Stand up and be Counted

There's More Than Dying

Bobbing about in the gloomy streets of despair, the ghosts of those departed drift about and seep in and out of my consciousness, eventually taking residence in my psyche as a condensed lump of sadness. It threatens to choke off my undeserving life-breath. Let us not have died in vain they sigh.
I, who am nothing: I, who have done nothing; I pass dreamlike through this tangled web of my life, scarred and bruised, as are all those of my order. My offertory is a silent scream.
This mute cloud of witnesses, stand accusatory. They haunt my every action; what do they want of my somnolent soul? I know but I am unprepared to dredge up those wretched, shipwrecked memories.
The winter's morning chill penetrates my worn soles. My poorly protected feet are numb and frigid. I am down at heel and my scuffed shoes are worn and out of alignment, and, as I walk they transfer their imperfections to my ageing frame. The aches and pains that assail me bear testimony to the wear and tear of my onerous life. Poverty pervades my wretched existence. Poverty and want unto the third and fourth generation: and even as I moan and groan, there are those worse off than I am.
A satanic malevolence is broadcast into a receptive world, and we lap it up gratefully. If only I could give meaning to my hate, then I would be free: indifferent to poverty and content with my lot. O! Elusive contentment, if only I could find you; but, I dwell in a world spiritually out of kilter; I dwell in a world of psychological agnostics. We formulate political systems, religious systems, customs and traditions all designed for us to seek solace and to enable us to embrace the safety of the herd. We ridicule those without who are foolish enough to let us get away with it; and still the wisdom of the ancients cannot be superseded.
The Truth is always with us. It was always here; we have tarnished it with lies and cloaked it in deceit to entrench the power of our priests. Each one knows what it is that it means, yet each one has a different insight: a better explanation. A more reliable parchment has been carefully chosen as the ultimate, indisputable reference. Each circle of adherents declare their principal the ultimate prophet.
Every strangled throat cries out: Peace, Peace; yet those who dwell in safety pursue the way of evil and preserve violence and dissention to maintain the status quo.
There is always something to fight about. I hear the marching of a million booted feet relentless in their quest for merciless conformity. The army of complaisance is on the move. The anguished beating of a nation's fearful heart can plainly be heard, as it apprehensively awaits that undefined Day of Judgment. How shall we escape?

"Under the skysigns they who have no arms
Have cleanest hands, and, as the heartless ghost
Alone's unhurt, so the blind man sees best."
Dylan Thomas at his rabid, wordsmith best wrote that for me. A prophecy written some forty years before those hapless incidents took place. How did he know?

You may think that you are free; as did I; then I heard about unfreedom. Yes, it does not even sound like a proper word. It made me realize that my existence could be likened to a twist of kelp rooted to the sea floor, floating in a sea of oppression. Around me krill and plankton float about unimpeded and I envy them until I see how they are devoured in their hundreds; and still I float. It never occurs to me to free myself. I offer no resistance, and I allow myself to be buffeted by the indifferent currents. These currents have conditioned me and I do not question them; why should I; surely they mean me no harm?
Sometimes the currents are so strong that I am parallel to the ocean floor, deprived of floating freely and even deprived of light as the churning sea clouds over. I insolently fight back, twisting and turning. I become entangled with my kelp brothers. The current sees no need to censure me, it knows all about my kind. Eventually the current calms down and I regain my proud, upright, celebratory undulations. I care not that I had done nothing to regain my free-floating status; I am unaware that my unfreedom is assured and I blithely continue thinking that I am free.
Injustice speaks to all but only some will stand upon the center stage and act. These are open to criticism, abuse and attack; yet they soldier on, fearlessly; sacrificial in their intent. Others offer support backstage, their reward the act itself and it's success. A host of others cringe beyond the footlights, blinded and fearful. The mythical albatross flies overhead and its shadow gives life to my dread, meaning to my fear and finally, substance to my disentanglement. I stand tall in that shadow, overcome by misplaced boldness; the righteous sun can find itself another martyr.

