to an increase in productivity. Many people have learnt how to balance doing their work while looking after children and, in most cases, this has led to greater contentment among many workers.

The pandemic has forced us to embrace what many people glibly call the fourth industrial revolution, with many of them not understanding what it means.

The fourth industrial revolution means embracing technology as a part of our lives and not being threatened by it.

Our new reality also involves helping people who are more vulnerable than us in whatever way possible. I am involved in a couple of feeding schemes and, I am glad to say, that in at least one of these schemes, we have started to develop food gardens which could lead to more sustainability for the people involved.

I have personally also reviewed my own service providers and, for instance, I now get all my fruit and veg from a small supplier in Mitchells Plain, who deliver to my home. The quality has been good and the service excellent.

One of my life mottos is “no problems, no challenges, only opportunities” and I have approached the pandemic in this manner, as I do most things in life. The pandemic has come at a huge cost, from both a health an economic perspective,. But we need to stop seeing the pandemic as a problem and as a challenge. Instead, we need to find ways of identifying the opportunities presented by the pandemic, not in an opportunistic way like some of the corrupt comrades, but in ways that can improve the lives of all of those around us.

We were completely unprepared for what hit us this year, and we all had to respond in ways that we have never anticipated. But we have responded, some of us better than others.

We have seen that government can deliver when we are in a crisis and maybe government needs to operate all the time like they are in a crisis, so that we can undo the legacy of apartheid and colonialism soon and not make excuses about why we did not do it in another 26 years of democracy.

But we have also seen that criminals and looters are prepared to exploit any situation, even a pandemic, to loot their pockets and we should be vigilant against this. This is an unfortunate reality in South Africa which will only be dealt with decisively once more people go to prison for corruption and robbing the state, which is effectively robbing the people of South Africa who pay taxes to maintain the state.

From a corporate perspective, we need to revisit how we value everyone who works for us because they are our most important stakeholders. A contended workforce inevitably leads to greater productivity which in turn can lead to greater profits.

From a personal perspective, we need to find ways of identifying the best person that we can be. We need to embrace the changes that the pandemic has forced on us and use it in our favour.

If we are able to learn from this pandemic and improve the world, our country and our community, then 2020 might not have been that bad at all.

Andrew Mlangeni’s death marks start of a new chapter for ANC

Ryland Fisher

The passing of ANC stalwart Andrew Mokete Mlangeni, 95, on Tuesday night signals the end of an era for the ANC and, indeed, for South Africa.

Mlangeni, the last of the Rivonia Treason Trial accused, was also the last of a golden generation of ANC leaders which included greats such as Oliver Tambo, Walter Sisulu, Nelson Mandela, Govan Mbeki, Albertina Sisulu, Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, Helen Joseph, Harold Wolpe, Ahmed Kathrada, Elias Motsoaledi, Denis Goldberg, Raymond Mhlaba and Joe Slovo.

With his passing, the ANC might have finally lost the moral integrity that people like Mlangeni gave it.

In some ways, he was the last reminder of the ANC that fought bravely against apartheid for most of its 108 years - through the banning, detention and imprisonment of its leaders, and a long period of exile.

There are still a few old ANC leaders around, but few have been as outspoken or as high-profile as Mlangeni, who continued to play a role as an ANC stalwart and as chairman of its integrity commission. The symbolism of the passing of the Struggle icon is heavy for an organisation that prides itself on its history.

Mlangeni’s fellow Rivonia Trialist, Goldberg, passed away in April soon after the lockdown began. For three years, since the passing of Kathrada in March 2017, Mlangeni and Goldberg had been the last men standing of the eight who were sentenced to life in prison in 1964 for sabotage and furthering the aims of communism.

Mlangeni, along with Mandela, Sisulu, Mbeki, Kathrada, Motsoaledi and Mhlaba were sent to Robben Island prison to begin their life sentences. Goldberg, as the only white prisoner, was sent to Pretoria Central Prison.

Mlangeni was prisoner number 467/64 and occupied the cell next to Mandela on Robben Island.

Mandela’s prison number was the famous 466/64.

