June
1971 had brought me freedom from all the frustrations of house arrest
and the other onerous mutilations of my liberty. It had done
more than that. It had set me free from the crippling fear of unending
renewal of house arrest. I felt that I had moved into a new life. Here
was a new decade. I did not know what it would bring to us in South
Africa. The 1950s had come and gone, leaving great memories of resistance,
of the Defiance Campaign, of the women's resistance to passes, of the
Congress of the People and the Freedom Charter. But great scars remained
too, the scars of the banning of the ANC. the long years of the treason
trial, the scar of Sharpeville.
The 1960s, the decade of repression, forced us to the very sobering
realisation that the security police had become an evil, sinister force.
Succeeding Acts of Parliament gave them more and more powers of arrest
and detention without trial. They were in reality answerable to no
one but themselves for the treatment of their helpless victims, held
completely incommunicado and beyond the protection of the courts. This
power was a growing evil. The whole image of the security police seemed
to have changed. No longer were they the bumble puppies at whom we
had jeered. Within ten years they had become terrifying sophisticates,
skilled interrogators, armed with secret methods of torture, which
left no physical marks, with the power to hold anyone in total isolation
for months on end. I suppose it is true that forcing information out
of detainees, both mentally and physically, is a cheaper, quicker,
more efficient way of getting what you want than the old. Outdated
methods of investigation. It is an evil enshrined in South Africa's
laws.
In the first excitement of being unbanned, I had not
been able to assess the full implications of my freedom and how I
could best use
it. It had all happened so suddenly — I had been cut off from
the mainstream of political resistance for so long.
The Congress of Democrats had been banned for nine years; the Federation
of South African Women, though not banned, had lost too many members
through bannings, gaol and exile, for it to become viable again. I
was in touch with some individual women from the old days but others
were still banned and there could be no personal communication.
I did not take much account of the other disabilities
of being a listed person until I was elected the Honorary National
President of the National
Union of South Africa Students — NUSAS. This was such an unexpected
and tremendous honour that I accepted immediately when the telephone
call came from their national congress in Durban.
My joy was short-lived for suddenly I remembered my
listing and hastily consulted my private and rather sinister file,
entitled "Bannings
and house arrest” and there it was. As a listed person, I could
not become an office-bearer of any organisation that — the same
old litany — "attacks, defends, criticises, propagates or
discusses the policy of the government of a state". And certainly
NUSAS does that, in its dedicated and principled struggle against all
forms of apartheid and injustice. Thus it was brought home to me sharply
that my new freedom was only partial. I could not join any organisation
that was even remotely political.
I hastily sent a telegram resigning my office of Honorary
National President. My resignation was not accepted and the office
stood vacant
for two years, during which I was the Honorary National "Un-President" of
NUSAS. After that I became a Hon. National Un-Vice President. I still
am.
Early in June, Father Cosmas ("Cos") Desmond,
a militant Roman Catholic priest, was banned and put under house
arrest, apparently
because he had published a book. The Discarded People, about the abitrary
mass removal of thousands of African people from areas on white-owned
farms or outside white towns, where they had lived for generations.
They were resettled on bare, undeveloped land in black areas. Cos had
exposed the shameful conditions of these human dumping grounds. He
had lived amongst the people, shared in the brutal hardship of lives
which had been torn apart to fit the nationalist masterplan of a totally
segregated South Africa. He had assisted, too, in the making of a film
for overseas about it. These were his crimes. They were enough for
him to be placed under house arrest and banned for five years. On the
day before he received his banning orders, he had been with me and
my friends, sharing with me my new freedom, unaware that he was so
soon to lose his own.
The President of the Witwatersrand University Students' Representative
Council asked me to speak at their mass protest meeting against Cos's
bans. I knew I wanted to, but I wasn't sure that I could, because of
the listing restrictions. I consulted a legal friend whose first reaction
was that I could not speak. I was listed and that was that. We discussed
a loophole, which I thought I had found, that there was nothing in
the listing provision to say that I could not participate in the activities
of NUSAS or any other politically involved organisation. In my banning
orders, such an embargo was included, but it did not appear in the
clauses of the Act governing listing. I certainly could not be a NUSAS
office-bearer, but I could speak on any political platform as a guest
speaker, provided that I did not join the organisation. To my delight,
there was legal agreement on this point.
