Conversations with Myself (16 page)

Otherwise I remain cosmopolitan in my outlook; in my thoughts I am as free as a falcon.

The anchor of all my dreams is the collective wisdom of mankind as a whole. I am influenced more than ever before by the conviction that social equality is the only basis of human happiness…It is around these issues that my thoughts revolve. They are centred on humans, the ideas for which they strive; on the new world that is emerging; the new generation that declares total war against all forms of cruelty, against any social order that upholds economic privilege for a minority and that condemns the mass of the population to poverty and disease, illiteracy and the host of evils that accompany a stratified society.

18. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, THEN IN PRETORIA CENTRAL PRISON, DATED 1 AUGUST 1970

The crop of miseries we have harvested from the heartbreaking frustrations of the last 15 months are not likely to fade away easily from the mind. I feel as if I have been soaked in gall, every part of me, my flesh, bloodstream, bone and soul, so bitter I am to be completely powerless to help you in the rough and fierce ordeals you are going through. What a world of difference to your failing health and to your spirit, darling, to my own anxiety and the strain that I cannot shake off, if only we could meet; if I could be on your side and squeeze you, or if I could but catch a glimpse of your outline through the thick wire netting that would inevitably separate us.

Physical suffering is nothing compared to the trampling down of those tender bonds of affection that form the basis of the institution of marriage and the family that unite man and wife. This is a frightful moment in our life. It is a moment of challenge to cherished beliefs, putting resolutions to a severe test. But as long as I still enjoy the privilege of communicating with you, even though it may only exist in form for me, and until it is expressly taken away, the records will bear witness to the fact that I tried hard and earnestly to reach you by writing every month. I owe you this duty and nothing will distract me from it. Maybe this line will one day pay handsome dividends. There will always be good men on earth, in all countries, and even here at home. One day we may have on our side the genuine and firm support of an upright and straightforward man, holding high office, who will consider it improper to shirk his duty of protecting the rights and privileges of even his bitter opponents in the battle of ideas that is being fought in our country today; an official who will have a sufficient sense of justice and fairness to make available to us not only the rights and privileges that the law allows us today, but who will also compensate us for those that were surreptitiously taken away.

In spite of all that has happened I have, throughout the ebb and flow of the tides of fortune in the last 15 months, lived in hope and expectation. Sometimes I even have the belief that this feeling is part and parcel of my self. It seems to be woven into my being. I feel my heart pumping hope steadily to every part of my body, warming my blood and pepping up my spirits. I am convinced that floods of personal disaster can never drown a determined revolutionary nor can the cumulus of misery that accompany tragedy suffocate him. To a freedom fighter hope is what a life belt is to a swimmer – a guarantee that one will keep afloat and free from danger. I know, darling, that if riches were to be counted in terms of the tons of hope and sheer courage that nestle in your breast (this idea I got from you) you would certainly be a millionaire. Remember this always.

19. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 31 AUGUST 1970

If there was ever a letter which I desperately wished to keep, read quietly over and over again in the privacy of my cell, it was that one. It was compensation for the precious things your arrest deprived me of – the Xmas, wedding anniversary, birthday cards – the little things about which you never fail to think. But I was told to read it on the spot and [it] was grabbed away as soon as I had reached the last line.

Brig. [Brigadier] Aucamp attempted to justify this arbitrary procedure with the flimsy excuse that in the letter you gave his name for your address instead of your prison. He went on to explain that my letters to you were handled in exactly the same way, and that you were not allowed to keep them. When I pressed him for an explanation he was evasive. I realised there were important issues at stake which necessitate the making of serious inroads on your right as an awaiting-trial prisoner to write and receive letters and curtailment of my corresponding privilege. Our letters are subject to a special censorship. The real truth is that the authorities do not want you to share the contents of the letters I write you with your colleagues there, and vice versa. To prevent this they resort to all means, fair and foul. It is possible that communication between us may be whittled down still further, at least for the duration of the trial. As you know, the privilege as far as my normal monthly letters to and from friends and relations practically disappeared with your arrest. I have been trying to communicate with Matlala since January last and with Nolusapho since November.

On June 19 Brig. Aucamp explained that another department had instructed him not to forward these letters, adding at the same time that he was not in a position to give me reasons for these instructions, but that such instructions were not influenced by the contents of the letters. This revelation solved the riddle of the mysterious disappearance of most of the letters I wrote over the past 15 months. The matter entails even more serious implications. I should like to be in the position where I can always rely on what officials tell me, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult to square up wishes with experience. Twice during July and early this month, I was informed that your letter had not arrived. I have now established that the letter was actually here when I was being given assurances to the contrary.

20. FROM A LETTER TO NONYANISO MADIKIZELA, DATED 1 NOVEMBER 1970
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If there was ever a time for Zami to remain calm, cautious and calculating,
a time to think, and think, and think
, it is now. Let her be careful. There are those who do not want to see her free and who will use any pretext to pounce upon her.