In his biography, Long Walk to Freedom, Mandela wrote about how, in 1963, when he had already been on Robben Island for a while after being arrested in Natal, he saw Mlangeni in a courtyard at Pretoria local prison, where Mandela had been moved in anticipation of the Rivonia Trial.

It was the first time, Mandela wrote, that he suspected that something was seriously wrong. Over the next few weeks, he would learn of the arrest of the Rivonia leadership.

The State’s evidence against Mlangeni in the Rivonia Trial included that he and Motsoaledi were responsible for recruiting members for uMkhonto we Sizwe (MK), the armed wing of the ANC. Mlangeni had, according to evidence in court, carried messages and instructions for MK and had disguised himself as a priest while doing this work.

Mlangeni told the court that he was assaulted in prison and subjected to electric shock treatment. Mandela reflected in Long Walk to Freedom that the life sentence meted out to Mlangeni, Motsoaledi and Kathrada had been particularly harsh.

“I had expected him (Judge Quartus de Wet) to discharge Kathy, and to give Elias and Andrew lighter sentences. The latter two were comparatively junior members of MK, and the combined offences of the three of them could hardly be compared with those of the rest of us. But by not appealing, we undoubtedly cost Kathy, Andrew and Elias: an appeals court might have cut down their sentences.”

With the last of the Rivonia Trialists, Denis Goldberg and Andrew Mlangeni, at Goldberg’s last birthday party before he passed away.

With the last of the Rivonia Trialists, Denis Goldberg and Andrew Mlangeni, at Goldberg’s last birthday party before he passed away.

In separate discussions I had with Kathrada and Mlangeni in later years, they both said that they had no regrets and had been prepared to serve the maximum sentence with their comrades. In fact, they thought they would be given the death sentence and were surprised when they were sentenced to life in prison. This view was echoed in my discussions with Goldberg.

Mlangeni, along with Mandela, Sisulu and Mhlaba were moved to Pollsmoor Prison in March 1982 after 18 years on Robben Island, in what appeared to be an attempt by the authorities to separate the ANC’s leadership from rank and file members. Kathrada joined them later.

Mlangeni was released in October 1989, along with Sisulu, Mhlaba, Kathrada, Motsoaledi, Jeff Masemola, Wilton Mkwayi and Oscar Mpetha.

Mlangeni became a back-bencher in Parliament for 10 years after 1994, which was probably in line with his style of never having leadership ambitions. He received the ANC’s highest honour, the Isithwalandwe/Seaparankwe award in 1992.

Mlangeni was born on June 6, 1925 on a farm in the Free State. He was the ninth of 12 children and part of the second set of twins in the family. After his father died when he was 10 years old, the family had to move from the farm to the township in Bethlehem where he began to work as a caddy on the local golf course to help sustain his family.

This was the beginning of a lifelong association with golf and it is a game that he continued to play into his old age. I was honoured to play alongside him a few years ago and he put the rest of our four-ball to shame.

He joined the Communist Party and the ANC Youth League while he was still at school in 1951, before joining the ANC a few years later. In his authorised biography, The Backroom Boy: Andrew Mlangeni’s Story, author Mandla Mathebula wrote about how, in 1962, Mlangeni was among the first six MK members to receive military training in China, where they met Mao Zedong, or Chairman Mao as he was known, who was then chairman of the Communist Party of China.

I shared a birthday with Mlangeni, but my last interaction with him was at the birthday party last year for Goldberg and it was clear from their interaction that they had huge respect for each other.

As we reflect on Mlangeni’s life, it is difficult not to interpret his death as the beginning of a new period in the history of South Africa and the ANC.

It could be the signal to those who always wanted to corrupt our country and the ANC to take their efforts to a new level because they are no longer impeded by the high standards set by people such as Mlangeni.

For once, I really wish I am wrong.

(First published as a Thinking Allowed column in the Weekend Argus on Saturday, 25 July 2020)

Leading in turbulent times: My thoughts

Ryland Fisher

On Tuesday, 14 July 2020, I was a panelist in a webinar hosted by Resolve and Change Systems (RACS). The topic of discussion was: Leading in turbulent times: charting a new direction. Below are my prepared notes for this discussion:

First, let me thank RACS for giving me this opportunity to share my views on a very important topic.

