On my way to the hotel that night, driven by John’s wife, I saw two of the police vans making their rounds; mobile gray boxes already heavy with the nightly haul. There, I thought, but for the grace of God …
Next morning, I was up early—the noise of traffic from the street below nudged me awake. I showered, breakfasted, and I decided to take a stroll, perhaps to window-shop for some small memento of my visit to this city. At a street intersection near the hotel, a police minicar stood by the curb. I crossed the road, giving no more than a fleeting glance to the burly, red-faced officer at the wheel, and made my way slowly down the block, pausing outside a fruitstand to admire the racked display boxes laden with luscious fruit. Yellow mangoes, dark purple plums, large tight bunches of black grapes, red flecked yellow peaches nestling in pockets of soft paper, pears, grapefruit, bananas, nectarines, all looking so fresh and delectable. Two dark-skinned men, Indians, waited courteously on the customers. I wondered if the Indians owned the shop or merely worked there, and promised myself to buy some of the fruit on my way back.
A little farther along, I stopped to watch a construction site across the street. Blacks and Whites pulling and carrying, hammering and drilling amid the noise and bustle, the towering naked girders and the swinging crane cables. From where I stood, there seemed to be harmony on that job, the natural, active interdependence I’d observed on building sites in New York, London, or Paris. I’d inquire about it. I noticed that the policeman was approaching on foot from the right, jackbooted and helmeted, the leather thongs from a thick club dangling beside his right leg, his face anonymous behind large dark goggles.
Huge, powerful, and casual, he seemed to be walking directly toward where I stood. I wondered if I should move out of his way, but quickly rejected the idea. Hell, the sidewalk was wide enough for both of us and more. In New York, black petitioners had told of brutal treatment at the hands of the South African police. One had said to me, “The police come along and toss you into their car and take you to the police station. They ask you questions and you must remember to say ‘Baas,’ each time you answer. If you don’t, they beat you across the mouth with their short clubs to teach you how to speak to a white man.” Blacks aren’t allowed to say Yes and No. They must always show proper humility to the white Baas. Fascinated, I watched him approach. As he came nearer and nearer, I felt nervous, fearful flutterings in my gut and sudden perspiration ran coldly down my armpits. Good sense told me to move, step back or forward, but stubbornness made me stay where I was.
I felt afraid, awed by the towering faceless size of him, until it was too late to move; I braced myself for the inevitable crunching contact—but suddenly, nimbly, he sidestepped away from me and continued his slow, deliberate way until he was out of sight.
Later, I mentioned the near-incident in a telephone conversation with a friend who advised me to do the safe thing in the future and give way, unless I wanted a brutal beating with no redress. He reminded me that the policeman would have no way of knowing that I was an overseas visitor and would merely consider my behavior another instance of “kaffir cheek” which deserved whatever it got, and no one, Black or White, would intervene on my behalf. I could easily be hauled off to the nearest police station and humiliated before any attempt was made to identify me, my unfamiliar accent notwithstanding.
I paid a courtesy call at the Office of Information to let the officials know I had arrived in Johannesburg and to find out what formalities I would have to go through to achieve my purpose, learning about the lives of Blacks. I was courteously received and told that the information offices in every city would be happy to facilitate my inquiries in every way. No formalities were necessary except when I wished to visit the black enclaves in or near the major cities. For entry into these a special police pass was required. This pass, I was told, was intended for my own protection; the crime rate in those enclaves was very high, and the authorities were concerned for my safety. I thanked the Information Officer and expressed the wish then and there to visit Soweto, the largest black township within the immediate environs of Johannesburg. I was promptly given permission, together with a guide, an employee of the Information Office, and promised a comprehensive look at every facet of life in the black community. I was told that my guide, a blonde young woman, was very knowledgeable about Soweto and would be able to answer any question put to her about the township and its inhabitants. A white guide to inform me about the living conditions of blacks in a Black enclave in which not even a single White lived or was allowed to live? What would she really know? I’d wait and see.
Soweto is the largest of several black townships within the jurisdiction of Johannesburg, about fifteen miles outside the city and far enough away for the Whites not to be offended by its ugliness or threatened by the violence which frequently erupts there. It is situated in a natural hollow, the inhabitants restricted to an area of approximately thirty-four square miles. There is only one road in or out, wide and hard-surfaced to the edge of the township, and readily blocked off and controlled if necessary.
“What’s the population of Soweto?” I asked my guide as we stopped briefly on a rise overlooking the township, the low, tightly packed, box-like white houses glimmering in the sunny heat, and reminiscent of the packed graveyards between Manhattan and La Guardia Airport.
“About six hundred thousand.”
