Black Lives Matter in South Africa

BLACK LIVES matter IN SOUTH AFRICA By BEVERLY BELL, SEPTEMBER 2020 _Note: This series began as a broader photo project with my daughter in our home in Chiapas, Mexico, during the COVID quarantine of 2020. As protests - sparked by the murder of George Floyd - gained steam in the US during the summer of 2020, the series increasingly came to focus on Black Lives Matter. _ A TRIBUTE TO DENNIS BRUTUS PROPHET, POET, PROTESTER, PROFESSOR (11/28/24 – 12/26/09) The 1980’s, for those who are either too young to know or who forgot, were replete with inspired resistance against dictatorships, and with revolutions, throughout Latin America, Africa, and Asia. Elsewhere, organized people provided effective forms of political support. Those of us from the US had (and still have) the special mission of stopping military and political aid from our government, which is often the critical variable in the survival of repressive regimes. As the US and world tilt evermore towards tyranny, it’s important to remember victories that organized people have won, and the luminaries who gave them vision and strength. In the fall of 1985, Fritz Longchamp, director of Washington Office on Haiti (where I worked) and Walden Bello, director of Philippines Human Rights Lobby in the office directly above ours, made a bet as to whose dictator would fall first. Each knew that his would topple soon; pressure from the masses and international friends was too strong. Fritz won in February 1986, with Duvalier fleeing into exile 18 days before Marcos. South Africa was not long in following. Black resistance against white rule had begun at the inception of the British-formed Union of South Africa in 1910. Opposition by the legally subjugated population – both peaceful and armed – launched when white dominance cemented into Apartheid in 1948, and grew successively over the decades. By the 1980s, ending the system was the most urgent freedom call around the globe. The formal dismantling of Apartheid came via a series of legal steps, beginning in 1990 and conclusively ending with Mandela’s election in 1994. Each step was brought about by resistance and brilliant strategy led by Black and “so-called colored” South Africans, among them Dennis Brutus, and aided by people of conscience everywhere. * ** * * ** _Photo courtesy of Patrick Bond _ How can one adequately pay tribute to Dennis Brutus? The life and legacy of the South African freedom fighter; economic, social, and environmental justice activist; poet; professor; and humanist are so grand that the feat is impossible. But every effort that can be made is vital to keep his life, work, and words alive and thriving. And thrive they must, for in them lie the essentials for a more just, equitable, nurturing, and envi- ronmentally sustainable world. “Let your life be your message,” Gandhi instructed. Dennis’ was, in the strength of his convictions and the energy with which he worked for them. A few causes he championed fearlessly and passionately included: liberation from repressive regimes, repar- ations for Apartheid; the disso- lution of the World Bank, International Monetary Fund, and World Trade Organization; and freedom for Mumia Abu-Jamal and other political prisoners. A full list of the fights he led, and the principles he defended, would be very long. Dennis articulated one of his guiding tenets this way: “You have to decide which side you are on; there is always a side. Commitment does not exist in an abstraction; it exists in action.”i The man never attempted a middle ground, because for him such a thing was unreal. He knew that the world is divided into those who profit from structures of domination and those who are, or risk being, destroyed by those structures. Dennis’ intent was to bring down the tyranny of the former, so that the latter could control their fair share of power and resources. In this, as in all his projects, he was unflinching. Dennis’ life was also his message in the humility with which he carried himself, the wisdom and clarity of his words, and the kindness with which he treated others. Learning from the Legend Dennis and I met in the early 1980s, when he was fighting for political asylum in the US, and I was fighting against the Duvalier dictatorship in Haiti. Already an anti-Apartheid legend, he was also battling the Reagan Administration, both for its strong support of white rule in South Africa and for an order to deport him to a surely deadly fate in Zimbabwe. Dennis occasionally posted hand-written cards to us at the Washington Office on Haiti in his exquisite calligraphy, usually saying no more than, “Keep up the fight! Best wishes, Dennis Brutus.” Few of his stature would have bothered with such a gesture, and those notes of encouragement spoke worlds about who he was. Dennis was also a fighter in many other economic, social, and (later) environmental