The Real Hisotry of Apartheid

The History of Apartheid in South Africa

Contrary to what other articles on your site aver, Apartheid (although the name itself was not coined until 1948) was actually started by the fortune-seekers who descended on the Big Hole in Kimberley in their search for diamonds. Although there were many nationalities represented there, you could say that the British were the ones who really started this interesting, and much discussed, system.

Before the discovery of diamonds in what is now Kimberley, most European races had little or no interest in South Africa at all, other than the fact that The Cape offered a prime opportunity as a victualling station for those involved in the spice trade. Even after the initial discovery of diamonds, the British government had no wish to further colonise what it considered to be a useless piece of land south of the Equator.

However, some five years after the initial discovery of these gems in Griqualand West, a situation developed which necessitated some form of strong intervention in order to prevent what was considered in Whitehall to be a looming problem. The inhabitants of South Africa, both black and white, had hitherto been an entirely agrarian race of people, living a simple life off the land and, generally, minding their own business. Yes, they were backward by European standards – they had no indoor plumbing, had produced no writers or painters worthy of mention, and the black nations were, apart from their nomadic farming existence, too concerned with fighting each other for land and its use – and Europe was really not interested in this rather barren and unexciting part of the world.

However, once it appeared that Kimberley was more than just another South Sea Bubble and was indeed here to stay, decisions had to be made – and most of these were at the behest of Cecil John Rhodes who, apart from being involved in Cape politics, had serious interests in the diamond mines from which Kimberley sprang. The news of the discovery of considerable amounts of alluvial diamonds, apart from attracting diggers from as far away as Australia and America, also became noticed by the local black tribes, who had one indispensible item that they could sell: their labour. With this in mind, they converged on Kimberley in considerable numbers and, in the beginning, actually owned certain claims in what is now known as The Big Hole.

However, where there is money in large amounts to be made, you can be certain that crime will soon follow. It seems to be an immutable fact of life that if you have something, someone will try to take it away from you by fair means or foul! It was not long, therefore, before IDB (illicit diamond buying) became almost as profitable as the production of diamonds themselves. It is believed by many that personalities such as the Barnato Brothers, and others who went on to become rich and famous, also derived quite a large portion of their early income from this source; but, the principal players in the IDB game were the blacks, who would employ whatever means they could in order to make a quick killing.

Because of this, black labourers were firstly made subject to unseemly and unpleasant body-searches as they left the mine each day in order to make sure that they were not leaving with more than that with which they arrived! Within a very short period of time it was decided by the major players in the Kimberley mine that the only way to protect themselves against the illegal removal of gems was to restrict the African labourers to their own compounds and to severely limit their freedom. It was at all events a matter of considerable importance that the value of diamonds be controlled, and the free-for-all system which had hitherto existed in Kimberley had urgently to be manipulated. This was actually the beginning of Apartheid. It had nothing to do with politics, human rights, or the suppression of the masses, but was simply instituted in order to protect the price of the product, which, without this protection, would have slumped considerably on world markets.

The same scenario took place on a larger scale on the Rand. Kruger and his government were not interested in prospecting for gold, but, being almost bankrupt, the Transvaal (as it was then known) needed every bit of revenue it could lay its hands on, and so taxes were levied on the mines, and these were paid without demur by the Randlords, as they believed that the placation of the Transvaal government would allow them to continue their efforts unmolested. Even then, Britain was particularly reticent about any kind of interference or colonisation of the area.

By 1895 an interesting phenomenon had occurred in both places: segregation of a sometimes purely voluntary and personal nature. Both towns had, by now, considerable populations of both black and white, but each population lived in its own area, and, apart from the occasional drunken revelry, it was destined to remain so. When the Transvaal was finally annexed by the British, it was their wish that no form of racial segregation should be enforced or made law, and they went to some lengths to ensure that this should not happen. However, those at the ‘coal face’ had other ideas, and so, this was really the beginning of Apartheid, or separation of the races.