I would like to start with the definition of leadership, not in terms of what you find in dictionaries, but what I have learned from my experience at the university of life.

My rough definition of leadership is when someone, through their words and actions, show others what to do in particular situations, and convince the others to follow. Leaders can be found in many situations and places, from huge corporations or government departments, to community organisations, NGOs, religious groups, sports bodies, etc. But leadership is also found in homes, where it is often the most critical.

I would like to talk about leadership in all these areas in the next few minutes. I will share with you 10 lessons in leadership that I have learned from watching those in government, and in the corporate and non-profit sectors, among others. Most of these lessons are based on observing government, but they can also easily apply to corporates or other sectors of society.

We all think we know what government is doing as the leaders of our country. We wait with anticipation every time the President is supposed to address us and we express our anger when he announces a greater curtailment of our freedoms or he ignores certain areas that we deem important.

A case in point was President Ramaphosa’s televised address to the nation on Sunday night in which he announced a new curfew and that alcohol sales would be suspended with immediate effect. All of this would be done with the aim of curbing the spread of the coronavirus, which has caused havoc with health systems and economies throughout the world.

Of course, not everyone is happy with the President’s announcement: there are those who upset about the exceptions made for the taxi industry; the lack of acknowledgement of teachers and learners who are being forced to go to school; the lack of practical support given to health workers; and the fact that no mention was made about helping the most vulnerable in our society.

But such is the burden of leadership, that you are never able to please all the people all the time. This is the first lesson in leadership during turbulent times that I want to share: you must be prepared to make unpopular decisions based on what you think is right.

The second lesson in leadership is that you have to communicate your position clearly and logically. Even people who might disagree with you, must be able to understand why you have done it. This has not always been the case with the lockdown regulations and the way it has been communicated by the President and his ministers.

The third lesson is that the buck has to stop somewhere. In the case of government, the buck has to stop with the President, even if he has delegated some of his responsibilities to the Coronavirus Command Council. The President, as the leader of government, has to take credit where it is due and criticism when it is warranted.

While the President gives an overall picture, it is up to his ministers to brief the nation on the detail, and this is one area where there have been different levels of performance from ministers – some passed and some failed. It appears that not everyone in the Cabinet is singing from the same hymn book.

This is the fourth lesson: you have to convince those around you of your arguments so that they can all go out and speak with one voice. There are still too many factional and sectoral considerations with regards to the work done by some ministers. For instance, the Minister of Basic Education’s insistence on schools reopening and the concessions made for taxi drivers by the Minister of Transport, seem to fly in the face of the supposed commitment to contain the spread of the virus and to safe lives. There have been other examples of where the actions of Ministers appeared to have been at odds with that of the President.

The fifth lesson in leadership during a time of turbulence is to keep your eye on the ball at all times. It is when you lose focus that things can unravel. There were times during the past four months, and especially when the decision was taken to reduce the levels of lockdown, that there did not appear to be clarity of what was meant to be achieved. In many ways, there was a feeling that government was getting too involved in trying to curtail the activities of citizens as opposed to trying to contain the virus.

The sixth lesson, from the perspective of reviewing government’s leadership performance, is that you need to be able to take the majority of citizens along with you on all decisions, to convince them to buy in even when it looks like they will be inconvenienced. Government has failed to get its message across to the bulk of South Africans. It is either that or the people of South Africa are not prepared to listen to anything about the pandemic. I have no other way of trying to understand the disdain that exists in many quarters towards the attempts to halt the spread of the coronavirus. In the same way as government has to convince most of the people, corporates have to convince most of their stakeholders, which include staff and customers.