justice causes; a poet; and professor of English and Africana studies. In Dennis’ legacy – both his work and his humanist approach – lie the essentials for a just, equitable, and nurturing society, and a healthy planet. Our collaboration deepened in the 1990’s through a global boycott of the World Bank, and our joint engagement with the Center for Economic Justice, which I directed and on whose board of directors he sat. Though reaching board meetings in New Mexico required many hours of travel, and though he usually participated for only a day because he had other engagements on the front and back ends, still he came, for Dennis was faithful to whatever he committed. The same was true of the World Bank boycott: Dennis appeared for most any workshop, presentation, or meeting we requested, raising high the flag with all his strength and brilliance. When Mandela and the African National Congress took power in 1994, they quickly adopted neoliberal policies which would raise already extreme levels of poverty, unemployment, and inequality. Never mind that Mandela was lionized as the greatest moral leader on the planet; Dennis pushed back hard against the betrayal of the African National Congress’s decades-long commitment to economic justice. Then as in other periods, he labored to win people over and gain a Left consensus. Though he was excoriated by the new Black political and economic elite, still he fervently pursued the original dream of the South African revolution: not just an end to white despotism, but deep structural transformation. Compromise and sell-outs were never options for him. Dennis understood that global systems of oppression were interconnected, and did not segment issues. No matter for what cause he was showing up, he always brought with him a full set of urgent campaigns. I recall his making a cameo appearance at a workshop I was running in Washington, during a week of protests against the World Bank and IMF. He asked for the floor, and commenced a long appeal for everyone to join him at another gathering on another issue in another country. A woman hissed at me that the speaker was off-message and that I should cut him off. I was polite in denying her request, but what I wanted to say to her was: “Do you have any idea who’s speaking? Just be quiet and listen very carefully to what he has to say.” _Photo courtesy of Patrick Bond _ The schedule Dennis kept was remarkable for anyone of any age or state of health, yet I never heard him complain or make excuses. On he marched even after he had surpassed 80, when his physical well-being had diminished, his memory had wandered, and his itinerary exhausted him. In one of his final years, I ran into him at the World Social Forum in Mumbai, the World Social Forum being one of many initiatives that Dennis co-founded. After sharing a big hug, he said, “Now I must go, because I have a meeting. I can’t remember with whom, or where, but I know I have one.” And off he went through the thick crowd, tenacity and commitment trumping personal challenges. Both explicitly and through his model, Dennis encouraged us all to turn out, unite our voices and strength, do more than we were already doing. The man was dauntless, and urged us to be, too. Poetry from a Prophet When we were lucky, Dennis had the time and inclination for a story. The narratives were always marked by his beautiful language, eloquent delivery, and enlivened eyes. If a good tale, Dennis shared it with delight; if one of injustice, with restraint. So much courage and creativity they bespoke. Dennis found humor in unexpected places, and always understated his own suffering. My favorites were of his and his comrades’ labors to topple Apartheid. Only one victory which Dennis helped win was the banning of the all-white South African team from the 1964 Olympic games, an expulsion that would last for almost three decades. Dennis would be in prison by the time that campaign was won. Consistently from 1961 to 1966, he was variously “banned,” jailed, tortured, placed in solitary confinement, or held under house arrest. He was finally freed only to be deported, with a government order denying him the possibility of return. Many of his stories were about this period, such as the one of his being transported from one prison to another in Johannesburg. When the police car stopped at a red light, Dennis jumped out and attempted to dash off. “That was when I learned what a through-and- through wound was,” he said of the bullet which pierced his stomach and exited his back. (He would suffer intestinal problems for the rest of his life as a result.) He related lying on the ground bleeding, “in the shadow of the Anglo American Corporation, appropriately enough,” waiting for the ambulance. When a whites-only vehicle arrived by mistake, he - a “colored” man - was not allowed in it. Instead, he had to remain on the sidewalk, on