That fateful morning, I stood at the door of the train as I always did. At each station stop, the doors would open and the bracing winter air would revive me; besides, there was more to distract one at the door. Smoking in trains was still allowed during that time as legislation had far more pressing matters to which to attend; so all in all standing at the door made sense.
I tried not to think. The responsibility of a logical train of thought was just too much. I preferred the mindless jousting around the latest sports results. Alas, none of my fellow travelers that morning were acquaintances of mine. I braced myself as the train jerked to a halt at Wynberg station and the alighting passengers wrestled against those who rushed to board. I idly watched the fevered movement on the platform.
Suddenly, a hand was on my arm and a voice greeted me by name and enquired after my health.
Ivan Adams stood before me, he of the old school, athlete, soccer player and cricketer. The house captain who was popular with the teachers and the girls but, against all odds, had not become school captain. He had not allowed that set back to faze him at all. Now, here he was, the prospective populist. His free hand held a wad of pamphlets that I knew referred to the stay away labour action planned for the following week.
"Take these and distribute them at your place of work", he said pressing the pamphlets against my chest; there was the glimmer of a smile about his mouth, which seemed to say, 'if you dare'. The whistle warning of the train's imminent departure lent urgency to the act. He had lost none of his assertiveness, or his ability to unsettle me. I took them hurriedly. What else could I do?
"Viva", he called out as the train began to move off. I glanced briefly at the wording on the pamphlets and was irked by the revolutionary-speak, and began to put them away in my briefcase. I noticed people watching me, one man nodded encouragingly and smiled. I tried to smile back. What the hell had just happened? Was this my opportunity to become active in the struggle? What was the worst that could happen? After all, Ivan and the other comrades were openly handing out these tracts, what could go wrong? The more I thought about it, the more the idea of doing my bit for the struggle appealed to me. These thoughts occupied my mind for the rest of my journey. I was exhilarated. I could walk tall, with upright, celebratory undulations.
The weight of the pamphlets had become a separate, palpable weight of importance. I walked along with my newfound upliftment. I was ready to take my place at center stage. That weight gave meaning to what had hitherto just been an aimless plodding through the corridors of life.
My customary practice at work was to sit down at my desk and read the morning paper; but today was different. I made my way to the canteen with the pamphlets. At that early hour there were only a few people there, and they looked at me quizzically as I did not frequent the canteen. I proceeded to put small piles on each table and explained that they were about the proposed strike.
"Is Mr. van Reenen ook ANC?" (Is Mr. van Reenen also part of the ANC?) Asked one of the girls, yes that's what we called them - girls, irrespective of age. They even referred to themselves as girls: the jargon of the clothing trade.
"Don't worry about that, just see to it that everybody takes one", I replied authoritatively.
I returned to my desk and skimmed through the newspaper. I hardly absorbed any of it. I basked in my virtuousness. Once work began I concentrated on my tasks and thought no more about the morning's events.
Shortly before the first tea break of the day, the receptionist summonsed me via the paging system, to my boss's office. I left the production floor where I spent most of my time, and made my way to my desk. There I picked up the sheets of production figures that I thought were the reason that old Saunders wanted to see me.
" Good morning", I said, making sure that I did not use his name. It wasn't that I didn't like him; it was just that white people always had to be formally addressed, while it appeared that we didn't have surnames. This was my personal revolutionary statement. His curt reply and his demeanor alerted me that something more serious was in the air.
"What the hell is this, Patrick?" He flicked one of the pamphlets towards me. I didn't look at it; I looked at him and frowned.
"You know about the stayaway; it's virtually an annual event", I replied.
"That's true, but I thought you were different. I thought that you understood that I am against Apartheid, but that we don't need this shit, Patrick. I don't need you of all people, encouraging our people to stay away from work." His voice rose as he spoke and he had become red in the face.
My stomach had begun to knot and a trickle of apprehension rippled through my being. He read from the pamphlet and looked at me with a tight mouth and narrowed eyes.
"Join the march for a living wage? Am I to understand that I'm not paying you people enough? Protest against retrenchments? Make the country ungovernable? Workers are the worst victims of racist exploitation?"
"You're taking this personally".
"You're fucking right that I'm taking this personally. Patrick, I need every cent I can get to run this business in these difficult times. A stayaway hurts the business. Besides the 16th is on a Sunday, you people could strike all you want on that day. Of course I'm taking this fucking personally, I'm losing money". He had begun to speak slowly enunciating each word carefully.
'First of all," I began, "I thought you were a liberal." I said this as a defensive ploy to mollify him by appealing to his moral consciousness; rather it seemed to enrage him more.
"A fucking liberal who needs to keep his business going and who doesn't need the police coming to investigate his factory. Do you realize that if I call the cops, you could go to jail for incitement, at the very least, but more than likely they'll hit you with a charge of treason?" I illogically thought about one of the demands to 'stop victimizing workers' and wondered if this tirade fell into that category.
"This isn't about me. The UN has sanctioned this day; that's why they want it to be a public holiday."
"Patrick, I personally want fuck all to do with Apartheid; I don't vote. I try to treat my workers with respect and I pay according to the bargaining council agreement. Why can't you people support me?"
His repeated use of the words 'you people' had started to raise my ire.
" I understand what you're saying, but if we don't take part in these marches we get singled out and victimized."
Somehow I was no longer clothed in revolutionary zeal. Anger and hatred had wormed its way into my system. I was angry that he was causing me to hate myself. Why was I being defensive? This was not what I had intended. In fact, what was it that I had intended?
"Patrick, you've been a good employee and I'm disappointed by this turn of events. I'm going to give you a written warning. I hope you will not take advantage like this again in future."
I stood to leave. "And remove that communist shit from my canteen".
I was seething, but I remained tight lipped. The 'boy' had been censured by the baas (boss), and the boy had surrendered. No dialogue, no exchange of ideas. You know fuck all about Liberalism. You are a closet Apartheid supporter just like all the other whites. Fuck you and your written warning, I fumed. If I had no arms my hands would be clean.
Bitterness does not even begin to define what it was that drove me in the weeks that followed. Rancor coloured everything I did. The reactionary who could not cut it as a revolutionary.