DRAFT-NOT TO BE QUOTED WITHOUT AUTHOR'S PERMISSION PLEASE

Culture(s) of the African National Congress of South Africa [ANC]: contribution of exile and prison experiences.

By Raymond Suttner
Visiting Research Fellow, Centre for Policy Studies,
PO Box 16488, Doornfontein, 2028, Johannesburg.
Tel:-27-11-642-9820. Fax: -27-11-643-4654.
E mail: rsuttner@worldonline.co.za and raymond@cps.org.za

When ANC was unbanned in 1990 a number of ideological and inter-generational and organisational strands, that had broadly and in varying ways considered themselves part of the liberation movement, came together as members. By "broadly" reference is made, particularly to affiliates of the United Democratic Front (UDF, formed in 1983). These, in turn, comprised a variety of tendencies and organisational formations. (Seekings, 2000, Lodge and Nasson, 1991, van Kessel, 2000). In these organisations, it was common to hear coded references to ANC and indications of affiliation to what was referred to as the Congress tradition or "Congress". In addition, there were others who may not have been part of UDF, but wanted to join ANC once it became legal. Just over a year after unbanning, half a million people were signed up. (Rantete, 1998,12-15)

There were complexities attached to post 1990 integration of these various elements, since different organisations that now were "one" had distinct styles of work and historical experiences informing their practice. The onset of negotiations took many activists by surprise. These could not be conducted with the degree of openness to which many were accustomed. While this may have been reasonable and necessary for the successful initiation and conclusion of negotiations, it created a degree of suspicion and heightened tension within the organisation.

But these differences were outweighed by overall euphoria surrounding unbanning. Also, the atmosphere of continuing state harassment of the organisation, demanded unity. Consequently, the complexity of combining the component parts may not have been given adequate weight. In efforts to stress unity in confronting state attempts to undermine the ANC and broader liberation movement, commonality was understandably emphasised, often at the expense of difference.

ANC &endash;one organisation comprising multiple identities

Any attempt to understand ANC must rely not only on experiences of those formally members prior to and after 1990, for many others saw themselves as or were in a broad sense acting on behalf of the organisation. That they were not members did not mean they made no contribution to its character. It was also many such people who played a significant role in the survival of traditions of support for the organisation when it was banned. (cf Joseph Faniso Mati, interview in Coetzee et al, 2002,35, Luthuli, 1962,89)

It is only possible to understand some mass activities of the late 1970s and 1980s by virtue of survival of traditions of support for ANC or what it was believed ANC represented. These traditions persisted in varying degrees and forms in different places and times. The bearers may have been old grannies in isolated townships or ANC activists banished to remote villages or located in well-known townships. (Frederickse, 1990, 157, Mochele interview, 1992). At other times it was newly released political prisoners. (e.g. Mati, in Coetzee et al, 2002, at 53ff, Seekings, 2000, 30ff, Nat Serache interview, 2002). It may also be that a re-reading of the Soweto rising of 1976 will show greater involvement of ANC through many of these veterans than the literature has thus far acknowledged. (cf Serache interview, 2002 regarding indirect interventions by Joe Gqabi).

But "traditions" that survived and survive are diverse in character. Members of any organisation not only have distinct political experiences that may have preceded their joining, but often religious beliefs of a variety of kinds, including "traditional" ones. They may, as part of these belief systems, observe various practices and rituals. These exist in a space both outside and at times overlapping with the organisation. There has been little discussion of how these belief systems interact, and what systems inform which decisions or actions for various people within ANC. (But cf Niehaus et al, 2001)

It is important to appreciate the different components of ANC in their own right since they all represent distinct understandings of what it means to be in the organisation. Different experiences are likely to inform divergent conceptions of democracy within ANC and in the society at large. And, unless one appreciates these different cultural experiences, the distinct and multiple identities within a common identity, it will not be possible to understand the character of some of the differences and tensions that have emerged and may still emerge.

