decision regarding the trial. ‘They have decided to follow the prisoner-of-war option,’ I say, ‘and will reject the jurisdiction and authority of the court. This means that they will not participate at all in their own trial and will, in all likelihood, receive the death sentence. The accused hope that such a stand will bring a new dimension to the way the ANC approaches treason trials. They will also place into question the legitimacy of the entire judicial system.’
I add that they do not want to take this path without consulting with the leadership of the ANC.
‘When are you going to Lusaka?’ he asks.
I tell him at the end of the week.
Mbeki nods.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘you must see what they say, I will be interested. I must tell you, I have some sympathy for their position, that whichever way they turn, they will be playing the game of the Boers. Even by admitting that they are guilty, they are making criminals of themselves on charges which only the enemy has formulated. You know, we found ourselves in a similar position in the Rivonia Trial when we did not want to plead guilty to acts which we knew we had committed, and yet we also were not prepared to plead not guilty. For us, it was also about moral guilt.’
I know Mandela’s speech from the dock well. In fact, it influenced me to become a human-rights lawyer. It changed the course of my life. But I’ve forgotten the intricacies of the Rivonia Trial and since recent political trials have adopted different legal strategies, the parallels hadn’t sprung to mind.
Mbeki continues. ‘In our trial, we had resolved that even if we received the death sentence, we would not appeal. Are they prepared to see this through to the end, even if they get the death sentence?’
‘They say so, but it is a different thing when an accused is sitting on Death Row. That is not for me to say. It is for them and the ANC. I will give them legal advice, but ultimately, it is their decision.’
He nods slowly. ‘You can tell them that I also say that this is their decision. I am not telling them to take this position, what I am saying is that I have no problem with their position. But ultimately Lusaka must decide if it wants them to do otherwise. They are clearly very brave, but they must also act in a way that reflects on the history and dignity of their movement. They must never behave like hooligans. They are soldiers and professionals.’
I tell him that I will convey this to them and to those in Lusaka. We have the tea that Boy’s secretary has brought in. We talk about the inaccessible places that the State chooses for big treason trials. We finish our tea. I say goodbye to Govan Mbeki, now frail and old, passing his final years in the crumbling poverty of the Port Elizabeth townships. As I drive to the airport the knowledge of what this country has lost staggers me. Such a waste.
17
Neo Potsane had never been so cold in his life. Thick snow covered the military camp at Teterow, some fifty kilometres from the German Democratic Republic’s Baltic Sea port of Rostock. The clothing the East Germans had given him was good but provided little barrier against a winter that the instructors described as the coldest in years.
About forty MK soldiers had arrived at Teterow in January 1981 for specialist training in guerrilla warfare and tactics. At first, Neo had been excited, honoured at being among a select few chosen for special training. The flight from Luanda to East Berlin was an adventure, a hell of a long time in an aeroplane, but worth it to get to Europe, to the Eastern bloc, places he had only read about.
After a few months in Teterow, Neo felt less inspired, mainly because he and the others were stuck out on an isolated farm miles from anywhere. There was no relief. They were under orders not to leave the camp.
For all that, the training was absorbing, if demanding. Physical, but also intellectually stimulating. Classes on the theory of guerrilla warfare, and lectures on South African history and politics by Pallo Jordan. Neo enjoyed Jordan’s quiet presentations, the thought-provoking debates he initiated.
Throughout their training an MK representative was present, a veteran of Teterow who spoke fluent German and would act as their liaison officer whenever difficulties arose. Not that there were many. The food was good and plentiful – five meals a day including tea and cake. Lots of mashed potato, although Neo longed for pap.
What irked Neo, however, were the drinking sessions. Drink, for him, was a relaxation. The instructors turned it into a chore. Made them measure their intake so that they never lost control. Drinking was part of their training. They’d drink only on weekends: vodka, beer and a local brandy, brown vicious stuff that made you ill-tempered and depressed the next morning.
The instructors drank with them. Occasionally, when the recruits were relaxed, slightly intoxicated, they would call an emergency. This meant changing into full combat uniform, pack and helmet, standing there, swaying, the liquor fogging their brains. The instructors would time them. Chastise them for being slow. Neo hated this. Drinking was a social occasion. Something to be enjoyed, not a task to be monitored.
Nevertheless, after hours in the warm house were generally relaxing. Their instructors were billeted with them, friendly men, always helpful and courteous. In the long evenings, the recruits shared stories with these men as they sat around watching television.
Exhausted by the cold and the day’s training, Neo would collapse in front of the TV, not minding that it was in German, even thankful for the foreign language, letting it flow over him. Of general interest was the coverage of the Winter Olympics with the men marvelling at the speed of the downhill racers and gasping in horror at the accidents. Neo was amazed that anyone could survive such spectacular falls.
Although he was absorbed by the training, and, despite the cold, enjoyed his time on the shooting range, Neo often found himself thinking of home. This place was so completely different to his house in Dube, Soweto, where he shared a room with his four brothers. For one thing the Dube house could have fitted into the living room of this grand house. Often he wondered about his mother, a domestic worker in the white suburbs of Johannesburg. Wondered what she would think of this huge house sunk in the snow, filled with men training for war. Each of them with their cleaning duties. There were no servants here.
When the cold ached in his feet, he remembered the heat and humidity of Angola, the thick green bush alive with snakes, insects and animals. Here the land was dead: no movement, no life, no leaves, just snow and ice. The cold throbbed in his wounds, an ache deep inside him that stiffened his leg and ankle, made them tender to the touch.
He’d been wounded in a firefight while travelling in the back of a big Mercedes truck from the military camp to Luanda. It’d happened in late 1979. He’d been selected for specialist training in East Germany. Only that time he didn’t make it. Nearly didn’t make it full stop.
There were a bunch of them in the back of the truck. Not talking much, tired from their training. Without warning, they drove into an ambush. Intense gunfire from all sides, bullets ricocheting off the truck. A Unita ambush. Blindly, they returned fire. The truck came to a halt and then backed into the bush. Neo and his comrades jumped out and hit the ground running. A short distance off they dropped to the ground. Neo felt a numbness in his left hand and saw it was covered in blood. As was his arm. He’d been shot above the elbow, the flesh around the entry wound a pulp of blood.
He bit back the pain. About him Neo could hear his wounded comrades moaning. Their cries for help carrying through the gunfire. He could see a man twenty metres away, his chest gushing blood. As the gunfire became more sporadic, Neo decided he had to help this man. Get him into the hollow out of the crossfire. Don’t
