LAND LOST: Land Restitution in South Africa
Pressed together on narrow wooden benches the school classroom is packed with claimants — people who look to the government for some redress to their past suffering. These are the living remnants of forced removals. A broken patchwork of lives once held together in community. Ancient memories, and griefs weigh on their souls.
One day a petty official from the government — from Bantu Affairs, or Native Affairs or the Department of Plural Development (the names changed almost as often as the legislation was amended to tighten up any loopholes) — would arrive in your village. He would tell you that you, your families, your village, could no longer live here. He would tell you that tomorrow, or next week, the trucks would be coming to move you, your families, your village and your belongings to somewhere else the government had decided was more suitable.
You might ask why, where, what can we take with us, what will be there, but in many cases there would be no answers. Or you might be told that “Look, here is the signature of your headman, your chief, your representatives. They have agreed to this move.” They tell you that you will be paid compensation by the government. How much compensation? Five pounds, ten pounds, if you were lucky, fifteen pounds for a hut.
The trucks would arrive, along with police and Kaspirs, to make sure the people moved. The women gathered the children, the frail elderly and their belongings to clamber aboard the truck. The men and boys drove the livestock onto the truck, if they were lucky, or would herd the animals on foot to the new destination.
Insults, sticks and quirts were used on the unwilling. Rusting corrugated iron would be thrown on top of precious china items. Babies and children wailing as the women bounced against the sides of the truck, jostled by neighbours and distant relatives. There was no protection from the rain, the cold, the heat. There were no houses, nowhere to work, no school.
The Chief Commissioner of Plural Affairs for Queenstown said callously at the time of the Thornhill Resettlement:
“That is not my problem. We will provide the necessary infrastructure of water and toilets in the camp. Where the people work is not my business. It is like any other area. In the rural areas there are no Jobs either — the people are migrant workers. The provision of jobs has nothing to do with me.” (Sunday Tribune, 78–10–08) Mr O.J.F Hidge
On arrival the insults, sticks and quirts are, once again, used to prod out the weary, the sick, the unwilling. But at the new place there was no village, no houses, no roads. Just bleak veld stretching in every direction and perhaps plots demarcated and lines and lines of new corrugated iron long-drop toilets. Night falls, it is bitter mid-winter in places like Thornhill, where the frost falls early and hard.
In the morning the women sort through the pile of furniture and building materials they have managed to bring from home, each family trying to find its belongings. Broken tables, chairs, mirrors mixed in with rusting sheet iron, old carpets, pieces of pipe, broken bricks and suitcases burst open. When the men arrive, sometimes as much as a week later, many cattle, sheep and goats have died on the march.
But worse, at the resettlement camp some of the babies, the toddlers, the old gogos and tatas have died. Measles and typhoid decimate the weak young and elderly. The graveyard is the first order of business with many funerals to hold before the before the living can start again.
Slowly the families create a new house, a new life in this strange, bleak place. The desolation of those days is summed up thirty or even sixty years later, in the simple phrase, heard again and again; “We suffered. We suffered.” The word is drawn out so you can understand the depth of sorrow and emotion they still feel.
Tears film eyes clouded blue with cataracts and slide down cheeks wrinkled and grooved with age. Work roughened hands gnarled with arthritis wipe away the tears. One hand sweeps slowly across the face from right to left in a single shaky gesture. Face and hands tell the story of a life, as do the patched layers of clothes steeped with woodsmoke, sweat and poverty.
The claimants recount memories of a land of milk and honey, rich with fat cattle, sheep and goats, and stone kraals for the animals. They remember big fertile lands of mielies, growing pumpkins, cabbages, and peach trees. They had ploughs, draught oxen, wagons, good furniture and a nice big house. There was a ‘proper’ school, a beautiful church and graveyards where their ancestors were buried. These descriptions have a biblical ring to them, much like the Israelites yearned for Egypt in their forty years wandering in the wilderness. All of this was left behind, with most never returning again.
The old men wear greasy old felt hats or crocheted woolen caps pulled down over white hair and jackets of ancient suits shiny under heavy army greatcoats. Shirts with frayed cuffs and collars are smartened with thin ties or knitted scarves wrapped around crepey necks. Baggy trousers are dirt engrained at the knees and the pockets are polished by wear. Shoes, cracked and misshapen by arthritic feet, shine underneath several layers of dust.
They stand there in dignified silence or sit with hands clasped together over the knobbed heads of handcrafted kieries. These are men who drove their stock on foot for 200 or 300 miles to the resettlement villages. Their fat cattle reduced to starving, bony animals by the long ordeal. Many had been miners who only came home once a year over Christmas to plough and plant, celebrate and start new babies. Their youthful strength is now whittled to tough sinew.
The old women wear layers of skirts — navy or black underskirt, German Print (shweshwe) skirt, traditional Xhosa wraparound skirt heavy with rows of black braid, are topped by floral aprons. Similarly, layers of vests, blouses, jerseys unravelling at the seams, long overcoats or thick woolen shawls or blankets, keep out the cold draughts that whistle through the broken door. Brightly coloured crochet caps or “doeks” wound about with read, green and yellow striped scarves.
Women held their families together with guts, determination and faith. Church was a solace in the long months when they were responsible for the care and well-being of children, gogos, household, lands and livestock. Work was unceasing from daybreak until dark: fetching water and firewood, hoeing, weeding, crushing mielies by hand, feeding the chickens and the children, sweeping, laundry, making the fire from the wood collected from the forests. Much of this work is done with a baby hoisted on their backs, toddlers at their feet. These women are tough survivors.
Some may regard them as pitiable, but they hold onto their dignity and pride. No small thing given their personal histories and the crushing weight of the apartheid state and administration. They are here to tell their stories — To have someone hear the history of their suffering; To write those stories down and acknowledge the wrongs of the past; To find some way to recompense the years that the locust has eaten.
They know, as do the officials writing down their names and histories, that it is not possible to undo the past. At least there may be some recognition of what was lost and how it was lost. Weaving the past into a coherent tapestry is painstaking work. Many of the weft threads are gone, so we rely on the often threadbare memories of the aged survivors. The colours have dulled and the picture is moth eaten. The past is full of gaps.
Listening to the many voices and stories one realises how hopeless it is to try and quantify the suffering. You try your best to do right by the claimants whose faces, names and stories are now familiar. The red tape of bureaucracy hinders and stalls. Getting a settlement agreement signed off and authorised by the Minister takes months as the file wends its way through seventeen offices to get approval. The file can come back and be changed and sent up the ladder again several times before it is successfully approved.
Negotiated settlements take the wishes of the claimants into account. For a minority, their dearest wish to return to their land is fulfilled. For other rural communities, they once again have access to areas under conservation or forestry. They may even have a partnership in the business. Most families have opted for financial compensation.
The day of settlement is one of great jubilation. Large quantities of meat are braaied and the big black cooking pots are filled to the brim. It’s colourful, vibrant and infused with songs, clapping and dancing. Smiles are broad and faces shine with joy.
EXPLANATION OF CONTEXT: I worked at the Eastern Cape Land Claims Commission from 1998 to 2002. I did substantial work as a consultant on restitution cases and post-settlement support for a further four years. I attended many meetings in school halls, community and municipal halls and at Chiefs and Headmen’s Great Places near the cattle Kraal, the heart of that local tribal authority area. I travelled thousands of miles, either alone or with a member of my team to meet with claimants.
In the process I learned many things — humility being the most important I think. Learning to listen, rather than talk was another. I have the greatest respect for the rural and urban township dwellers who survived what is known as Grand Apartheid.
I hope this attempt to write down some of the history of my province does it some justice. Thank you for reading it.