It is also important to understand the different components because they represent distinct practices and expectations of what it means to be an ANC member and what different people hope to derive from such membership. (Cf Ottaway, 1993,ch 3). It may also define what is meant by the description of ANC as a "broad church" and what may be included or excluded from that concept at different times and under different conditions.

We can identify distinct overall characteristics attaching to various phases of the organisation's history, features whose relevance to this study lies in the extent to which they are an enduring part of organisational character or at least appear to be well established within contemporary ANC. It is necessary for this emphasis because the focus in this study is on the present, though that can only be understood as part of a broader, complex history.

Identification of organisational culture, considered in this wide sense, is controversial. To take one simple example, were the expectations and practices of an ANC member recruited in the dark days of 1960s or 1970s, the same as that of a person joining in 1994 or afterwards? And can one always say that expectations of a person recruited in difficult times, understandings of what it means to be part of ANC, remain the same today? What are expectations in this period when ANC membership may mean more in the way of benefits for some and next to nothing in terms of experiencing repression?

But throughout all these phases in the organisation's history, there have also been elements of continuity, evoked expressly, though selectively, by leaders referring to events and leaders who preceded them. Raymond Williams says of traditions, "only some of them or parts of them have been selected for our respect and duty…"(1983,319).

What is continuing in ANC traditions and what is new? What has disappeared and what continues to survive and why? On what basis, for example, are people designated or not designated as heroes and what social purpose does it serve within ANC culture? (cf Kriger, 1995 for Zimbabwe). What aspects of a person's political life are singled out (and what downplayed) where there is such designation?

What elements of an organisation's traditions are celebrated and who is revered also has gender implications. If the organisation mainly celebrates activities in which males are predominant, such as military leaders, what implications does this have for gender equality? Insofar as imprisonment on Robben Island is equated in most discussions with experience of imprisonment per se, to what extent does veneration this attracts, detract from esteem and attention paid to the small number of women political prisoners, who often experienced much harsher conditions? How many people know, for example, that the late Dorothy Nyembe spent over 18 years in Kroonstad, in very difficult conditions, with very few companions?

It may be that the character of the ANC is suffused with a masculine idiom (Erlank, unpub 2001, Unterhalter, 2000). The content and mode of construction of these masculinities over time needs to be unpacked. Related to this masculine and sometimes macho idiom may be the impact of conceptions of "the revolution" or being "a revolutionary" and their relation to "the personal". It needs to be asked to what extent people may have thought it necessary to suppress personal intimacy, or had this required of them, in the interests of a broader comradeship or revolutionary morality. If there is some validity in this question, how did it impact on concepts of parenthood, love and other questions of intimacy? (cf Reddy and Katerud, 1995 and Serache interview, 2002, which represent conflicting experiences. See also Guevara, 1997, 197ff for a classic statement of the need for denial of the personal in the interests of the revolution as a whole). If this tendency was present, how does it play itself out today?

These questions are only raised here but will be considered more fully within the wider project, of which this paper forms a small part.

Relevance to the unfolding trajectory of South African democracy

The different experiences, expectations and practices that make up ANC may have significance for the type of democracy that unfolds in South Africa in the future. (cf Cronin interviews with Sheehan, 2001,2002). I am referring to these as "cultures" by which I mean, as a working definition, the broad set of beliefs, ideas, and practices shared by groups of people. (For elaboration of the complexity of the concept, see inter alia, Williams, 1981,1983, Kuper, 1999)

It is culture(s) in the plural because reference is made to a variety of phases and experiences in the organisation, none of which has supplanted or totally displaced all others. Which cultural influence becomes dominant may well have consequences for conceptions and practice of democracy in South African society as a whole. This is because some types of experiences in the liberation movement may tend towards greater popular involvement than others, greater internal democracy or more or less centralisation.

