Amid all the excitement surrounding the likes of the Clive Derby-Lewis amnesty hearings and arguments over FW de Klerk’s role in apartheid-era atrocities there have been incidents relating to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission which are particularly disturbing because they cast light not on yesterday’s men, but those who carry responsibility for our tomorrows.
One such incident was the testimony to the truth commission a few weeks ago by Joe Seremane, the much-respected chairman of the Land Claims Court whose contribution to the anti-apartheid struggle was considerable.
Seremane had an appalling tale to tell the commission, of the circumstances of his brother’s torture and execution in an ANC camp and his own efforts to discover the truth of what had happened – a search which was frustrated by ANC officials and saw an attempt on the life of one of his key witnesses. Seremane’s cry to the ANC before the truth commission – “why do you cheat me of my brother’s bones” – will long echo.
Of a piece with the Seremane testimony is the story of another alleged victim of the ANC camps, Rita Mazibuko, and the row which has developed over it between the M&G and the Premier of Mpumalanga, Mathews Phosa.
Space does not allow a recitation of the complex charges and counter-charges which have been flying over the head of Mazibuko. But, briefly put, she testified to the truth commission that she had been detained, raped and otherwise tortured by the ANC in exile.
The flavour of her evidence is reflected in the following quote: “… he raped me and also cut my genitals … he tied my hands, my legs – they were apart – he also tied my neck and he would also pour Dettol over my genitals”. She added that Phosa, whom she knew well in exile, had tried to prevent her telling this story to the commission.
Phosa, who denies knowing Mazibuko, reacted by issuing a bizarre threat to sue her for defamation (bizarre, because as a trained lawyer he knows full well that testimony to the commission is privileged) and then announced that he is withdrawing the threat after receiving an “apology” from Mazibuko.
It was at this stage that the M&G – intrigued by what should have prompted this extraordinary turnaround – dispatched a woman reporter and woman photographer to see Mazibuko. She told them she had never apologised to Phosa and the first she had heard of such an apology was when it was broadcast on the radio.
We reported this in last week’s edition. Within hours of the newspaper going on sale, Mazibuko – a person of no great sophistication who is so poverty-stricken that she wears clothes donated by the Wits Law Clinic – issued a statement with an accompanying affidavit on the South African Press Association wire denying having talked to the M&G and denouncing a conspiracy to undermine what she described as her “good relations” with Phosa.
Now it may be argued that Mazibuko is raving mad. But we suspect such an explanation for her behaviour would entail the discovery of a form of lunacy entirely foreign to the textbooks of psychiatry. A far more likely explanation lies with that affliction so endemic among politicians known as the cover-up. We suspect that if Mazibuko had the confidence and authority of a Seremane, she might well echo his cry by demanding of the ANC: “Why do you cheat me of my suffering?”