the verge of death, for another long period awaiting the properly color-coded ambulance. Dennis recounted that after the shooting, his comrades snuck into the hospital, where he was still a government captive, to free him. Barely surviving on life support systems, Dennis was sure he would die in the rescue attempt. He covertly penned on his palm “abort mission” and lifted his hand toward the doorway. The would-be liberators slunk off. Dennis was imprisoned for 18 months at Robben Island, in a cell next to Mandela’s. He described being sent out each morning to break shale in the ocean, and the stream of blood that flowed behind his bare feet, which were sliced anew daily on the sharp rocks. He related that subsequently, under house arrest, guards were stationed around the clock in front of his home. Yet none were posted around back, and so he climbed out the rear bathroom window most nights to attend political meetings. Once, the self-deprecating chortle that so often punctuated his narrations suddenly went silent. In my quiet living room, Dennis was crying. A tear ran down his nose and hung at its tip, remaining there throughout the rest of his story. The sadness and frustration contained in that tear, as in Dennis’ own life, did not stop his truth-telling. Poems were easy to get from him; I heard them at a public presentation before thousands and at a small table in Havana’s central plaza. Whenever Dennis had a new book out (he published more than a dozen), he carried copies around and freely gave them out, after adding a warm inscription in his exquisite calligraphy. Dennis was perhaps most full in his poems, which merged the personal and the political, which often focused on oppression but included his breath of hope that the world can be different – if we are intrepid and persistent in organizing to make it so. Tenderness Survives Dennis was known for being a struggler, but I was always equally impressed with Dennis the human being. He was gentle, courteous, thoughtful, and patient. This is not to say that Dennis was soft on those who betrayed justice and peoples; he was not. Yet when comrades and allies made errors, when internal Left politics divided, he didn’t waste anger on the individuals. He transcended. Dennis kept his eyes firmly on the prize: the principles and power in dispute. I once experienced this personally, when I became the target of a firestorm. Dennis refrained from jumping into the fray, opting instead for a strategy of solidarity. He sent me an email from South Africa that said simply, “We love you, Bev.” Dennis seemed to know better than most that we are all limited and imperfect, and that leaving room for the possibility of change is a grace that humanity requires in order to transform. Or perhaps he just knew that the world was harsh enough already, as he expressed in his poem “Somehow We Survive”: All our land is scarred with terror rendered unlovely and unlovable sundered are we and all our passionate surrender but somehow tenderness survives.ii A simple obituary that Dennis wrote for himself, months before his death in 2009, included this: “I was committed to the struggle and I would if necessary die in the cause of liberation: ‘Freedom or death.’ It was a very simple resolve.” He did indeed die in the cause of liberation, though fortunately, neither violently nor prematurely. Everything that Dennis did was in the cause of liberation. Many movements and people continue to miss Dennis painfully. I am one. But in fact, he hasn’t gone far. His inspiration and legacy still shine over those dedicated to a transfigured world, illuminating our vision and path. * ** * * ** ** * * It is vital that we resist forgetting Breonna Taylor and all those who have been slaughtered by the US police, slaughters legitimated by the US legal system, showing that Black lives do not matter to either of those entities. It is also vital that we remember Dennis Brutus and countless other Black heroes, who in turn have resisted forgetting. “Until the killing of Black men, Black mothers’ sons, is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers’ sons, we who believe in freedom will not rest.” – from “Ella’s Song” by Bernice Johnson Reagon i From a speech by Dennis Brutus at the University of Texas, 1975, as quoted in Ken Harrow, “Dennis Brutus as I Knew Him,” Journal of African Literature Association, Volume 4, Issue 1 (2009). ii “Somehow We Survive,” in Dennis Brutus, _Sirens, Knuckles and Boots. _Ibidan, Nigeria: Mbari Productions,1963. “Resisting Forgetting,” a poster from the Paliacate Cultural Space in San Cristóbal, Chiapas.

A flower from our garden for Breonna Taylor and the countless other Black and Brown people murdered by police; vigilantes; and social, political, and economic systems to whom their lives do not matter. Say their names. Hold their memories. Fight like hell for transformation and justice.