The seventh lesson, and this is something that applies to government as well as corporates, is that one should always try to lead by example. The President tried to do this by announcing early on in the lockdown that he and his Cabinet would make salary sacrifices. A few CEOs of major companies followed suit, but I don’t believe that there was much of a sacrifice among the heads of major businesses, especially in an environment where entire industries, especially those consisting mainly of SMMEs, such as tourism and hospitality, had been decimated. We have also seen how a major company like Naspers announced a major payout of hundreds of millions of rands for their CEO and CFO, among others in leadership and then, a week or two later, they announced the closure of several newspapers and magazines, leading to the retrenchment of more than 500 people.

The eighth lesson is about giving in a time of turbulence. Too many people in charge of big organisations – from whatever sector – are only prepared to give if their act of kindness is recorded or acknowledged. The best leaders are those who do not expect anything in return for giving, knowing that, somewhere along the line, they will receive something in return for their good deeds, even though they do not necessarily want it. This reminds me of the mantra that I grew up with during the struggle years, and which I was taught by people such as Johnny Issel, who was my political mentor. I was taught that, if you help somebody, they will be able to help somebody else, who will then also be able to help somebody else. At some point, it will come back to you. Leadership should never be about short-term gratification, but about long-term commitment to changing society for the better. If society improves, all of us eventually benefit. From a business perspective, it should be simple to understand that the more people you uplift, the better it is for the economy.

The ninth lesson is about adaptability. Government has had to adapt its strategy as it goes along, because it has never had to deal with a pandemic such as the one we are facing at the moment. They got some decisions right, like the one to have a hard lockdown initially to try and arrest the spread of the virus, giving us time to get our health resources in place.

But government also got many things wrong, some with legitimate reasons, while others were just strange.

But government has not displayed enough dexterity in their handling of the crisis. It should not only be about lockdowns and providing relief packages. They had a wonderful opportunity to completely reimagine the kind of society we want to live in and fashion their responses along those lines.

The 10th and final leadership lesson that I want to share is one of compassion. Compassion means respecting people irrespective of where they might find themselves in society. The people who are at the bottom today could find themselves at the top in a few years’ time. But the contribution that you can make should never depend on whether you are a minister, a director-general, a CEO or a director of companies. I have learnt many lessons in life from people who would be called “ordinary” by people who think they are more important.

My earliest influence, and probably one of the most important influences in my life, was my mother, who was a domestic worker. But she understood the importance of education as a way of escaping from poverty and she read to me from even before I can remember. This is why, when I finally went to school, I could read much better than many of the children in my class.

Up until today, I can never disregard the wisdom and knowledge of life that one can receive from people who are domestic workers or other supposedly unskilled workers. One of the things that the Covid-19 pandemic has shown us is the importance of people who were always considered not important in our societal food chain, and that has probably not changed. I am talking here about people such as cleaners and shop workers, etc. I do not need to point out the importance of health workers and others who have been at the frontline of fighting the virus.

Compassionate leaders will not only pay lip service to their contribution, but will look at ways in which they can be better remunerated, as well as how their views can be better expressed and appreciated by all in society.

Like Covid-19 has given us an opportunity to reimagine the nature of our society, it has also given us an opportunity to re-evaluate things like leadership. We can never go back to the way things used to be. Society needs to adapt to our new realities and leaders need to be able to show them the way.

The little things that point to a bigger problem

If the Covid-19 pandemic and the resultant lockdown regulations have taught us anything, it is that often the seemingly little things in life matter as much as, if not more than, what is considered big.

We have all had to revise our views of people who were considered untrained or unskilled workers, such as cleaners, dirt collectors and supermarket workers. We have had to realise that we have not shown enough appreciation to the people whose job it is to look after us and heal us when we are sick.

We have had to think about how we deal with the most vulnerable in our society, including the homeless and people who are forced to live in shacks because not enough houses are being built.

As our economy reopens while we are yet to reach the peak of the pandemic, our hearts also go out to those who are forced to return to work – not because they are heroes, but because they have no option but to risk their lives in order to earn enough money to feed their families.

We fear for the thousands, if not millions, of people who are being crammed into taxis to get to and from their workplaces, knowing that they are at risk but being left with no choice: if they stay at home, they will earn no money.

We fear for our children and teachers who are being forced to return to overcrowded schools without proper assurances that they will be safe.