She had the figure pat and ready for me. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that Blacks in South Africa did not vote and no official census was taken of them? As if it had served its intended purpose, the hard-surfaced road ended abruptly at the entrance to Soweto, opposite the huge General Hospital. From there on into the township, the road was pitted and worn, with deep ruts holding water from some recent rain. Now we came upon row upon row of prefabricated four-roomed concrete houses, built closely together and separated from each other by a narrow grassy alleyway into which grew a few trees or shaggy shrubs. Some of these houses were roofed in concrete while others had corrugated galvanized metal roofs which caught and reflected the sunlight. Each house was fitted with four small windows and a door. I guessed that there was a window for each room, but those gleaming roofs worried me.
“What’s it like inside?” I asked my guide. “In this heat it must be really awful.”
“Not really,” she replied. “They’re designed to stay cool in summer and warm in winter.”
“How?”
“Something to do with the way they’re built,” she replied lamely.
“Have you ever been in one?”
“No, but I’ve talked with some builders on the project.”
We stopped the car so that I could take a closer look at one of the houses. I saw no sign of electric cables or the familiar exhaust outlet which indicated internal sewerage.
“What about electric lighting?” I asked her.
“Most of the houses are fitted with electricity,” she replied. “Some of these older ones are without, but the plan is to extend it to all of them. The houses in this section are among the first built in Soweto. You can tell that because many of them have the old concrete roofs. The locals call them sleeping elephants. The newer ones are a real improvement. They have electricity and running water. The older ones have outdoor water taps.”
Ten or fifteen years earlier, she went on, Soweto was a terrible slum and the Government, in its concern for the welfare of the inhabitants, had embarked on a comprehensive rehousing scheme. From time to time, the scheme was revised and improvements included. But inevitably housing needs outstripped the pace of construction. As new houses were built, the slums were bulldozed out of existence and their occupants relocated. The houses could be bought or rented. When they were bought, the purchase related only to the building, not to the land. In Soweto and similar black townships, the house may be bought but the land on which it stands can only be leased. The length of such a lease is usually less but never more than thirty-five years, and this pe
riod may be extended or not, at the discretion of the authorities. If an extension of his lease is denied, the black lessee has no hope of appeal. My guide supplied these interesting pieces of information matter-of-factly. There was nothing bitter or vengeful about her statements or observation; she was merely providing information on a state of affairs which exists, and she was in no way personally involved.
Tenants, she informed me, fared no better. A house is rented to an individual who occupies it with his family, usually a wife and three or four small children. That is the “official” family. Because there are not enough houses to accommodate in comfort even sixty percent of those needing shelter, subletting is encouraged and practiced. The tenant benefits little from this, however, for subtenants must pay their rent, not to him, the “official” tenant, but to the landlord, the city of Johannesburg, through its local agent. It can be assumed that there is hardly a house in Soweto without its quota of subtenants, so considerable revenues must accrue to the city over and above the basic rents anticipated for the scheme.
I asked her if she could arrange for me to look inside one of the houses, but she merely smiled at that. Actually, I could not see her approaching any of those black residents. Many of the women interrupted their chores long enough to stare at us, my blonde guide and me. I wondered what they thought of us.
As the tour progressed, there was no escaping the drab sameness of the houses, the garbage-littered streets, or the few shoddy shops. Groups of youths sat outside the shops or wandered about aimlessly. My guide explained that the schools were still out for the long Christmas vacation. She pointed out what she called some of the special advantages of Soweto. Picnic grounds, a pleasantly green though unkempt oasis; a large football stadium where all the main outdoor social and athletic events, such as boxing matches, were held; a nursery school for children of working mothers; the empty Soweto High School. We pulled into the high school yard and I peeped into a classroom through a broken window. Row upon row of dusty wooden desks, the walls unrelieved by even a map. Gloomy.
Our tour continued along roads now generally tar-surfaced and comfortably passable and we stopped at the only vocational school in Soweto. About two hundred youths annually, as many as the school can now accommodate, are selected out of more than a thousand who have passed a qualifying examination, and are taught the rudiments of electrical wiring, plumbing, bricklaying and masonry, and carpentry.
The school’s principal was an Englishman long resident in South Africa, and, like most school principals, complained of the acute shortage of basic equipment, materials, and textbooks, in spite of which the youths were making extraordinary progress. I saw some of the models made by the students and some of their drawings, and they compared very favorably with work I’d seen by design students in well-equipped classrooms in London and New York. One student’s work was so outstanding that a visiting Swiss diplomat had given him a very expensive watch in encouragement.
The Principal said that, given the opportunity and further training, the black students could excel in the building and other industries which are clamoring for skilled labor. Unfortunately, they are victimized by South Africa’s “job reservation” laws, by which all skilled and some semi-skilled jobs are reserved to Whites. A bricklayer, plasterer, or electrician must be white. The young black students, ambitious and enthusiastic while training, face a very frustrating future. They are likely to be employed as low-paid helpers to Whites less skilled than themselves and might even do the work without receiving the pay.