The meeting was astounding. More than 1,000 students
filled the Great Hall, sitting in the aisles, crowding outside the
doors. There had
been no announcement of my speaking until that very morning, for fear
of a new ban, but when I walked onto the platform, the students rose
in a standing ovation. They were on their feet again when I began to
speak in protest against Cos's banning — who knew better than
I what lay before him? I affirmed that I knew no gratitude to the government
for my release, for it had only restored to me a part of the rights,
which ought never to have been taken away. It was no act of compassion.
It was the fear that I might die under house arrest that had prevailed.
It was expediency, not a change of heart.
I spoke of the banished Africans, recalling that the last public speech
I had made in 1962 had been to an earlier generation of Wits students.
It seemed fitting that after nine years I should come again to Wits
University to make my first speech there, that I should re-enter public
political life with this new generation of students, a new generation,
but still part of Wits campus life and tradition.
I ended with my promise that I should never ban myself by keeping
silent, for that would be to do the government's dirty work for it.
If it wanted me to be silent, then it must ban me again.
The final standing ovation almost brought me to tears. I saw that
Jean Sinclair, President of the Black Sash, standing close to me, was
wiping her eyes. I looked again at the hundreds of young faces below
me and saw that some of them too were wiping tears away.
The Wits students had brought me back to political life. How could
I ever have doubted that some day, in some way, this would happen?
I ought to have had more confidence, even in those worst days of depression.
I ought to have known that any testimony of life would eventually be
of more significance than any contrived testimony of death.
I was proud that I had been called upon to speak in public again after
the long years of silence, but there was a difference. Now when I spoke,
it could be only to those present, for, as a listed person, nothing
that I said could be quoted, recorded or published. The press, aware
of the embargo, would report only that I had spoken at a meeting, but
not what I had said. Indeed, if it were taken to the legal extreme,
anyone could be charged for repeating to another person what he had
heard me say.
October 1971 brought the shocking news of the death of young Ahmed
Timol, while in detention. He, like Babla Salojee, eight years before,
had fallen to his death from a high window of the security police buildings.
Did these young men fall? Were they driven by torture and despair to
jump? These were unanswered questions.
I went to the home of Timol's aged parents, a stricken Muslim couple,
tormented even before his death by security police telling them they
would never see their son again. They were broken in spirit as their
son had been broken in body, left to face life without him, never to
know the truth of his death.
The Indian community called a protest meeting. More than 1,000 Indians,
both Muslim and Hindus, with a few Africans and whites, came together
on an Indian school playground, to register their anger at the violent
death of this young school teacher while in the custody of the police.
His was the twenty-first death in detention.
One of the Indian women leaders had telephoned me the
day before to tell me of the meeting. I needed no urging to attend,
but I did not
expect the warm welcome, which I received from a group of women who
came to meet me, hands outstretched. They said, "Welcome back
to the Indian community, Mrs Joseph!" I realised that it was many
years since I had been in their midst.
On Christmas Day, for the first time in nine years, my friends crowded
into my house again. It was a happy celebration and it went on all
day, even into the night. It was no longer Christmas over the garden
gate. We started a custom then of drinking a toast at midday to our
friends in gaol, to the banned who could not join us, to those gone
from South Africa.
Since then, many friends come every year to my house
on Christmas Day. Over the years the party has grown, as new friends
join the old. "Christmas
with Helen" has become a tradition. Each year there are friends
whose bans have expired and not been renewed, so they are free to communicate
with me and join us at the Christmas party. Each year there are more
who have served gaol sentences and been released, but there is no Nelson,
no Bram, no Walter Sisulu, nor Kathrada. And there is no Winnie Mandela,
for only once, in 1975, was she briefly free from bans and able to
be with us.
When we drink the toast to our friends who are not with us, we are
very close to them, for the message has been carried to the gaols that
at midday our glasses are lifted in tribute and in hope.
The Dean of Johannesburg, the Very Reverend Gonville
ffrench-Beytagh, came to that first party after I was free. He sat
on my verandah looking
around in amazement at my guests and then he said to me. "Well
. . . Jews. Gentiles, Christians, atheists, liberals, communists, Indians,
Africans, whites, coloureds... Marvellous!"
