We’re confused as we arrive. Our little team of protesters, totalling three, wanders around Constitution Hill trying to locate the start of the Take Back the Night march. The plan is to fearlessly walk through one of Jo’burg’s toughest neighbourhoods, to kick off the 16 Days of Activism campaign, reclaiming our right to move freely through any part of our country without fear of violence or abuse.
We stumble on a small busload of people milling around on the pavement, a Metro police car idling next to them. T-shirts with Take Back the Night emblazoned across their fronts are being handed out among the group, made up mostly of women and children. I’m suddenly not feeling very brave. I wonder how a hundred people are going to take back the streets of Hillbrow.
Unwilling to accept that this is the sum total of defiant activists ready to pound the tarmac, my colleague suggests we scout around the Constitutional Court building to see if we can find any more marchers.
Turning a corner, to our relief, we find a courtyard full of people. The crowd here is bigger, louder. Marshals are clearly visible in their fluorescent orange sashes. Apart from a few familiar NGO faces — Colleen Lowe Morna of Genderlinks and Carrie Shelver of People Opposing Women Abuse — there is not one prominent figure in sight. No politicians, no judges, no celebrities. Not one of the endless dial-a-quotes who can always be relied on to profess their support for this worthy cause.
As the crowd of about 600 people starts moving slowly out of the courtyard, we are handed placards. ”Freeze Family Violence and Child Protection Units Decentralisation”, shouts one. ”Improve Investigation and Collection of Evidence”, demands another. Not the catchiest posters I’ve ever seen (not to mention damnably difficult to chant), and as we walk I start wondering what the wall of men lining the route with beer bottles and joints in their hands make of these messages. The marchers soon revert to the less tongue-twisting chant of ”no more abuse!”
The roads haven’t been closed off, so we straggle along in the gap between the street and the pavement. Taxi drivers hoot and swear at marchers trying to cross the road. ”No more abuse!” shouts a woman brandishing a placard at an impatient driver, who makes an obscene gesture and tell us to ”voetsek” in a filthy tone.
I’ve had enough of this vehicular harassment: ”Whoah!” I yell, planting my feet squarely in front of a metallic green Ford that appears quite ready to plough into us. Two women behind me break into hysterical laughter at the driver’s expression. We are not so much marching as running the gauntlet as we go down Claim Street, past the notorious Summit Club.
The crowd fights its way round the corner into Kotze Street. People gather at windows above us and men throng the balcony of the Mahasheni Pub, staring blearily at the toyi-toying crowd below them. Music thuds out of doorways and the marchers are wreathed in smoke from a shisanyama joint. The cops seem to have finally cottoned on to the fact that something’s up in Hillbrow, and a van appears next to us with its siren blaring. It warbles on and on, creating a wall between us and the impatient drivers as the march halts, waiting for stragglers to catch up.
A series of loud bangs echo through the canyons of flatland. Two correctional services officers in uniform spin round, worried expressions on their faces. A volley of loud bangs is heard again, and we hurriedly assure each other that they are not loud enough to be gunshots. We do start marching a little faster, though. Gratefully we surge back to the relative safety of the Constitution Hill precinct. I feel less that I’ve taken back the night and more that I’ve been lucky to survive it.