Whilst the British standpoint changed little in the ensuing years, in true British fashion they sought to rid themselves of what they considered to be a tedious burden and so passed the Act of Union in 1910. This allowed South Africa to become pretty much autonomous; England was not unduly concerned about the black vote, or black freedom; it had other more pressing concerns to deal with, and for some years a more or less free society was allowed free reign in South Africa.

However, in 1948 the Nationalists came to power and, despite an earlier attempt which failed after a few weeks, they steadily began to entrench separatism, or Apartheid as they called it, and by the time that Hendrik Verwoerd took over, Apartheid had grown to be what was later considered a blight on this continent. Verwoerd (who strangely enough was Dutch, not Afrikaans) had his own ideas of how things should work and, this said, he was only slightly to the left of Adolph Hitler. It was his idea of Separate Development, and his translation of the biblical role of the races, his idea of white superiority, which inevitably led to the excesses of later rulers.

The rest, as they say, is history, and need not be re-hashed. One can only be thankful, as a resident of this country, that personalities such as Mandela and De Klerk finally came together, saw the wood for the trees, and established the democracy that we now have. It’s taken a long time!

Robben Island

ROBBEN ISLAND – 1994 – 2009

As far as I remember, Robben Island, that infamous jail of political prisoners, was first opened to the public in 1994.

No-one would ever have heard of this place had it not been for the fact that Nelson Mandela was incarcerated here for many years. Robben Island is a small piece of land, 8kms from Table Moutain in Table Bay. It is remorselessly flat and uninteresting, except to the penguins who nest there in huge numbers. However, having started its useful life as a place where the governing body of South Africa threw its otherwise unwanted persons, it later became a leper colony (not much difference really), and then reverted to a security prison for political offenders.

As a result of the famous Rivonia Trial, Mandela and several of his cohorts were banished there in 1964 to chop up large lumps of chalk for the rest of time.

It was with considerable curiosity, therefore, that I made a pilgrimage there to see it for myself in 1994.

It was a day in early May (our Autumn) and the sea was deliciously flat, apart from the occasional enormous swell, as we thrummed our dieseliferous way in the old Susan Kruger – a boat which did not yet bear the legend ‘Winnie sat here’. The bay was deceptively calm and sunny and it looked like a very short distance from the Island to the nearest shore; however, various prisoners over the years found this to be a particularly horrid swim – not only because the distance is totally deceptive, but also because the water is enough to freeze the knackers off a brass monkey. There was no need for sentries, or bars at the windows of the jail, for the sea was a deterrent in itself.

The island consisted of a rather empty harbour, a number of pre-historic motor vehicles which had never left once they were delivered, two rather solitary churches, a street of nice white houses, a large and rather imposing guesthouse, and the usual ubiquitous curio shoppe.

Unfortunately, because the prison was still in use, we were not allowed to see the famous cell in which Mandela was incarcerated. However, this was more than made up for by the amusing remarks of the tour guide (an erstwhile warder of the prison), and a visit to the fortifications made there in case of attack in the Second World War. We visited many penguins, saw a few buck, a great deal of coastline, and then chugged our way back across the harbour.

Last year (2008) I had occasion to visit again with my daughter, and rather looked forward to the expedition. Once tickets had been exchanged, and a fairly antique boat had been boarded (the famous Tri-maran was not in service for some reason), we made our way across the bay. However, the swells became more and more mountainous, and those of us who were unfortunate to stand in the stern of the boat, had a free shower bath long before we reached the harbour.

Full of expectation, and suffering from severely wet feet and legs, we staggered along the quayside towards the waiting bus. Hey presto – it was the same bus that had carried us in 1994, but this time somewhat dilapidated and down at heel.