At the beginning of that year, the whole Anglican Church
had been shocked when this same burly Dean of St Mary's Cathedral
was detained
and then charged under the Terrorism Act. It sounded so absurd — what
had terrorism to do with the Dean of a cathedral? His flat and offices
were searched and then he was taken off to John Vorster Square, the
enormous modem security building and police station, which had replaced
the old familiar Marshall Square. After a week in detention, he was
charged with having participated in the affairs of unlawful organisations
and also with incitement to violence. He was released on bail to await
his trial.
This Dean was famous for his plain speaking from the pulpit against
apartheid and for his compassion for people in distress. He was held
by many, including me, to be one of the greatest and truest Christians
in South Africa. For him to be detained, charged with political offences,
was almost unthinkable, but it had happened and the whole Anglican
Church was shaken. Never before had so high a dignitary of any church
in South Africa been subjected to police custody leading to a political
trial. There had been Father Trevor Huddleston in the 1950s who had
stood by the African people in the Sophiatown removals, but he had
left South Africa. There had been Ambrose Reeves, Bishop of Johannesburg,
who had stood by the people of Sharpeville in 1960, but he had been
deported.
Dean ffrench-Beytagh had drawn many to hear his thundering sermons
against injustice and had shocked the complacency of many Christians.
He was known to have assisted many political victims financially,
for that was no secret. For him to be charged in court under the
Terrorism Act dealt a savage blow to whatever political awareness
or conscience was stirring in the Anglican Church. Fear took over
and the church withdrew to its citadel of "no politics in the
church".
The Dean came to trial in August 1972. It was held in the Old Synagogue
in Pretoria, where we had sat for so many years. I could attend his
trial because I was no longer restricted to Johannesburg. I sat on
the same bench where I had sat before, for it was no longer that large
dock, but the public gallery. I looked again at the great Star of David
over the judge's head. This time it was a Christian priest on trial
for his conscience and his compassion.
He was found guilty of receiving welfare funds from the Defence and
Aid Fund in London, banned in South Africa, and of encouraging others
to support acts of violence. He received the compulsory minimum sentence
of five years in gaol under the Terrorism Act. This dignitary of the
church was now a convicted terrorist, but he was granted leave to appeal
against his conviction and sentence and could remain out of gaol on
bail. He won his appeal in a higher court on the grounds that the state
had failed to prove its case against him.
The Dean's ordeal was over and within hours of his
acquittal he left South Africa. I was not indifferent to his safety — how
could I be? But I did not share the fearful insistence of those who
advised
him to leave immediately lest he be detained again by the security
police. I saw it as a Nationalist victory that such a man was driven
away and I realised that his going would seem like an act of betrayal
to many black people who had had such confidence in him.
At the beginning of 1972,1 embarked on a national tour of the English-speaking
university campuses as their Honorary National Un-Vice President, accompanied
by NUSAS President Paul Pretorius. I was to speak to the students on
academic freedom, then threatened by the government-appointed Schlebusch
Commission enquiring into the affairs of "certain" organisations,
of which NUSAS was one. The Commission was a Parliamentary Select Commission,
which could and did call upon NUSAS to produce all its records and
also its officials, to testify before the Commission. NUSAS had reacted
strongly against these arbitrary requirements, seeing the whole issue
as a new and sinister threat to academic freedom.
The student leaders went to the campuses for support in their demand
for a judicial enquiry, which would be held in public and not behind
closed doors. They also sought support for their recommendation that
University Students' Representative Councils should refuse to give
evidence before this Commission unless compelled to do so by law.
Freedom, whether personal, academic or political, was a subject very
much in debate and very important to me. To join this issue would give
me a unique opportunity to talk about it, both from my own personal
viewpoint and from a wider perspective.
Throughout the tour, I was apprehensive that I might be re-banned
or searched by the security police and lose my speech. I even travelled
with a tightly folded duplicate typescript concealed in my brassiere.
That speech had taken me a quite a few days to prepare and I didn't
want to lose it to the police and then try to rewrite it. I was certainly
watched carefully and openly by the security detectives at every airport,
but there was no interference.
This generation of students represented to me the questioning youth.
This spirit had not been there when I was a student at Wits myself
in 1947. Now the students were questioning the values of their own
society, questioning their own roles and the moral values of the universities.
I could not provide the answer to their questioning, but I welcomed
it.