This paper represents early work in progress. It outlines two aspects of the cultural experiences that have been particularly influential in the development and present character of ANC &endash;that of exile/ Umkhonto we Sizwe (the Spear of the Nation, popularly known as MK) and prison. This study also raises, in a limited way, the intersection between identity and belief systems that go with being in ANC and systems that are part of wider identities of many of its members. All that has been written here is tentative, because further sources need to be consulted and interviews conducted that may modify many of the assumptions and raise questions over the nature of the explanations offered and degree of representativity of the data presented.

Exile and Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK)

With banning of ANC and other organisations and initiation of armed struggle, in 1961, military and security considerations came to overlay organisational practice. Military and underground struggle cannot be based on the same organisational principles as open democratic activities. Security and secrecy is essential. Hierarchy is generally needed in an army and to a substantial extent underground. While these units could discuss and debate, opportunities for filtering through diverse opinions were obviously not as plentiful as one finds in the open situations of 1950s and 1980s onwards. Secrecy, as opposed to open discussion, became dominant. What was made public tended to conceal what diversity there may have been, behind official statements presenting a face of unity to the public.

The full impact on the culture of democracy that had been developing in the period immediately before banning of ANC is not clear. The 1950s had seen its transformation into a mass organisation and campaigns enhancing democracy, non-racialism and to a limited extent non-sexism. (Lodge, 1983, Suttner and Cronin, 1986). Did conditions of exile, underground and armed struggle mean these traditions were snuffed out? My impression is the answer will be quite varied and dependent on where people were placed and what type of work they did. Also, consideration must be given to new forms of cultural expression that conditions of exile gave rise to, the impact they have had and how enduring these proved to be.

Experience of exile in London was quite different from that in Angola, Zambia, Tanzania, Lesotho or Botswana and the type of activities people engaged in differed in various centres, creating different norms and styles of work, and distinct relationships between members of the organisation. (cf Bernstein, 1994, Israel, 1999, Serache interview, 2002). For example, a person engaged in intelligence or security work would be more disposed to secrecy than someone promoting ANC in public meetings or newspaper articles in London. But even in London, many people who "ran" underground operatives within the country, had to operate in "cloak and dagger" fashion. (cf Suttner, 2001, chs 2-3). These could not be open operations, since working conditions required conspiratorial methods and hierarchical structures, whereby one section of the organisation (primarily based outside) communicated what had to be done (inside the country) .

Certainly, considerations of security made it difficult to openly debate many issues or do so a lot of the time or in many situations. The ANC of the 1960s was fighting for survival after reversals it had suffered. It confronted an enemy killing people in detention, and prepared to cross borders to chase after them. It was able to infiltrate its agents into MK camps, where food was sometimes poisoned.

That this atmosphere was not always conducive to openness does not mean debate was excluded. It was constrained by these conditions, but it may be that the Morogoro consultative conference of 1969 and the Kabwe conference of 1985 resulted from debates, arguments and complaints amongst membership. (Shubin, 1999, 84ff regarding Morogoro, Williams, 1994, regarding Kabwe, 29)

It may well be that the level, character and intensity of debate depended on the type of work individuals were doing, whether they were in military or not. But it would be mistaken to conclude that military discipline and structures necessarily precluded political discussion and debate. While these had to operate as disciplined forces, there appears to have been widespread political discussion in some situations in the camps, especially in political education courses. Famous teachers like the late Professor Jack Simons conducted some. (Sparg et al, 2001. Also interview with Victor Moche, 2002).

Exile was a vast and complex phenomenon extending over three decades and embracing a variety of experiences. Within the liberation movement it evokes contrasting emotions. Amongst those who were together "outside" there are bonds forged over many decades and in difficult times, and sometimes a sense of "veteranism" compared with internal activists. Internal activists are sometimes seen as having only recently come to "the movement" and lacking the level of discipline provided in the militarily organised exiled movement. (On the latter see quotation from Frene Ginwala, in Hassim, unpub 2002, at 205-6).

In the case of many internal activists, on the other hand, there is sometimes an inadequate appreciation of exile experience, a sense that those "from outside" are out of touch with what is happening on the ground or do not have a feel for mass struggle. There is also often a sense that those who were inside faced the guns, while, implicitly, those in exile had an easier life.

