Ah but Your Land Is Beautiful

  The specialist has given his opinion that Miss Prem Bodasingh’s eyes have not been damaged. As soon as Dr. Monty agrees, she will leave for New York to see Professor Eddie’s surgeon friend. She will be accompanied by her father and mother. Her father is leaving his business interests in the capable hands of Mr. Jay Perumal, the husband of the saint. The news about Prem’s eyes has cheered him up and if the news from New York is good, he may soon be making jokes again.

  They say that M. K. Bodasingh thinks only of money. It isn’t true. He values his daughter above any money. Even Prem thinks that her tongue was too sharp in the past. She has made herself a promise that it will not be so sharp in the future.

  When Prem comes back from New York she is going to work for Mr. Bhoola, at FOSA, the Friends of the Sick Association, the one who said that if she became a Christian she must keep her eyes on Christ so that she would not get a chance to look at Christians. Mrs. Bodasingh went to see Mr. Bhoola while Prem was still in hospital, and asked him if he would give a job to her daughter. Mr. Bhoola, so to speak, jumped at Prem, and who wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to show that to Mrs. Bodasingh, because he did not believe in kowtowing to the rich, so he said, naturally he would have to consult his committee. He said this in his very smiling way, but that only made her tongue a little sharper. She said to him very astringently,

  – It would no doubt help you and your committee to come to a decision, Mr. Bhoola, if you knew that when my daughter marries FOSA, she will bring with her a dowry of five thousands pounds.

  Mr. Bhoola, who was always thrown into a state of excitement by the promise of money, still continued to look smilingly doubtful, but not too doubtful, for he had no intention of losing the five thousand pounds.

  – Five thousand pounds would help you to build your library, Mr. Bhoola. I hear you want a library.

  – Yes, we do want a library, Mrs. M. K. But you see it is a question of procedure. The committee expects to be consulted in such matters.

  – Everybody knows, Mr. Bhoola, that the committee thinks you are a kind of Mahatma, and they do exactly what you tell them to do. But do not trouble them or yourself. I shall offer Prem and her dowry to the Blind Society. Sometimes these blind people can see things that even a Mahatma cannot see.

  Mr. Bhoola let out what might almost be described as a cry of pain.

  – Mrs. M. K., you mustn’t take offence. Prem is a girl in a thousand.

  – Of course she’s a girl in a thousand. And her dowry is one in a thousand too. Do you take her or leave her?

  – I take her, Mrs. M. K.

  – Without consulting your committee?

  – They will confirm my decision, Mrs. M. K.

  – Of course they will confirm it. Where will they get another director like Mr. Ahmed Bhoola? What is more, they know a dowry when they see one.

  – Your tongue is as sharp as ever, Kuniamma. M. K. was a brave man to marry you.

  Mrs. Bodasingh permitted herself a smile.

  – Perhaps I was too sharp, Ahmed. But when I see you sitting there, smiling and doubting and playing the big director when you are being offered a girl in a thousand, it makes me sharp.

  – People who are small inside like to look big outside, Kuniamma.

  – Modesty doesn’t suit you, Ahmed. It never did. Take this and look after it carefully. It’s the dowry.

  . . . Yes, my dear aunt, of course I realise that the whole event is very painful. But it has been made much more painful by the English press. If this event had not been blown up out of all proportion, the matter would have been confined to Bloemfontein instead of being broadcast to the whole nation. That is bad enough, but it has also been broadcast to the world, and you may be sure that our enemies at United Nations are preparing a fresh attack on us.

  I remember that I wrote to you after the Loeriestad affair, and told you that once Clause 29(c) of the Native Laws Amendment Act came into operation, this kind of thing would not happen. Well, it should not have happened. I blame the Bosman family for this. They should have known that permission was required. And I blame Dominee van Rooyen also. He should have foreseen that a large number of people from Bochabela would want to attend. I am informed that he told his own elders that he had no idea that black people would come. It had never happened to him before, and he was totally unprepared for it. One can only suppose then that he had no idea of the esteem in which Mr. Bosman was held.