I told them something of what it was like to be banned and house arrested
without trial and especially I told them, as I had told the Wits students
the previous year at that first meeting, of my determination never
to ban myself, never to do the government's dirty work for it, but
to stand again to be counted, as they were standing. I told them of
the things that had moved me, the tragedies of the banished African
people, so well known to me through my journeys and my contacts with
them. I spoke, as I have spoken ever since, of my sense of white guilt,
which we must all share, the white guilt that has brought black rejection.
Black consciousness, the assertion of black human dignity, was already
strong on the campuses. I held this philosophy to be utterly right
and inevitable. It was an idea whose time had come, was long overdue,
but I knew it would bring hurt to many white students to be rejected
as a body, even if not as individuals.
We started our tour in Durban, and again I was surprised at the long
and enthusiastic ovation that the university students there gave me.
It was a wonderful start to this speaking tour and did a great deal
to conquer my nervousness, my fear of inadequacy and that I might have
been cut off from political life for too long. I had been afraid that
I might not be able to put across my thoughts and my hopes to these
gatherings of the young. There was a gap of nearly fifty years between
us. Would I be able to bridge it? Yet somehow it had been possible
and I could feel, almost from the beginning of my speaking, that the
communication was there. I had something to say to the students and
they were not only prepared but eager to hear it.
At Pietermaritzburg University, that same night, the
response, even the ovation, was repeated. A student came to the window
of the car
as I left, to say, "You have convinced me. I thought I should
go and now I know I must stay. "That would have been reward enough
for me, without the long applause.
We moved on, to Rhodes University in Grahamstown, a
campus divided in its attitude towards giving evidence before the
Schlebusch Commission.
Not all supported the NUSAS refusal to testify voluntarily. As I spoke,
however, I soon became aware of interest and support, ending once again
in a tumultuous standing ovation. Long afterwards one of those students
told me, "If you had told us to bum down the Principal's house
that night, we'd have done it!" I could only laugh, for I certainly
had not delivered an incendiary speech of any sort. It was just that
somehow I had bridged the gap and had been able to identify with these
young students and to be completely accepted by them.
Cape Town University was the high spot of the tour. The students had
organised a public meeting on the campus. It was Wits all over again.
As I walked onto the platform, and then again as I stood up to speak,
the meeting came to its feet to welcome me. When I had finished, they
stood applauding for over five minutes; some even declared it was ten!
I could not move; I could only stand very still, almost stunned, as
waves of applause broke over me, for joy at my freedom and what I was
doing with it.
There were several old friends in the audience whom
I had not seen for ten years. One came to me to say, "Helen, I was sitting next
to the only person in this whole gathering who did not need to feel
ashamed after you had spoken." I knew she meant the Anglican priest,
Bernard Wrankmore, who had fasted almost to death in protest against
the death in detention of a Muslim priest. Abdullah Haroun. I knew,
too, that what I had said about standing up to be counted had gone
home to many people. I had ended my speech with Pastor Niemoller's
famous words,
In Germany, they first came for the communists and I didn't speak up
because I wasn't a communist;
then they came for the Jews and I didn't speak up because I wasn't
a Jew;
then they came for the trade unionists and I didn't speak up because
I wasn't a trade unionist;
then they came for the Catholics and I didn't speak up because i was
a Protestant;
then they came for me and by that time no one was left to speak up.
As I flew back to Johannesburg, I asked myself what I had done to
deserve these great honours, these tributes. I found no answer, only
a deep appreciation and love for all the hundreds of students who had
given me this tremendous support. The nine years of house arrest were
gone and I had a freedom and an opportunity greater than I had ever
known before, despite being listed. I did not know for how long I should
be allowed to keep this freedom, but the prospect of being re-banned
held no fears for me. What I had endured once, I could endure again
and the rewards were very great.
Later in the year, I was back in Cape Town, this time for the Civil
Rights Week, organised by the university students. I found a mammoth
programme, six speeches in five days. It was a tough assignment but
somehow it was all fitted into the daily programmes. I spoke first
to the university students; then there was an all-day seminar on passive
resistance, a youth service at the Cathedral, a visit to a school to
talk to the matriculation class. The attempt to have me speak at the
Afrikaans-speaking University of Stellenbosch failed, as I was not
permitted to speak on that campus. Some Stellenbosch students, however,
organised an off-campus meeting at which I spoke.