What this research has revealed so far has been that exile experience was often extremely difficult, not only in the obvious hardships of MK camps. The very path to get there in the first place was often filled with pain and trauma of various kinds. (Bernstein, 1994, Moche, interview, 2002). This relates first to the consequence of the decision to leave, that remained with people over the long period of separation from their country. Many had to leave behind lovers, husbands, wives or children, often without any explanation. (Bernstein, 1994, Duka, 1974, chs 5,6, Mhlaba, 2001, 111-12, Cock, 1991. 153 regarding Thandi Modise). The conditions of exile often created fresh conditions of stress, that led to a variety of psychological and social difficulties, relating to dislocation. (Morrow, 1998,509-10, 513). Edward Said eloquently captures some of the character of the exile experience:

Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience. It is the unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home: its essential sadness can never be surmounted. And while it is true that literature and history contain heroic, romantic, glorious, even triumphant episodes in an exile's life, these are no more than efforts meant to overcome the crippling sorrow of estrangement. The achievements of exile are permanently undermined by something left behind forever. (Said, 2000, 173 and ch 17 generally)

It is all too easy to forget the physical hurdles generally encountered, simply in getting to MK or into exiled structures, crossing hostile borders, sometimes facing arrest and interrogation in numerous countries along the way. For Victor Moche, in order to reach MK, he had to cross back from Swaziland, where he was schooling, go back into South Africa, and walk across various farm paths before making the contact that would see him off to MK. In this process he was arrested for trespass and held in a small police lock up in White River where he was assaulted and humiliated. Crossing the border into Botswana was followed by an arduous train journey to then Tanganyika, where he faced further interrogation. (Moche, interview 2002). Similar logistical difficulties often confronted transport of MK for training in the early years. (Shubin, 1999,30). Some of this was related to the very qualified degree of support ANC received from African states in its early years of exile, when many leaders preferred PAC. (cf Mandela, 1994, Shubin, 1999, 131, Sellstrom, 2002, 408ff, 582ff)

Many who arrived in exile were suffering effects of multiple traumas, not least being the impact of assault and torture by apartheid authorities before they left. Obviously the conditions of exile made it very difficult, apart from those based in major western cities to receive adequate treatment or counseling. The facilities available in many situations of exile made this hard to treat or even difficult to recognise presence of such trauma (Pampallis, interview, 2002). It does seem, however, that some systems for treatment were in place in the camps, though the extent of their reach is not clear. (Reddy and Katerud, 1995). It appears, also, that the Women's section did make some effort to provide a measure of support. (Hassim, unpub, 2002, ch 3)

In this paper I refer to only three elements of the exile experience, that of the first MK recruits of the early 1960s, the generation of 1976, and some of the bureaucratic consequences of running a huge organisation in exile. Finally, I return in the final part of this section to the question of interaction of pre or non-ANC belief systems that informed practices of some in MK in certain situations.

The first MK recruits

These people (whom I understand were almost entirely men, though many women were recruited later, Hassim, unpub. 2002, ch 3, Cock, 1991, 162) were mainly products of ANC of the 1950s and early 1960s. But routes to MK were diverse and not all were necessarily members of the organisation until then. Motivations were diverse, some seeking revenge, others being more seasoned in ANC politics and some escaping South Africa, to avoid criminal prosecution. Still others were infiltrators sent by the apartheid regime. ANC had to sort out the various categories and decide how best to train or restrain where necessary. (cf e.g. Reddy and Katerud, 1995).

Many received training on the continent, others in the Soviet Union or in China. Some lived for long periods in the Soviet Union and in various parts of Africa. The impact of all these external experiences on ways of thinking needs to be examined. To what extent and how did different political values and institutions of the countries where they were based impact on practices within ANC and organisational conceptions of members concerned? What influence did these veterans come to have in the organisation as a whole? After limited activity by some in the Wankie and Sipolilo campaigns, what was their role in the organisation in subsequent years, particularly as they grew older? To what extent did they remain in the military and with what role and impact? Did their status as "veterans" confer any special authority on them?