  I agree with you, my dear aunt, that the whole thing is very sad. But the really sad thing is that it need not have happened. And the other sad thing is that it should have been broadcast to the world. Some time ago I decided to accept Dr. Hendrik’s view that mixed worship was undesirable, but it is a great pity that funeral services were not specifically exempted. Cheer up, my dear aunt. My Minister often says to me, ‘Van Onselen, you can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs.’ And do you remember what President Truman said? ‘If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.’

  So your friend Robert Mansfield is leaving. He couldn’t stand the heat. That is the trouble with these liberals. They think they can build Utopia on love and goodwill. They are always calling out for justice, but when justice is embodied in law, then they condemn the law. They have no understanding of human nature. They think that Jew and Gentile, English and Afrikaner, Zulu and Indian, white and black. will all live in peace together when the laws of separation are repealed. And when it all blows up, they will come running to the Afrikaner for protection.

  This man Mansfield was a big talker, but he did not understand the realities of politics. Nor do liberals understand the revulsion and abhorrence that they and their beliefs evoke in the true Afrikaner. Nor do they understand that they expose themselves to physical danger from what one might call the extreme Right, to which this man Rohrs clearly belonged. One must condemn violence, but one must also condemn those who invite violence, and he was certainly one.

  My dear aunt, I am sorry again about the Bloemfontein event. Let me say again that it should not have happened. Dr. Hendrik made provision for such events in Clause 29(c). The Minister decides after consultation with the local authority. But I agree that funeral services should have been exempted.

  Mrs. Fischer keeps well, and still talks a great deal about her visit to Weltevreden.

  The Reverend Isaiah Buti, pastor of the Holy Church of Zion in Bochabela, entered the room of the Acting Chief Justice, if not with awe, then certainly with deference. And certainly with respect too, for not only did Judge Olivier occupy one of the highest seats in the land, but he was held in high esteem by the black people of Bloemfontein. Was he not the man who had tried to prevent Parliament from removing coloured voters from the common roll?

  The room was the biggest Mr. Buti had seen in his life. The table also was the biggest he had seen, and behind it was a grand carved chair, and behind the chair portraits of those who had been chief justices of the Union of South Africa. And now from the chair rose the impressive figure of Acting Chief Justice Olivier, with his hand held out to his visitor.

  – Welcome, Mr. Buti. I got your letter, and now you are here. Sit down and tell me all about it.

  – Thank you, judge. I must first collect myself. I must get used to this room.

  – Take your time. It’s a very big room.

  – There’s much power in this room, judge.

  The judge laughed.

  – Not so much as people think, Mr. Buti.

  – Judge, I wrote to you because I am anxious. I have lived in the Orange Free State all my life. Of course we are a conquered people, but we have lived in peace with the white rulers. But things are changing, judge, and I am anxious that they should not change in the way they are changing now.

  – What are you referring to, Mr. Buti? The killing of the police?

  – Certainly that, judge. But not only that. I am referring to the feeling against the whites. It is the worst I have known it to be.

  – And the causes?

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sp; Mr. Buti gave a humble and apologetic smile.

  – You know them as well as I do, judge.

  – And what is the biggest?

  – The pass laws, judge, perhaps most of all. You have heard those words, temporary sojourner?

  – Indeed.

  – That’s what we are, my lord, temporary sojourners. Do you know the prayer of Chief Hosea Kutako?

  – I have read it, Mr. Buti, but I do not remember it. What did he say?

  – His prayer ended thus: O Lord, help us who roam about. Help us who have been placed in Africa and have no dwelling place of our own. Give us back a dwelling place. O God, all power is yours in Heaven and Earth. Amen.

  – Yes, I remember.