Monday night was intended to be the highlight of that Civil Rights
Week, with a public meeting in the Rondebosch Town Hall. But our right-wing
opponents had been busy before we got there, sprinkling sneeze powder
on the seats. Spluttering, we closed the hall and cleaned the powder
off. During the meeting a petrol bomb was flung into the hall from
outside. This fortunately failed to ignite properly, though it went
off with bang. That was followed by a sneeze-powder bomb, which did
go off, rather like a stink bomb, right in the middle of another speaker's
address. The audience heroically remained in the hall while some of
the effects of the sneeze powder wore off. I spoke next and sneezed
my way through my speech on the United Nations Declaration of Human
Rights. My sneezes didn't really matter because the audience was in
as bad shape as I was.
We had laughed our way through the sneeze affair, but
the onslaught from these right-wing terrorists had gone further than
we knew. A petrol
bomb had been thrown into the home of Geoff Budlender, President of
the Cape Town University Students' Representative Council while he
was presiding at our meeting and it had gutted part of his house. Slogans — "Communists
live here" — and similar abuse had been painted on the walls
of the house where I was slaying with the Reverend Theo Kotze, Cape
Director of the Christian Institute, campaigner for right and justice.
He had already endured much of this kind of mindless violent behaviour
and abusive painting on his walls and sundry other attacks both on
his house and his office. I could not avoid the thought, nevertheless,
that I had brought this latest attack upon him because I was his guest.
I flew back to Johannesburg the next day and read in the papers that
a shot had been fired through one of the windows of Kotze's house.
Hooliganism of this sort was appearing in Johannesburg, but it was
mainly occurring in Cape Town. I had had nothing further since the
bomb at my gate the previous year.
Almost a year had passed since Ahmed Timol's tragic
death. There had been an inquest and the magistrate found that he
had committed suicide
and that no one was to blame for his death. No one? His friends and
family knew whom to blame. Feeling ran high in the Indian community
when it came to the anniversary of his death. The pupils at the Indian
high school where Timol had taught hired buses and came to Roodepoort
for a memorial meeting. They crowded along the wide corridor, which
opened onto all the flats in the building where Timol's parents lived.
Almost a hundred of the schoolchildren came, and after the meeting
we marched illegally through the streets of Roodepoort to the Muslim
cemetery. We came to Timol's grave and I stood with the schoolgirls,
a little apart, obedient to Muslim tradition. When I said to a young
girl that I was guilty, with all whites, of Timol's death, she replied, "No,
Mrs Joseph, we are guilty too, for we Indians have not spoken out because
we have been afraid."
The two years that had passed since my restrictions had been lifted
had been so full that I had not resumed my theological studies. I felt
very guilty about it, and regretful too, for I wanted to go further
in my quest for knowledge about my faith. The political and social
world, so unexpectedly restored to me, had eaten into my life because
my whole existence had come alive again with people.
There was only one thing for me to do — to give my self to concentrated
study for several months and work for the first part of the Diploma
of Theology of London University. I had enough sense to abandon the
course for the Divinity honours degree and register for the less demanding
Diploma. I announced to my amazed friends that I was putting myself
under four and half months' "study arrest". No one must visit
me except on Saturday afternoons and I should not go out at all except
to work and to church. I would only relax this rule if I was called
upon to speak at a meeting. I repeated this self-imposed ban two years
later and finally obtained the Diploma in 1975.
Early in 1973 a law was passed in Parliament, which
filled me with forebodings. It provided for the removal of South
African citizenship
in the case of citizens who had also the nationality of another country, "when
it appeared that it would not be in the public interest that such a
person should continue to be a South African citizen". I was a
South African citizen, but I was also a British national by birth.
The minister stated that this provision was aimed at drug peddlers
but conceded that it might affect other persons. This alarmed me, for
the last thing I wanted was to be compelled to leave South Africa.
This land was my adopted home and I belonged here. Yet the authorities
might well not agree with me and the minister need not supply any reason
for a decision to withdraw South African citizenship. If this happened
to me I could be liable for deportation.
I went speedily to the British Consul and renounced my British nationality.
I bought myself out of the British Commonwealth for eight rands and
ten cents. Now I was safe. I could not be deported. The government
might still do many things to me, but it had got me for keeps and I
was satisfied.
