My Father Died for This. Lukhanyo Calata
an unprecedented solidarity among all people. The funeral epitomised a unity and connectedness that had been subverted until that day in July. Suddenly, the convergence of a huge diversity of people across the spectrum of South African society connected. There was a contrast, though, between the robust excitement of the crowd, which flowed like a river down all the streets of iLingelihle, and the sanctuary of the immediate families who had lost so profoundly. The presence of a pregnant mother as a chief mourner exposed a deep vulnerability in the face of the overt power in the march to freedom. I can still remember that as the bodies were lowered into their graves it was as if Nomonde’s body was ripped apart by her grief as she was forced to bid farewell to her love.
A partial State of Emergency was declared after the funeral.
In 2006, Fort was awarded the Order of Luthuli (bronze).
Tumani, Lukhanyo, Dorothy, and Nomonde came to stay with me for quite some time in Wilro Park. At that time, activists from all over South Africa were living in my home. What was remarkable was that, while I was serving a traditionally conservative congregation on the edge of Krugersdorp, the predominantly white membership embraced my guests with respect and care. It was during this time that I interacted with Nomonde as a nursing mother and the extended Calata family in the PWV region. As one can imagine, the home reverberated with political debate and discussion. For many months, Nomonde was like a house mother to many young people on the run from authorities. She had a remarkable relationship with her children. They were wonderfully disciplined, but had plenty of space to express their own personalities. Somehow, the memories I had of Fort echoed in the tiny person of Lukhanyo. He cared for his mother like a young lion – protective, vigilant, and loving. Dorothy bristled with intelligence, was confident but not spoilt. Nomonde carried her grief with a dignity and truth that did not hide her pain, yet did not oppress those who were living with her. While she was in the home, there was an unspoken discipline of respect and also an ability for people to enjoy friendship and laugh late into the night. Paradoxically, one of the greatest sources of fun was people imitating their experiences with the Security Police. It was truly wonderful to see the powerful and important being reduced to commonplace, devoid of their terrifying power.
I have reconnected with the family frequently. The consistency of their value system and their intrinsic vigilance around human dignity remain intact. Nomonde has the characteristics of a mother who is not only concerned for her own family, but also for a wider community that in many respects remains diminished by poverty. She is spoken to as a confidante by those whom the world rejects as unimportant and irrelevant. Her own journey is not easy, and although she carries the scars of one who has given her life for her people, she bears the pain of being forgotten.
Recently, I was at a family celebration and interacted with a relatively young father, Lukhanyo. There was a point in the celebration when he mounted the stage, and like his great-grandfather and father, made music for the community. His ability to blend into the harmonies made me think that there must be something in the essence of this family that is quite regal in its ability to listen and give of themselves. I have a cameo sketched in my memory of his gentle care for his wife and child. I could remember his father, and as I looked from my memory to Lukhanyo before me, I could recall the voice of an old friend. He belongs to a community that seeks to tell the truth. Again, the echoes from the past can be heard to insist on exposing the new forces of darkness, especially as they relate to those in power. This will be dangerous and has already resulted in victimisation.
Will Cradock ever be free?
Will we ever be free?
Authors’ Notes
The first two chapters of this book are told from our different points of view, which we indicate by putting our names – ‘Abigail’ and ‘Lukhanyo’ – before each narrator switch. From Chapter Three, whole chapters were written by one of us – and not the two of us together. We denote the change of point of view by putting the name of the writer at the start of the chapter.
Sometimes, the names of the Cradock Four are spelt differently in newspaper reports or government documents from how we have spelt their names. We have used the spelling given by their families, and believe this is the most accurate.
Documents without complete references in the footnotes and bibliography were supplied by filmmaker David Forbes.
Chapter One
Standoff with a Mad Hatter
ABIGAIL
I had been so busy at work that morning, it slipped my mind to check my cellphone after sending Lukhanyo a text message earlier. Although the students were on holiday, my workload as marketing and development manager at the law faculty of the University of Cape Town had not let up. ‘Vac’, at least for me, was a time to catch up and complete tasks I couldn’t get to during term.
Around lunchtime I could finally catch my breath, so I sat down and attended to messages on my phone. One of them was from Lukhanyo. It read: Hey Abs, take a look at this, and let me know what you think.
‘Today (27 June) marks 31 years since the murders of my father, Fort Calata, and his comrades Matthew Goniwe, Sparro Mkonto and Sicelo Mhlawuli.
Known as the ‘Cradock Four’, their killings and funeral on 20 July 1985 became a turning point in the struggle for liberation with apartheid president PW Botha invoking a State of Emergency that was to last for years.
I made the decision to become a journalist after years of watching journalists coming to our home as part of their drive to tell the story of my father and his comrades.
Thirty-one years later, I now work as a news reporter, with the sole purpose of telling stories of my people with dedication, truth, and freedom. A freedom that many like my father either died or were imprisoned for.
It is therefore with great sadness that I am confronted with the disturbing direction being taken by my employer. A direction I believe flies in the face of what many have sacrificed.
The decisions [one of which was to ban the broadcast of violent service delivery protest] taken recently by the SABC [South African Broadcasting Corporation] cannot be described in any other way but them curbing media freedom. A freedom to report ethically, truthfully, and without bias.
As I reflect on this day and remember the occasions when leaders of our liberation movements stood at my father’s grave and waxed lyrical about the freedom he died for, I wonder where they are today.
How do they live with themselves? How do they watch as the rights and freedoms the ‘Cradock Four’ were brutally murdered for are systematically being undone?
Did I live without a father so that 31 years later, my own freedom and that of my colleagues are restricted within an institution that is meant to lead in media freedom?
What do I say to the son I have today about what his grandfather and my great-grandfather James Arthur Calata fought for?
I do not do this publicly to condemn my employers, but rather seek to remind some of them and all of us that we cannot forget that people like my father and many others died for us to have the right to speak truth to power when necessary.
They died so that we can in 2016 do what is expected of us, which is to lead where they left off: To serve this nation with pride, truth, dedication and ethics.
Aluta,
Lukhanyo Calata’
Gosh, Lukhanyo, this was heavy reading for a Monday. I immediately started thinking of the implications the release of such a statement would have for our young family. The week before, Lukhanyo had been interviewed for a vacant television assignments editor’s post at the SABC’s Sea Point office. It would be a step up for him, and by extension our family, were he to be the successful candidate. At the time of writing the statement, he was a television reporter for the SABC in its parliamentary office. He thought the interview the week before had gone well, but with interviews you can never be sure. I responded to his message, asking him not to go public with this statement, as he could kiss his chances of getting the assignments editor’s