  That’s what we are, judge. We have no dwelling place. The Government says I have a dwelling place in Thaba Nchu. They say my dwelling place is not here in Bochabela. where I live and work and have my wife and my children, and my church, the Holy Church of Zion. I am lucky, judge, because I am a minister. But most of the people of my church are workers. They work in white factories and white shops, they work for white builders and white carpenters. Our girls, and often our women too, work in white houses. Sometimes we feel, judge, that we have no meaning for white people except our work. My son works in a white factory and my two daughters work in white houses. But if I were to die, they would all be sent to Thaba Nchu. My wife is not allowed to rent a house, and my son is too young to rent one. Judge, you are a very busy man. Do you want to hear any more causes?

  – No, Mr. Buti. The one you mention is cause enough.

  – You see, judge, I am a minister. I am not likely to lose my job. But the men of my church often lose their jobs. Sometimes it is their fault, but sometimes it is not. The factory closes down, the white employer dies. The employer of Mr. Philemon Moroka died, and he could not get a job. So they told him he would have to give up his house and go back to Thaba Nchu with his wife and four children. Once you lose a house, judge, it is very hard to get another. If Mr. Moroka is offered another job in Bloemfontein he will have to leave his wife and children and come to a single men’s hostel in Bochabela. Then perhaps after a year he will get another house, and he will be able to bring his wife and children back. And sometimes it happens that, just after a man gets another house, he loses his job again, or he dies. The Moroka family are luckier than most, because his mother has a nice house in Thaba Nchu. But sometimes widows and their children are sent back, and there is no house, and no work either. There is not much work in such places. That’s the way we live, judge. We have been placed in Africa and we have no dwelling place of our own.

  Judge Olivier listened to Mr. Buti with much pain, not only pain for the people that Mr. Buti was talking about, but pain for his own impotence. How can the ombudsman invoke the majestic power of the law when it is the law itself that is the cause of the injustice? What had Mr. Buti come to ask him? To do something that he had no power to do? He thought wryly of Mr. Buti’s words that there was much power in this room. It was almost as though the black man knew that the white man was suffering, for his next words were meant to comfort.

  – Judge, we have had more luck in Bochabela than in many other places. The laws have not been applied so harshly. Sometimes they have not been applied at all. You will find widows still living in Bochabela. That was the work of Mr. Karel Bosman. No one shouted at you in his offices, no one called you boy, no one called your wife Jane. They called us Bantu of course, which is a word we do not like, but we never heard the word kaffir.

  Then Mr. Buti was silent for a long time.

  – The funeral service was very painful, judge. We wanted the people of Bloemfontein to see that we loved this man. We went there to show our love. But it wasn’t wanted. I haven’t come here to attack the church, my lord. I’ve come to ask you to do a work of reconciliation.

  – Me?

  – Yes, you, my lord.

  – What can I do, Mr. Buti?

  – Judge, every year on the Thursday before Good Friday we have in the Holy Church of Zion the service of the Washing of the Feet. Many people from other churches come to see it, and they are satisfied. This year the minister, that is myself, is going to wash the feet of Mrs. Hannah Mofokeng, who is the oldest woman in Bochabela. And my daughter is going to wash the feet of Esther Moloi, who is a crippled child. And I am asking Judge Olivier to wash the feet of Martha Fortuin.

  – Martha?

  – Yes, judge.

  – She has washed the feet of all my children. Why should I hesitate to wash her feet?

  Mr. Buti’s face was filled with joy. He stood up and opened wide his arms.

  – Do you understand, judge, I want our people to see that their love is not rejected. Do you see that?

  – Yes, I can see that.

  – It will be simple, judge. I shall call out the name of Martha Fortuin, and she will come up and take a seat at the front of the altar. Then I shall call out the name of Jan Christiaan Olivier — you will not mind, judge, if I do not call you a judge?

  – No.

  – Then you come up to the altar, and I shall give you a towel to put round yourself, and then a basin of water. I shall take off her shoes, and you will wash her feet and dry them, and go back to your seat. Then I shall put on her shoes, and she will go back to her seat.