Robert Resha died in London, in 1973. He would not be coming back
to South Africa after all, not even when freedom had been won. I was
aware of his resistance to the new policy of the external ANC of admitting
non-Africans to membership. I knew this would have angered Robert deeply
because of his inflexible African nationalism and his conviction that
the ANC should remain the leading political organisation with an exclusively
African membership. Other races should, as always, be welcomed in the
struggle for liberation but not as members of the ANC.
Robert lost his fight against this new policy and died
a tragic, lonely and embittered man, rejected by many of those who,
for nearly thirty
years, had been his leaders and his colleagues in the struggle to which
he had devoted his life. He would never submit to what he thought was
wrong and he paid a high price for his stand. A friend brought me a
red rose bush and I planted it in my garden. Its flaunting crimsom
blooms have something of Robert's arrogance in them. In a letter to
me, his widow wrote, "A man's grave is by the side of the road
he treads." Robert's grave lies beside that road to freedom, which
he trod.
April 1974 brought a parliamentary election. In a Cape Town constituency
an active group of young people, mainly university students, past and
present, was formed. They called themselves the Alliance for Radical
Change (ARC), for they wanted change and were prepared to work for
it. They put up their own candidate, Chris Woods, one of the recently
banned NUSAS leaders, intending to expose the farce of South Africa's
all-white elections, for no banned person could enter Parliament. They
campaigned on a socialist platform and I was invited to speak at a
mass meeting on the eve of the election in Rondebosch Town Hall, the
scene of the earlier sneeze battle.
I was met at the airport by the ARC supporters, all
wearing black gags to symbolise the enforced silence of their banned
candidate. As
we drove through the streets, I was confronted by large posters tied
to almost every lamp-post, "Helen Joseph speaks!"
Once again the hall was packed and once again a smoke bomb was thrown
into the hall, but it was speedily removed before it could have much
effect. I had been very dubious about my ability to hold the attention
of such a large crowd for a long period, as I was the only speaker.
Everything went well with even a little light relief provided by a
heckler, notorious for the leading part he seemed to play in the violent
attacks on the homes of NUSAS and Christian Institute supporters. He
was not very effective for the crowd was against him and he could easily
be dealt with from the platform, even by me.
Since I had started speaking in public again, I had
always tried to keep the image of the Freedom Charter alive by quoting
from the preamble
or the ending: "This freedom we will fight for side by side until
we have won our liberty" or " . . . to strive together, sparing
nothing of our strength and courage until the democratic changes here
set out have been won." For this meeting I had the green light
to speak freely and fully about the Freedom Charter because its provisions
were basic to the policy of the Alliance for Radical Change.
Vorster, the Prime Minister, had given a television
interview, relayed to the USA, no doubt as part of the Nationalist
Party's election campaign.
He had been tackled on bannings and house arrest and had given some
surprising answers about our "right" to appeal against our
banning orders and obtain reasons why we had been banned.
I was delighted at the opportunity to deal with all this nonsense
in a public speech. I could challenge him in relation to my own experience
of house arrest and expose the half-truths, which he had fed to the
American televiewing public and to the South African public, even if
I could reach only the people present in the hall and could not be
reported in the newspapers.
To speak publicly on the Freedom Charter was like a dream come true.
For almost twenty years, a great cloud of unknowing had settled over
it. There were fears about its legal position. Was it banned or not?
I had argued that it was legal because only two of the organisations
which had composed the Congress Alliance had been banned, the ANC and
the COD, but not the SA Coloured People's Organisation or the SA Indian
Congress.
Since that meeting, the government has attacked the Freedom Charter
by banning specific printed issues of it. This can be done but the
principles of the charter and the words in which those principles are
expressed cannot be banned. The Freedom Charter can be, and is, reprinted
over and over again.
There could be no doubt about how the audience received it. I was
honoured with a standing ovation and I felt that I had done something,
no matter how little, to put the Freedom Charter on the map. Predictably,
our ARC parliamentary candidate lost his deposit. The Nationalist Party
of course won the election. The only satisfaction was that the conservative
United Party had to concede some seats to the Progressive Party.
In another area, the election day brought victory. When I came to
the campus the next morning it was alive with reports that the Portuguese
regime in Mozambique had collapsed and that it would be only a very
short time before the liberation forces led by Frelimo would take over
the government. This gave new heart and new hope to the black people
of South Africa and to the whites who supported the liberation struggle.
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