When all Zami’s shortcomings have been listed, she still emerges as a woman of great ability and ambition, endowed with qualities far more superior to anything I have ever possessed, and I have the highest regard for her. She deserves encouragement and support. One of my greatest regrets is to be unable to protect her – the one woman who has first claim to everything that I command in the form of knowledge, experience and advice. For courage and dedication she is second to none. But, however much she may be affected by the ideals that have moved other great women, she still lives here on mother earth. She must eat, bring children up, maintain me and have a decent home. One of my fervent hopes had once been that I would give her all these things, which would leave her free to strive to realise her aspirations with a measure of independence. That chance never came, and I never succeeded in providing for her and the children. With her numerous restrictions, no one is prepared to employ her and she finds it difficult to earn her living. What a catastrophe for a young woman of 36! Never shall I regret the decision I made in ’61, but I wish one day my conscience would sit easy in my bosom.
¹⁸
Look after her, Nyanya. I have given you a glimpse of the woman I adore, the human being behind the veil of fine garments she wears and attractive features for which she is widely known.

21. FROM A LETTER TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 16 NOVEMBER 1970

You looked much better than I expected, but far from what you were when we last met in Dec. ’68. The cumulative effect of a thousand and one strains was clearly visible. As I walked back to the jail after the interview, I was preoccupied with the fear that now that you have to live alone for 12 hours in the night, loneliness and anxiety might worsen your condition. This fear still haunts me.

Incidentally, on my way down to the visiting rooms on Nov. 7, I managed to see the boat on which you came as it steamed gracefully to harbour, beautiful in its bright colours. Even at a distance it looked a real prisoners’ friend, and I became more anxious as it approached. You know why! I saw it again as it sailed back to the mainland. This time the picture was altogether different. Though it still retained its brightness, the beauty I had seen only a few hours before was gone. Now it looked grotesque and quite unfriendly. As it drifted slowly away with you, I felt all alone in the world and the books that fill my cell, which have kept me company all these years, seemed mute and unresponsive. Have I seen my darling for the last time, is a question that kept recurring.

22. FROM A LETTER TO ZINDZI MANDELA, DATED 1 DECEMBER 1970

It is on occasions such as this one that I fully understand how I am completely dependent on Mummy in almost everything I do. Ever since I was told that she and her friends had been released, I lived in the hope that I would soon see her, and was excited as you become when you hear the bell of the ice-cream man ring, or when Mummy buys you a mini dress.

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From a letter to Zindzi Mandela, dated 1 December 1970.

I tried hard to remain calm when Kgatho unexpectedly broke the painful news. Perhaps I would have done much better on the stage than in law or politics. I must have acted well because I succeeded in making one of my friends believe that Mummy’s failure to come had not affected me. If only he knew! The truth is that my appearance had nothing to do whatsoever with the state of my feelings. I was badly wounded and shaken.

You and Zeni, and perhaps even Mummy, may be justified in thinking that the magistrate, who seemingly treated us with such pettiness and lack of feeling, is a cruel man. He himself probably has a wife and children, just as I have, and would certainly be aware of the hardship created by keeping Mummy and Daddy in forced separation for so long, and of denying us the pleasure of seeing each other. Yet I know that, as a person, he is far from being cruel. On the contrary, and within the limits imposed by certain traditions which have become accepted in our country, he is kind and courteous, and I consider him in all sincerity to be a gentleman. During the 9 years in which I practiced as an attorney I frequently appeared before him, and I found it a real pleasure to argue before a man I regarded as fair and just.

But even a man like the Chief Magistrate of mighty Johannesburg, South Africa’s largest city, and Africa’s richest town, has his hands firmly tied. He cannot do what he likes. His official duties may force him to do what his personal nature violently hates. Even junior officials in other departments may wield more power than him, and have the final say in regard to some of his important official duties. In matters of this kind it is never wise to single out individuals and lay blame on their shoulders. Such individuals may not themselves be responsible for the decisions they make. They may merely be the means through which more powerful forces operate. On such questions it would be equally misleading to place your trust on good men, no matter how highly placed they may be. Where systems are involved, the goodness of individuals is very often irrelevant. It is, however, a different story when you, Zeni, Maki, Kgatho, Mfundo, Motsobise, Bazala, Pumla, Thamie and Andile, Nombeko, Mpho and Thabo and other young people become united by common ideas and when you follow up common plans.
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Then old systems will be pushed aside and new ones arise. The system as a whole must change. Only then will good men have the opportunity to serve their countrymen fully and well. Then Mummy will not have to travel to Cape Town to see Daddy. I will be at home, wherever home will be. Together we shall sit around the fire and chat warmly and gaily. We might even invite the magistrate for dinner. I don’t know where we shall get the money to arrange the dinner. When I return I shall have forgotten almost everything about law and will have to do something else for a living, perhaps dig roads, clean drains or go down the coal pits with pick and shovel.

23. FROM A LETTER TO JOYCE SIKHAKHANE, DATED 1 JANUARY 1971
²⁰

Re roba matsoho for you and John!
²¹
Is it true? Can you two really do this to me, take such momentous decisions without even as much as giving me a hint? I must have missed heaps of meat and pudding at the engagement party. To your wedding I would have been accepted just as I am, without having to sport a frock coat, starched shirt and top hat. What is even more important to me, your wedding would have been one occasion in which I could have shined at last. I rehearse daily on a penny whistle; everyone around here calls it that though it cost R2.00. I’m still on the d.t.l.-stage but with more practice I could have tried Handel’s Messiah on it on the great da.

24. CONVERSATION WITH RICHARD STENGEL

STENGEL: Did you have recurring nightmares when you were on Robben Island?