Suppression of human rights continues in Mauritania, one of Africa’s poorest and least-known nations, writes John Matshikiza
I flew into Nouakchott, capital of the Saharan state of Mauritania, on November 26 1994. I remember the date precisely, because it was my 40th birthday a watershed moment, celebrated in a land without water.
I was leading a television crew on a long haul through the African continent, shooting footage for what was to become an SABC television documentary entitled Africa Salutes Mandela.
I had conceived the project on the basis of two observations. The first was that the greater continent, on which I had spent my formative years, and to which I would return frequently in adulthood, was passionately involved, on a day-to-day basis, with the unfolding drama of South Africa’s struggle for liberation. The moment of Nelson Mandela’s release in 1990, and the country’s triumphant first democratic election of April 1994, had marked the culmination of that saga, the moment when the whole world, and the African continent in particular, breathed a collective sigh of hope that Africa was at last on its way.
The second observation, as a newly returned former exile, was that South Africa had almost no knowledge of this passionate involvement a veiled bride with no idea of her groom’s long courtship, almost no idea that she was even betrothed during those years of enforced separation.
Nothing during the course of that incredible safari would highlight for me the peculiar tension of that relationship more than our two-day sojourn in Nouakchott.
Why had I chosen Mauritania anyway, a sprawling, under-populated tract of land stuck between Arab Morocco and black Senegal, with no particular profile in the swirl of world events?
The choice was made strictly on the basis of one track on a cassette that I had bought years before, at a music stall in a London flea market.
The track was entitled, Lord, Please Bring Apartheid Crashing Down somewhat blunt and lacking in poetic subtlety when translated into English, but a beautiful and heartfelt appeal that struck straight to the heart when sung in its native Arabic. Even in distant Mauritania, it told me, the battle for South Africa’s liberation was being joined, its warriors celebrated.
The atmosphere in Nouakchott was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Even from the air as we made our landing approach, you could see that the town appeared to be made up of thousands of tiny dwellings clinging precariously to the desert sand, sometimes at crazy angles, as if they were sinking. The dazzling blue of the Atlantic Ocean, which defined the western limits of the town, contrasted strikingly with the almost uniform khaki and white of the land and its buildings, none of which appeared to be more than three stories high.
We checked into our hotel, immediately aware of a strange tension, a feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. A feeling that we had entered a land that was hiding a thousand secrets.
It did not take long before the first approach was made. While I was sitting in the lobby that evening, a man in the ubiquitous sky-blue robe approached me and thrust a business card into my hand. The card bore the contact details of a university professor and the unannounced emissary, speaking in hushed tones, told me that he needed to speak to me urgently and privately.
The hairs were rising on the back of my neck. We were on a semi-official mission, carrying credentials supplied by the South African Department of Foreign Affairs, and therefore formally welcomed by two officials of the Mauritanian Ministry of Information, who would facilitate all aspects of our visit.
Now I was being drawn into an intrigue that I knew could only be hazardous.
The nameless emissary spoke urgently, his head close to mine, while I tried to look cool and impartial for the benefit of whoever was observing us and observed we certainly were. But I am sure my composure deserted me when I started taking in what he was saying.
The professor, he told me, was the leader of an activist group fighting for the rights of Mauritania’s black minority. Black Mauritanians were still being enslaved by their Arab compatriots, he said, and slave rebellions were being viciously suppressed. Thousands had been arrested and jailed, and in recent years dozens of rebels had been summarily executed in villages in the south, their bodies left to hang on makeshift gallows as an example to others.
Then he came to the point. News of our arrival, and the fact that we were making a television programme that carried the hallowed Mandela name, had preceded us. The professor wanted us to make contact with him, or at least ensure that news of the predicament of black Mauritanians should be carried back to South Africa with us. Then came the killer line:
“We Mauritanians supported the struggle of Nelson Mandela to liberate black people in your country from the yoke of racism and apartheid,” he said. “Now we demand to know whether Nelson Mandela is going to speak out against the racist murder and oppression of fellow Africans in Mauritania.”
It was the most awkward position imaginable. I was being hoist on my own petard, on behalf of the government I had voted for just a few months earlier. It is all very well to solicit and accept the most vocal support when you yourself have a just cause. But how far will you go to give the same support to others? Where do you draw the line in the fight against injustice?
Mauritania is a troubling case. As we travelled around, we were more and more struck by the intimidating silence, the unspoken division between light and dark, even though they share the same language, culture and religion. Our privileged, quasi-diplomatic status made it impossible for us to probe deeper among the few Mauritanians we were able to talk to. We played the good guest. And all around, those dark eyes followed us, with a veiled subtext of deep enquiry.
Is it reasonable to equate the Mauritanian situation with South African apartheid? The argument continues to rage about whether the relations between “black” and “white” Mauritanians can truly be equated with the United States’s bitter slave heritage, or whether they are simply a feudal anachronism in a rapidly changing world a feudal system that subjugates women, children and the poorest of “white” Mauritanians as much as it does the black minority.
Mauritania straddles the feudal and modern worlds in much the same way as its capital city straddles the desert and the sea. Its democratic elections in October last year, initially thought to be free and fair even by opposition parties, have been tainted with news this month that the ruling party has since banned the main opposition party, headed by self-proclaimed former slave and black-rights activist Messaoud Ould Boulkheir. In the past two years many more activists have been arrested, tortured and jailed, and one has been sentenced to death.
It seems unavoidable that suppression of human rights continues in Mauritania, one of Africa’s poorest and least publicised nations. What Africa’s champions of liberty, equality and fraternity (particularly widely admired South Africa) are prepared to do about it is yet to be seen.