Death, Detention and Disappearance. David Smuts
– at 3:30 pm. The only alternative was the Postmaster at the Oshakati Post Office. We would have to get there by 4.30 pm, before it closed to the public. There was also the curfew to consider – we would have to stop our work well in advance of sunset to enable us all to get safely to where we would spend the night.
I noted at one stage that one particular woman of advanced years was speaking at great length in a slow and deliberate manner. Hosea had at one point even stopped taking notes while she did so. I could discern that she had earlier also asked him several questions. It was equally clear to me that this discourse went outside what we required for the affidavits: Hosea was no longer writing anything down. I turned to him and urged him to find a way to cut her short and get to the point, unnecessarily adding that we did not have time to canvass all sorts of other issues as well. He patiently explained that it would simply not be possible for him to cut her short and that the same applied to many of the other people there. She was, he said, entirely unused to consulting lawyers, and would not and could not be rushed. She would get to the point in her own good time and would certainly not be confined to the specific questions we had raised. In fact, he said it was taking time to get anywhere near the issues at hand. Some of her questions were directed at ascertaining more about Hosea’s and my backgrounds before Hosea could even broach the subject matter.
The shame I felt at my own insensitivity and impatience was compounded by the tactful way in which Hosea had administered this fundamental lesson. It was one that proved invaluable in the years which followed. It was also reinforced a few years later when learning the language myself, and coming to a more rounded understanding of culture and discourse in the area. You simply could not hurry people, especially older people, in any meaningful consultation as a general rule, but most certainly not when it concerned sensitive matters of this nature – matters in which a lack of trust and confidence could lead to reprisals and compromise others.
It turned out that the old woman would not be a witness. She had not visited a relative in detention. Nor was her relative among those listed in our enquiries. But we took down the name of her son and undertook to enquire about his detention and revert to her. Hosea also assured her that, if the case were to be successful, her son would also be released. This more than satisfied her. The unconditional warmth in her gratitude to us for seeing her and taking up the issue of her son’s detention at the end of the extended consultation only served to drive home the lesson I had learnt even harder.
As the 4.30 pm deadline approached, we agreed that I would go to the post office with three witnesses and an interpreter while Hosea would continue to consult. I covered the 10 km to Oshakati at high speed along the near-deserted road, populated only by a few military vehicles – a far cry from the steady stream of congested traffic along that stretch in today’s Namibia. We just managed to reach the post office before closing time.
I asked at the counter if I could see the Postmaster. Within a few moments a middle-aged Afrikaans man appeared. He looked quizzically at this unusual group of people seeking his assistance. I politely apprised him in Afrikaans of the purpose of our presence at his post office. I explained that I was a lawyer with three witnesses in a court case who needed to depose to affidavits, while the fourth would act as their interpreter from English or Afrikaans to Oshiwambo. It seemed that he was seldom called upon to commission affidavits. He asked to see the affidavits. I handed them to him.
After quickly perusing them, he dismissively discarded them on the counter and looked up sharply. His air of almost benign indifference had in an instant turned to open animosity. He continued in Afrikaans, with an edge to his slightly raised, high-pitched voice: ‘I can’t commission affidavits to that effect because I’m not satisfied that the affidavits are true. I don’t know that the people referred to in the statements are in fact detained and where and for that long.’
I was at pains to point out with all the courtesy I could muster that this was not his function. His task was to satisfy himself that the witnesses knew and understood the nature of the oath and swore that their statements were true and correct. Despite this explanation, he remained reluctant. This spurred me on to assert that he was required by law as a commissioner of oaths to perform this function when it was requested of him and that he could be acting in breach of his statutory duty if he declined to do so. His increased displeasure at our presence and purpose there was palpable. He paused and eventually responded: ‘All right. I’ll do it. But I refuse to use the interpreter you have brought with you.’
Without even looking at our interpreter or awaiting my response, he looked over his shoulder and raised his voice to an even higher pitch and yelled, ‘Paulus!’
Within seconds, the middle-aged Oshiwambo-speaking man who had been summoned appeared from one of the back rooms of the post office. The Postmaster turned towards him and, with increased vehemence, commanded him in Afrikaans: ‘Paulus, find out from this old man if these are really his words and that they are in fact the truth according to him or whether these words were put into his mouth by this lawyer or others.’
His manner was overbearing and intimidating. It would also have become obvious to our witnesses that he was being dismissive and openly aggressive towards both them and me.
His employee, whom he addressed only by his first name in a deeply demeaning tone, then turned to the ageing, white-haired Dominic Amutenya and explained this question in some detail in the vernacular. Dominic Amutenya paused plaintively for what seemed an eternity as he considered his answer, which was then delivered in a carefully measured manner, with manifest gravitas. The instant he finished his answer and before there was time for its translation to commence, the Postmaster, possibly sniffing my blood, impatiently snapped at his subordinate in Afrikaans: ‘Come, come, Paulus, what is he saying, man?’
The atmosphere, already heavy due to the oppressive humidity, thickened appreciably. I had visions of the case collapsing calamitously before getting out of the starting blocks and of my potential disbarment on grounds of putting words in witnesses’ mouths to subvert justice. I suddenly regretted not foreseeing the real risk of such a hostile commissioner of oaths and not taking the time to prepare Dominic Amutenya for this eventuality in our excessive haste to make it to the post office on time.
The post office employee, with his eyes gazing ahead to avoid the Postmaster’s persistent stare, unhurriedly delivered the translated answer: ‘Baas, the old man says that he is an old man in years. He has already lived for many years. He has seen and experienced many raining seasons and many other things in his lengthy life. But in his whole lifetime, he has never spoken a truer word than that contained in that very document. He furthermore says that it is a very great privilege for him to make this true statement officially in a court document. In fact, it is very true and has been true for nearly six years now and still remains the truth. He finally also says that the injustice and suffering must cease.’
The postmaster then snatched at his official stamp and hastily did the necessary with all too obvious irritation. While his head was bent over officiously applying his stamps and signature, Dominic Amutenya – for the first time since giving his telling answer – turned to me, flashed a smile and simultaneously gave an exaggerated conspiratorial wink of the eye. This gesture has remained with me ever since and is one I shall never forget.
When the Postmaster had completed the task of commissioning the other two affidavits, he grabbed his stamps and hurriedly retreated, storming off in the direction of his office without saying another word. A discreet departing nod in our direction from his employee, known to us only as Paulus, meaningfully spoke of solidarity and respect.
Our shared relief when leaving the post office was echoed, by strange coincidence, by a heavy downpour. It provided a welcome release from the overbearing humidity that had been building up incrementally all day, reaching its climax during the encounter with the Postmaster. I bade my farewells to Dominic Amutenya, the interpreter and the other witnesses. I thanked them all warmly, particularly Dominic. He responded that it was for him to thank me for enabling him to support a case he felt so strongly about. He was grateful to be able to do something about his son Willy’s detention during his lifetime. He added that he would not want to die without doing so. I subsequently learnt that Willy had been injured during the aerial bombardment that had preceded the assault on the base and had consequently had an arm