A few little things I noticed on a necessary shopping trip kept me thinking this week. Outside one shop, I noticed a young woman leaving without wearing a mask and talking to several people on her way. As she left the shop, I could see in the entrance, the mandatory sign that all shoppers had to wear masks and sanitise their hands, etc.

Two children were standing in the doorway of another shop, eating ice cream, with their masks around their chins. They were waiting for their mother, who was shopping inside. We had to walk too close for comfort past them as we left the shop.

Outside another shop, a few workers were enjoying a smoke break – yes, people are still smoking despite the government ban – with no masks (obviously) and no social distancing.

I am mentioning these little incidents because they are indicative of a greater problem, a lack of understanding about how we should deal with the pandemic and our own role  in it, which could mean that the pandemic will get much worse before it gets better.

There are many people who feel that they will not get the virus or they cannot spread it, for whatever reason. There are others who just don’t care and have had enough of being inconvenienced.

South Africans often look at government for leadership when it is possible to take things into our own hands. We saw, for instance, how government was forced to take action when students protested that fees had to fall or when thousands marched against gender-based violence (the stupid term for violence committed by men against women), even forcing the President to leave a meeting with potential investors to allay the fears of the protesters.

We cannot march at the moment, because it would be irresponsible, but we can continue to put pressure on government and everyone in society to do their best to contain the virus.

Government seems to have painted themselves into a corner with the levels-based lockdown approach to dealing with the virus. It should never have been about what you can or cannot buy under which levels and which businesses are allowed to operate.

It should always have been about creating an awareness in society and getting the buy-in of what is sometimes euphemistically called the masses. All our energy should be aimed at making sure that everyone does the little things right: such as staying at home (as much as you can), social distancing, washing hands, sanitising and doing everything in our power to stop the spread of the virus. It can be done, with proper will and determination.

(This is the unedited version of my Thinking Allowed column that appeared in the Weekend Argus on Saturday, 11 July 2020)

Bidding farewell to legendary lensman

Displayed with pride in my front room are three framed black-and-white photographs taken by George Hallett, who passed away this week at the age of 78. 

The one was taken in District Six, before the removal of people when the area was declared for whites only under the Group Areas Act; the second is of a flock of birds in Bo-Kaap; the third is of the late former president Nelson Mandela. 

The photographs capture a few moments in the life of a remarkable photographer, who was more feted internationally than locally. George died peacefully in his sleep on Wednesday. He had been ill for many months. 

George was born in Hout Bay in 1942, and left South Africa in his early twenties to pursue a photographic career overseas. He lived in self-imposed exile in many cities in Europe, before returning to Cape Town in 1995. In that time, he had become, in my humble opinion, probably the best black-and-white portrait photographer ever in South Africa. 

Legendary lensman George Hallett deserves more recognition for his work. Picture: Mujahid Safodien/African News Agency(ANA)

The first time I encountered the name “George Hallett” was in the late 1970s when, as a teenager, I was introduced to a series of books called the African Writers Series. It featured some of the top writers on the continent and George had designed all the covers, including taking the pictures.

I would meet him around 1980, outside Newspaper House in Cape Town, with one of my mentors who also became my friend, Warren Ludski, who was then news editor of the Cape Herald, where I started my journalistic career. I was impressed by this man, who walked around with a small Leica camera around his neck. He told me that as a photographer, you must always be prepared to capture any moment on film. 

I was more impressed by his humility, especially after Warren told me who he was. I had been in the presence of greatness without knowing it. We would work together much later on my first book, Making the Media Work For You, for which George supplied all the photographs, and later on my second book, Race

George sat in on some of the interviews for Race, so that he could have a better idea of the kind of photograph required. He would later arrange to photograph the people I interviewed. Among others, he photographed Professor Carel Boshoff, the founder of white homeland Orania, under an Africana tree; cricketer Vincent Barnes, in the stands at Newlands Cricket ground; traditional leader Phathekile Holomisa, in a Xhosa outfit; he convinced Obed Zilwa and Leo de Souza to dress up in the way they did on their wedding day; and he captured Manenberg residents Kenny and Sielie Nolan in front of the infamous “Thug Life” graffiti, painted on one of the courts in the area. 