  – Does she know that I am to wash her feet?

  – She knows that her feet are to be washed, but she does not know who is going to wash them.

  – Will she be embarrassed?

  – I do not think so, judge. She is a holy woman. She knows the meaning of it. After all, the disciples’ feet were washed by the Lord, and no one was embarrassed but Peter, and he was rebuked for it.

  – There’s one thing more, Mr. Buti.

  – Yes, judge.

  – She does not know. Then who does know?

  – Only myself and my elders. And of course you, judge.

  – Well, that is proper. You see, Mr. Buti, a judge can do this kind of thing privately. He is as free to do it as anyone else. But a judge must not parade himself — you understand? — he must not . . .

  – I understand, judge. Judge, you have made my heart glad. For me, and for many of my people, this will be a work of healing. I hope for our young people too. You know, judge, some of them think that white people do not know how to love, so why should they love them? I told them that Jesus said we must love our enemies, and one bright boy said to me that Jesus did not live in Bochabela.

  On the evening of the day before Good Friday, Judge Olivier set out privately for the Holy Church of Zion in Bochabela. He parked his car near the church, and set out to walk the short distance. As he passed under one of the dim street lamps, he was recognised by a young reporter by the name of David McGillivray, who was in Bochabela following up a story, but who decided that it might be better to follow the Acting Chief Justice.

  The judge was welcomed at the door by Mr. Buti and was taken to a seat at the back of the church.

  – I am sorry to put you at the back, judge, but I do not want Martha to see you.

  So it was that David McGillivray saw the washing of the feet.

  – Brothers and sisters, this is the night of the Last Supper. And when the supper was over, Jesus rose from the table. and he put a towel round himself, as I do now in remembrance of him. Then he took a dish and poured water into it. and began to wash the feet of his disciples, and to wipe them with the towel. And when he came to Peter, Peter said to him, Lord are you going to wash my feet? And Jesus said, What I do now you do not understand, but you will understand it later. Peter said, You will never wash my feet. Jesus said, If I do not wash your feet, you will have no part in me. And Peter said, Lord, not only my feet, but also my hands and my head. Jesus said, If I wash your feet, you are clean altogether.

  – Hannah Mofokeng, I ask you to come forward.

  The old woman was brought forward by her son Jonathan, a white-haired man of seventy. And Mr. Buti washed her feet and drie
d them, and told her to go in peace. Then he called for Esther Moloi, the crippled child, who was brought forward in her chair, and for Maria Buti, his own daughter, who washed and dried Esther’s feet. Then both girls were told to go in peace.

  – Martha Fortuin, I ask you to come forward.

  So Martha Fortuin, who thirty years earlier had gone to work in the home of the newly married Advocate Olivier of Bloemfontein, and had gone with him to Cape Town and Pretoria when he became a judge, and had returned with him to Bloemfontein when he became a Justice of the Appellate Court, now left her seat to walk to the chair before the altar. She walked with head downcast as becomes a modest and devout woman, conscious of the honour that had been done her by the Reverend Isaiah Buti. Then she heard him call out the name of Jan Christiaan Olivier and, though she was herself silent, she heard the gasp of the congregation as the great judge of Bloemfontein walked up to the altar to wash her feet.

  Then Mr. Buti gave the towel to the judge, and the judge, as the word says, girded himself with it, and took the dish of water and knelt at the feet of Martha Fortuin. He took her right foot in his hands and washed it and dried it with the towel. Then he took her other foot in his hands and washed it and dried it with the towel. Then he took both her feet in his hands with gentleness, for they were no doubt tired with much serving, and he kissed them both. Then Martha Fortuin, and many others in the Holy Church of Zion, fell a-weeping in that holy place.

  Then the judge gave the towel and the dish to Mr. Buti, who said to him, Go in peace. Mr. Buti put the shoes back on the woman’s feet and said to her also, Go in peace. And she returned to her place, in a church silent except for those who wept. Then Mr. Buti read again.