We managed to squeeze ourselves into two seats and prepared to set off. However, our guide (no longer the prison warder of previous times) had other ideas. She clambered onto the bus – large and Black and possessed of the ability to speak Afroglish enormously fast and very loud, despite the fact that most of the passengers barely spoke a word of ordinary English, - and proceeded to regale us with long eulogies of Robert Sobukhwe.

Unfortunately, most of the passengers had no idea who he was, who she was talking about, or the history behind that name. In her mind the Pan African Congress must have loomed large, but in most memories of the non-South Africans on board, the name meant nothing. It was a bit like O R Tambo Airport – nobody, other than fervent ANC members, had the faintest idea who he was (nor, I suspect, could they have cared). They all wanted to hear about Mandela, but there was scarcely a mention of such a person.

So, somewhat bemused and overpowered with rhetoric which fell just short of a toi-toi, we made our way slowly into the interior. We saw the two churches and stopped for a brief photo-opportunity through the rather grimy windows of the bus, and then carried on past the street of once-white houses. These had been made much more homely by the addition of washing hanging from every conceivable eave, nook, cranny, and line; weeds grew in profusion in the streets and the occasional deer munched peacefully on the pavement.

Trundling on, and somewhat bemused, we ended in what seemed to be a large chalk-pit with a hole in one side. This, she explained, was where political prisoners were brought to hew stone, and the hole was used both as a latrine and for the storage of rations. Hardly surprising that we now have an epidemic of cholera!

Cameras clicked and flashed and in a few minutes, after a further diatribe about Sobukhwe, we continued to the most glorious rubbish dump I have ever been privileged to see. It was made glorious only by the fact that it had a wonderful view of Table Mountain and two large prefab toilets. She graciously invited us to take photos there and announced that we would be stopping for five minutes.

Having regaled ourselves of the sights (and the interesting smells of the toilets), we climbed aboard the ancient bus and made our way back to the prison where an erstwhile warder herded us into a rather ungainly line and led the way to the cells.

It was almost impossible to make out what he was trying to say because the wind had now freshened, but we followed like sheep to the slaughter. The prison appeared well looked-after and, in considerable heat and humidity, we filed reverently past the famous cell where Mandela spent so much of his time. Having glanced briefly inside, we were then herded into a long, narrow hall which was almost devoid of seats and were treated to a long lecture on the hardships of being a political prisoner.

I must be fair on our guide and tell you that he had himself been a prisoner there for several years, so what he had to say was at least germane and had about it the ring of truth, as opposed to the paeans of praise that had hitherto been heaped upon Sobukhwe.

Tired and rather sweaty, we clambered onto the bus once more and made our way back to the harbour. I think we saw one or two penguins on the way, but the gun emplacements which had earlier been a great attraction for me, were no longer considered to be of any consequence.

Dragging ourselves along the quayside, many gazes lit on the formidable tablecloth on Table Mountain, and those of us who know these climes, knew we were in for a bit of a rough passage.

The famous Susan Kruger waited for us, her engines beating away on idle, as we were herded aboard. The attendant warned us not to sit upstairs in the open as he felt it might be a fairly unpleasant trip. Nevertheless, my cousin and his girlfriend chose to sit up there because they felt that inside they may have been seasick.

Once clear of the harbour, we thrashed, crashed, lurched, leapt, churned and crunched through one enormous wave after another. The portholes had become totally opaque, giving the impression that we were indeed like a load of washing inside a machine which was set on ‘maximum’. Water streamed down the steps from the deck, and soon attendants were rushing hither and yon with nice little brown paper bags for people to vomit in.

After nearly an hour of this, even the hardiest of us was eager to see the relatively calm waters of Cape Town harbour. My cousin and his girlfriend eventually disembarked, soaked to the skin despite their raincoats, and we dripped our way towards one of the many bars of the waterfront in search of a restorative drink.

I had to consider that Robben Island, like so much of this wonderful land, had seen better days, and that, all else besides, we had paid a fair amount of money for a cold salt-water bath!