The Principal told me that present building needs have forced some builders to let Blacks do skilled work, even at the risk of prosecution. Reflecting a booming economy, contractors are enjoying their busiest times and there is an acute shortage of skilled white labor. There are many Blacks on their payrolls fully capable of skilled work without supervision. To meet their pressing deadlines, the contractors put the Blacks on skilled jobs and keep legal representation readily available to deal with such prosecution and fines as are incurred. Legal fees and fines are prorated into each building estimate. The Principal hoped that, eventually, the job reservation laws would crumble under pressure from public need for housing and the industry’s need to expand.
We now drove through the so-called elite section of the town. Most of the homes here were attractive bungalows surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns, with flowering shrubs and fruit trees. These were the homes of Soweto’s tiny “black bourgeois” community, the local doctor, dentist, grocer, gas-station operator, etc., all of whom had struggled and saved to rise above the depressing sameness. Each of them had begun by buying the government-built four-room square structure and added rooms to it as they could. They had had to install at their own expense running water, plumbing facilities, electricity, and whatever other household devices they could afford. All this on a flimsy lease which could be rescinded at the Government’s whim.
Ironically, my guide spoke of the bungalows and their owners proudly, as if those people had been specially “allowed” to achieve that much, her voice crisp and objective as if she were speaking of cold, inanimate things, not insecure human beings who were forced to live in fear that one fine day the dreams they’d earned would be snatched away from them. I thought of myself, my own pride in ownership of a home thousands of miles away, my security in the knowledge that I had the right to defend it against all comers, supported by the full weight of the law.
My guide now promised a big surprise and we drove to the Bantu Council Building. It was much more than a surprise, the sight of that modern red-brick building, graceful in its simple lines against a dramatic background of neatly trimmed lawns and darkening sky. A macadam driveway circled in front of the building before coming to rest at the base of a wide wooden stairway which led upward to carved wooden doors. A uniformed doorman led us inside and then hurried away to find the Secretary of the Council. My guide proudly showed me the large Council Chamber, paneled in wood and thickly carpeted, and the smaller offices of the President and Secretary of the Council.
We found the Secretary in his office in conversation with someone, so we waited for him in the Council Chamber. My guide told me that members of the Council are mainly drawn from the small business community of Soweto. The Council is supposed to oversee Soweto’s health and educational and social welfare, and make recommendations to the white Johannesburg Council which has the final decision as to which, if any of them, are expedited.
When the Council Secretary finally joined us, he proceeded to give me a very careful review of the Council and its work. He seemed primarily concerned with impressing my guide whom he knew to be a Government official. Smiling broadly, he invited me to ask him questions.
“How much freedom can your Council exercise in the management of Soweto’s affairs?” I asked.
“Well,” glancing nervously at my guide, “we have a pretty free hand. We’re on the spot, we know what the township needs, and our recommendations are generally honored.” Nodding his head affirmatively all the while.
“Does the Council collect the rents on the houses?”
“Yes.”
“Would you tell me about subletting and how it works here?”
“Well, I couldn’t go into that. That’s the Council’s business. I can’t discuss that.”
“I understand you maintain supervision of the schools.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve just been looking at your high school. From the outside—”
“The schools are still out for the Christmas holidays,” he interrupted.
“I know. But could you—”
“The Chairman of the Schools Committee would be the best person to talk to you about the schools.” Again he interrupted me, anticipating my question, meanwhile looking at my guide as if to assure her that he would say or do nothing contrary to official policy.
Unexpectedly we were joined by a little man, hardly over five feet tall
, shiningly bald, and spry. On being introduced to me, he seemed surprised.
“I thought you were a plainclothes policeman,” he said. “I was planning to ask you to help me get a new pass.” Grinning meanwhile.
“At your age, why would you need a pass?” I asked him.
“Every black man needs a pass,” he replied, the smile vanishing. “I am a member of this Council. I live and work here in Soweto. Been here nearly all my life. I’m seventy and still I need a pass.” His watery eyes staring balefully at my guide, he continued, “Blacks are not human, so they need passes to move among the humans. What about you?”
“I’m a visitor from overseas. This is my first visit to your country and this lady is guiding me around Soweto.”
“Before people try to guide others, they should try guiding themselves,” he replied, looking at me. “How can you guide when you don’t know Soweto yourself? Blacks live in Soweto. Only Blacks. They’re forced to live in Soweto. They know what is Soweto. The white man comes here and says to us, Come. Go. Fetch. Carry. Live. Die. Show your permit. Show your pass. That’s all the white man knows about Soweto. Busloads of white tourists drive through the township with somebody in the bus showing them how the Bantu live. Somebody white, from the Information Office. They say, ‘Look at the Bantu, how happy they are in Soweto. Look at them smile. Look at the happy children playing football. Look at the happy old men drinking Bantu beer.’ Guides!”