to a gun. The legendary status of the weapon tantalised him. He wanted to touch it. Gradually he and the guard fell into easy conversation. They talked about the gun and military training, and the camps in Angola that sounded heroic and exotic. Soldiers training with AK-47s and hand grenades, the camaraderie, an MK army united in reclaiming the country. Wondering how he could go to school when others were fighting, Jabu decided to change his option.
The next morning he nervously told Simelane that he’d changed his mind. The man was irritated but agreed to reassign him.
A week later, Jabu flew with seven other MK recruits in a civilian aircraft from Maputo to Luanda, Angola. He was anxious and excited during the first flight of his life. On arrival, the recruits were escorted by an ANC official through passport control and out into the sharp sunlight. For a country at war, it looked so normal and peaceful. After a night at a safe house, Jabu was driven into the bush outside the city. An hour later he arrived at Funda, an ANC basic training camp. There was no turning back.
10
I like the parents immediately. I arrange that they come to our offices in Johannesburg and we meet in the boardroom. They know what the matter’s about, as I’d told them on the telephone and, in any event, the word is already out on the street.
I always make a point of taking detailed statements from the parents. I find that, taken together with the statements of the accused, it gives a more rounded picture. And this is a picture that will need a lot of rounding. Generally, by the time the accused get to the awaiting trial stage – and there are exceptions – they project themselves as warriors, martyrs for the struggle and believers in the oft chanted slogan ‘liberation or death, victory is certain’. I suppose it is necessary ‘to hold the line’, as people in the struggle are fond of saying. Fearing that if it should slip, it will be gone forever, leading to weakness and perhaps betrayal. Personally, I don’t really buy the ‘charge of the Light Brigade’ stuff. But I don’t go as far as some cynics who have changed the slogan to ‘liberation or victory, death is certain’.
While many ANC members that I have defended held true to the image of strength and commitment, there is another side that is also important and which is often neglected. This is the humanity and vulnerability of the accused. What circumstances and events drove them to this point? What were the determining influences that made these individuals different from the broad mass of people who remained spectators?
To me, the four accused seem typical at first with their jokes and their apparent strength and confidence. But these accused are different: they are more considered than some of the other people I’ve defended. I wonder if this is because they’ve run their course, and been caught. For them, it is not just the end of liberty. It is final, the end of life.
But they are the sons, and these are the mothers and fathers.
Mr Simon Potsane is an old man of average height, erect in his bearing, with distinguished grey hair. Bushy grey eyebrows frame eyes no longer a clear brown but milky, marked and creased by age and a fierce sun. His suit is worn, pressed and clean, and his shoes are polished to perfection. His calloused hand rasps against mine as he introduces himself and the others: Mrs Joyce Masina, and Mrs NaSindane Masango, and the aunt of Joseph Makhura, Mrs Maria Sithole. Mrs Masina is big and broad, a generous, beautiful face now blurring with maturity, the skin dark and shiny smooth, wearing a headdress over her hair in the tradition of African women.
I don’t want to take statements now. As with the accused, we need to deal with the preliminaries and establish trust. I am also concerned that if they see all the charges they’ll panic and not be able to address the issues calmly. I’ve been involved in cases where the accused didn’t want their parents to know exactly what they had done. That they had killed people. Even though my clients knew that their mothers would be sitting in court and would listen to every detail, in the beginning they did not want them to see the charge sheet. Mostly this is because what is typed on white paper in thick black ink is starkly upsetting. Murder and attempted murder, even when seen in context, remain profoundly shocking acts.
Many of the parents of the accused that I’ve defended were deeply religious people. Christians who would find it hard to condone the taking of a life, would have difficulty reconciling themselves to the fact that their child had killed another human being. In the end they learnt to live with, if not accept, their child’s actions, but this was a process that could never be rushed. In other instances, where the family was not religious, there was still a shock as the parents came to terms with the circumstances and the knowledge that their child faced a lengthy jail sentence or even execution. For accused from ‘political’ families it was easier, as their loved ones immediately understood and were supportive of their situation and motivation. The difficulty at the beginning of each case was that you didn’t know where you and the families stood on these sensitive issues.
In this instance, I realise that I cannot delay the truth. I tell them that the charges are serious.
‘What do you mean?’ asks Mrs Masango.
‘I mean that the State is alleging that they killed people, policemen. That they were part of an MK assassination unit that was highly trained. They were instructed by the ANC to carry out certain high-profile assassinations and they did this. But now they have been caught.’
There is silence as my words sink in. I don’t tell them that the State will be asking for the death penalty. I don’t have to. Everyone knows that for murder you hang. It is unspoken, but there.
I fill the gap taking down their personal details.
‘You must help us,’ says Mrs Masina quietly.
I choke as I see the desperation in her eyes. Not wanting to raise expectations, I say, ‘I will, but you must know that this is a very difficult case. It will be a long battle but we will not stop fighting.’
They look at me expectantly and I think, Who am I to tell them about difficult battles? Who am I to tell them anything? I know the law is almost useless in such cases and soon I will get into my nice car and go home to my nice house.
My thoughts are interrupted by Mrs Masina who says, ‘About the money for the case, we will give you what we have but we do not think that it will be enough. We will speak to our families to see what can be done.’
Relieved that at least I can address this, I reply, ‘You mustn’t worry about the money for the case. The ANC has made arrangements for the money for their defence. This money will come from overseas and you will not have to pay anything. They will also pay you a small subsistence allowance to help you cope with the expenses that you will incur in attending the trial and coming to the consultations. So the money is the one thing that you don’t have to worry about.’
The provision of finance for political trials and detainees was an important component of the ANC’s resistance struggle. It was critical for ANC members and guerrillas to know that they would always get access to a good legal defence and that their families would be supported. Such financial support was the one certainty that those who were captured could rely on.
The money came via the law firm of Carruthers & Company in London who, in order to disguise the source of the money, took their instructions from another London law firm by the name of Birckbeck Montagu’s, an upper-crust, well-established firm that represented the International Defence and Aid Fund (IDAF). The partner at Birckbecks responsible for disbursing the money and paying our accounts was a man called Bill Frankel, a well-spoken and clever solicitor of great integrity. Bill would be the last person anyone would associate with the provision of funding for the legal defence of the guerrillas of a liberation movement. In fact, the money was raised from
