The atmosphere was tense when I arrived in Alberton on Wednesday morning. I thought I’d find a few hundred protesters in the industrial area of Alrode, where striking workers were on the streets.
But when I pulled into the area I was faced with a sea of disgruntled workers, many of them dressed in red National Union of Metalworkers (Numsa) T-shirts, carrying sticks and sjamboks and toyi-toying at the gates of the various steel and fibre-cable manufacturing firms. They were demanding that amagundwane — the rats — who were working inside come out to join them on the streets.
I found parking at one of the nearby firms and decided to leave my cameras in the car. I wanted to see how the protesters would respond to journalists. It didn’t take long to test the waters.
When the group overheard me tell one of the strike marshals that I was from a newspaper they began their taunts. “Who sent you here?” they shouted. “Asinifuni nina [We don’t want you here], you journalist.”
The marshal referred me to their leader — a Numsa negotiator who gave his name only as Tshabalala — who was at the gate of one company speaking to management, with a handful of others. I pushed my way through the crowds towards him. He promised to attend to me, but I had to wait.
The discussions between management and the Numsa leaders went on for at least two hours. Eventually some of the negotiators were let into the premises to inspect whether there were workers inside.
I stayed nearby, planning to follow the mob to the next company. But on the way down the road I was again intimidated by the crowd, which made its sentiments clear: “We don’t want you here,” the protesters shouted. “You media people are bad.”
I ignored the calls and prayed they would leave me alone. After several hours the protesters got used to seeing me and stopped their taunting. They sang and danced and waved their sticks in the air.
As a journalist I had a right to document the strike without asking permission, but I knew I had to wait for their blessing or I’d have to take what would come next. Police presence was limited (we saw only about 10 officers and four or five vehicles) and if things went badly they would easily be overpowered.
At the next company — a fibre-cable manufacturing firm — the process repeated itself. There were long negotiations and then the wait for employees to be released. The security guards for the companies were the ones in the front; they were, after all, the people who met the negotiators at the gate — with the angry mob behind them. If, after initial conversations, management was suspected of lying to protect non-striking workers inside, the negotiators would demand to be let in to inspect the premises.
On several occasions they found workers hiding inside. We watched as the non-striking workers emerged, hours later, crammed into cars to protect themselves from the mob. We didn’t witness any physical assaults, but the workers got the point. They would not be coming back to work any time soon.
After about two or three hours two colleagues from City Press arrived. From a distance I saw photographer Lucky Nxumalo was surrounded. He had taken out his camera and, within seconds, the mob moved in. He was verbally abused and intimidated by sticks and sjamboks. Nxumalo pleaded for mercy. He was eventually let go and told to take his cameras back to his car.
“Eish! Those people are dangerous! I don’t want to leave my kids without a father,” Nxumalo said to me later.
By 3pm I began to panic. We had not taken a single image. Just then the Numsa negotiator, Tshabalala, came to us and gave his permission. We were allowed to take our photos. I pulled out my cameras — one in one hand and the other hanging around my neck — but I was vehemently warned by some of the protesters not to take “unnecessary” photos.
They did not want any photos that would portray them in a bad light. In the end patience was our virtue. We were the only ones that got the shot.