He decided that I should be captured in pensive mood. It is still one of my favourite pictures. 

We worked together many times and spent hours talking at his flat in Frederick Road, Claremont. George took a portrait of my family and helped to guide one of my daughters who expressed an interest in photography. 

Ironically, for someone who is known for his portrait photography, George arguably took two of the best news photographs ever of Nelson Mandela, both on the same day. The first picture, which has graced the pages of publications throughout the world, showed cleaners and other workers at Mandela’s Cape Town residence rejoicing as they welcomed the new president. 

The second photograph, which I have, shows Mandela talking on his cellphone.  In the original picture, a worker can be seen walking past in the background with something on her head. George felt that the picture worked better with Mandela alone because it was not his intention to create an image of a “privileged” man in a suit versus the worker. He wanted to capture Mandela in an unposed moment. 

George was always conscious of the potential power of his images and that is why he spent so much time in planning his portraits. I just wish that he received as much acknowledgement in South Africa as he did overseas. 

Rest in peace, my friend. 

(First published in the Weekend Argus on Saturday, 4 July 2020)

'Gatvol' with disregard for Covid-19 danger

If there was one word to describe the mood in South Africa at the moment, it is probably “gatvol”, the Afrikaans word imperfectly translated into English as “fed up”.

This month has been one filled with milestones, personally, politically and otherwise: among others, it started with my special birthday; we just had Youth Day, followed by Thabo Mbeki’s birthday; it's Father’s Day tomorrow; and next Thursday we celebrate 65 years of the Freedom Charter.

But we reach another milestone on Wednesday: 90 days since the start of the lockdown, and, I suppose this is behind the “gatvol” factor taking root in our society. South Africans are sick of the lockdown.

I am among those who have been diligently observing the regulations, but more importantly, doing whatever needs to be done to halt the spread of the virus.

The first thing that should come to mind is the devastation it has caused in many countries, including South Africa. The next thing that should cross our mind is what we can personally do to help in the fight against this invisible killer: whether it is social distancing, wearing a mask, washing our hands ad nauseam, and sanitising everything until it can be sanitised no more.

On Tuesday, which I realised at the last minute was a public holiday - the days have been blurring into each other - I decided to relax my own lockdown regulations and take a drive Muizenberg way to see the sea. My wife was nervous, but I made it clear that we’d stay in our car and, if we needed to get out, we’d do so where there were few or no people, we’d wear our masks and we’d observe social distancing. I had not seen the sea in more than 80days.

It became clear very soon that hundreds, if not thousands, of others had the same idea, but what was shocking was the callous regard many had for the fight against the coronavirus and the risks to which they exposed themselves and others.

Many people were walking along the road between Muizenberg and Kalk Bay without social distancing and without masks. The coffee shops were making brisk business and it seemed like everyone was saying: “Pandemic, what pandemic?”

I got a sense of people feeling that they would/could not be affected by the virus and, if it should happen, it should just happen. This is one of the reactions when people feel “gatvol”.

I thought back to a telephone conversation I had with my sister in Mitchells Plain a few weeks ago. She wanted to know when I was going to visit, and I said not any time soon. She told me that in Mitchells Plain, there was no lockdown. Most people were carrying on their lives as normal.

Therein lies the problem. There is not going to be a normal - new or otherwise - for a long time, at least not until there is a cure for Covid-19. This is our new reality and the sooner we accept it, the more chance we will have of coming out on the other side alive.

Watching President Cyril Ramaphosa speaking about opening more of the economy on Wednesday night, I realised that we have now reached the stage in the fight against the pandemic where we hold our lives in our own hands. No level of lockdown is going to have any effect unless we change our behaviour.

Our tasks are simple: wear masks, wash your hands a lot, social distance, sanitise and stay at home if you can. This is our new reality and we need to embrace it sooner rather than later.

(First published as a Thinking Allowed column in the Weekend Argus on Saturday, 20 June 2020)