Who were these early recruits to MK? It is well-known that many were seasoned ANC cadres, SACTU and SACP members and there was an overwhelmingly urban basis. While this may have been true, it seems that the rural component may not have been given adequate attention. Conditions under which such rural people joined need also to be studied. Victor Moche (interview, 2002) relates the conditions under which a Zeerust community committed each family to send one of their sons to MK. Moche first learnt this, when he met the chief of the community who was visiting Dar es Salaam for an extensive period to check on the condition of his subjects.

Apparently in their neighbourhood in Western Transvaal, the chiefs who were under pressure had decided they would support the movement, the struggle. So they had set up underground structures, which they linked to MK and its recruitment machineries. But being chiefs they then called village councils, lekgotla as it is called. After persuading villagers that this was the right thing to do, they had then levied a "head tax" on each household in terms of providing human power to join MK. So if you had a family of four young men, the eldest would be told, you will go to Gauteng to work for the family and you will send no 2 to school, no 3 is too young so he will stay at home and he will look after his parents and the cattle and no 4 will go to MK. So they allocated the family in this way.

So he [the chief] had been mandated to go out and see how they were doing. He landed up with us because he was not MK but a civilian.

Q: Was there adequate security, did anyone in the village betray them?

A: No, no one betrayed them. It was very secure. Eventually when we came into MK we found them and the people who were leading them. He [the chief] stayed with us over several months and went to visit them in the camps. Over several months because it was not easy to go in and out of the camps and the people were dispersed over several camps that we had.

The exact area from which these recruits came was Dinokana, around Zeerust. Many of the recruits were completely illiterate and "learnt their ABC in MK. Learnt everything they know in MK"

It appears that the process of joining MK was not an individual commitment at first. But it was not simply the chief ordering the villagers to provide men:

Q: How politicised was the village? Or did they just obey the chief?

A: It was both, for there was a discussion among the elders to start with; within families there was discussion, so [those who joined MK] came out aware of what they had been assigned to do. But this was an assignment not so much by their selection, because they were politically conscious and wanted to be in the ANC. It was an assignment because your family expected you to do this, your community expected you to do this. Now if that community just happened to be ANC, then you were ANC. So the politics of the community brought you into ANC politics. This was because from the general village council the elders came into the home and talked to the sons, and talked ANC politics, because that is what they had discussed with the chief and with the others.

Q: And this was an area where there had been resistance in the 1950s, where they had resisted Bantu Authorities?

A: Yes. They had resisted Bantu Authorities to start with. They had resisted deposition because the regime wanted to depose their traditional leadership. At the time they resisted successfully. Montshiwa was exiled only later to Botswana, but at the time he came out he was still chief of his village. So it was all anchored around the chief largely. The position the chief took was between the movement and the regime. The chief was an ANC chief.

Because of the illiteracy of these villagers, during infantry training in the Soviet Union, there had first to be translation from Russian into English and then also into Tswana. According to Moche there was always re-translation, during training, into at least two African languages. (Moche, interview, 2002)

This lack of literacy in English did not signify anything about their level of political commitment:

Q: You feel with these people, whatever their level of literacy in English, their political understanding of what they were doing was very sound?

A: Very sound and very deep

Q: They inherited this over generations?

A: Not only inherited over generations. They were involved in continuous discussion in the village and in MK they got other training in adult basic education, which combined with political education. The person who ran the programme that gave them adult basic education was the late Cassius Make [assassinated by the regime in Swaziland-RS].

This contingent of rural recruits did not suddenly spring out of nowhere. It related not only to ongoing conflict between the government, seeking to implement Bantu Authorities and depose those chiefs that resisted. It was also connected to the collision between the regime and Zeerust women resisting passes. The level of resistance supported by many of the chiefs of the area increased tension between them and the government. (Lodge, 1983, 274ff, Hooper, 1989, Walker, 1991,205ff, Mbeki, 1984, 112ff, Meli, 1988, 133ff).

Likewise, in the rural Northern Transvaal, Delius reports that earlier discussions in Sabatakgomo facilitated later recruitment to MK, though this does not appear to be related to chiefs. (Delius, 1986, 131-3)

The reference to the relationship between specific chiefdoms in Zeerust and MK is not meant to imply it represented a broad trend, though it may be wider than is generally acknowledged. I do not yet have sufficient information to be able to argue either way. I am also not implying that the overall social character of MK was fundamentally different from the conventional characterisation as primarily urban-based. The evidence presented nevertheless points to some of the complexities in the social roles played by communities and specific actors, like chiefs, in different conditions. It is both a warning against stereotypes that may be prevalent and an injunction to dig much deeper into diverse experiences, especially in areas of the country less well served by existing studies of resistance.

Generation of 1976

These youngsters left the country after the Soweto uprising. It is common to record most "chose" to join ANC. Exactly what considerations influenced this choice? In what sense was it a political decision, based on relatively sophisticated understanding? To what extent was it opting for the organisation that seemed better organised, in particular more likely to ensure subsistence of such individuals outside the country?

One answer received, in a recent interview, appears to suggest the average young person who left the country was unaware of the relatively better capacity of ANC to support its cadres, compared with PAC. The basis, on which youth were recruited to ANC, if that was not already their choice, was through ideological discussion, often using black consciousness [BC] documents like the South African Students Organisation [SASO] constitution as a basis of discussion. (Interview Nat Serache, 2002, who operated in Botswana in the 1970s, interviewing many when they emerged from the UN refugee centre). Obviously more interviews will need to be conducted, but there seems some logic in the assumption that most young people would not have known of the capacity of each organisation, being in any case deprived of such information inside the country.

Many writers have suggested this group of youngsters were relatively unpoliticised, that many believed they were the first to take on the apartheid regime, and had little sense of South African political history. (Bernstein, 1994, xvii, Thandi Modise in Curnow, 2000, 36-7, Morrow, 1998, 499). Thus Hilda Bernstein writes:

Each wave brought out its own type of people. Those who left in the late fifties and early sixties were mainly adult, often middle-aged, and highly political, with a history of engaging in public political struggle. Those of the seventies, and specifically of the huge exile wave after 1976, were overwhelmingly young, largely male; and though fired with political passion, they were often without real ideology or political programmes. They were of a generation who had been cut off from access to information about their own country, their own history, and from political theory and the history of struggle. The "elders" who might have passed on this knowledge were either themselves in exile, or on Robben Island or Pretoria Central prison. Or perhaps keeping discreetly quiet. "Mandela" was a remote name, used by some parents as a warning of what happens to those who follow the path of resistance to law and authority. The 1976 Soweto rebels came out with no history in their heads. They believed themselves to be the first revolutionaries, the first to confront the apartheid state; and their anger was often without political objective. They learned the history of their country only when they had left it-the long story of struggle, oppression and resistance. (1994, xvii-xviii)

This may well be exaggerated in that ANC did live on in the minds of very many people, even where it did not have an extensive organised presence. (See above) It is also true that some released political prisoners, like the late Joe Gqabi played a formative influence in the political education of many young people. (Cf Seekings, 2000, Nat Serache interview, 2002). Nevertheless, it is likely that much of the political development of these youngsters became the responsibility of ANC, mainly in MK training and various political education classes. (Davis, 1987, 59). An extensive component of the goals of the Solomon Mahlangu Freedom College was the provision of political education, in accordance with the perspectives of ANC and the Freedom Charter. (Serote, 1992, Pampallis interview, 2002)

But the character of this induction into ANC needs to be closely examined. To what extent were these youngsters imbued with a critical understanding of politics, as appears to have been the objective in the political education classes of Jack Simons (Sparg et al, 2001, e.g. at 54)? To what extent was it primarily a politics of hierarchy where "the line" was conveyed from top to bottom and more or less compulsorily communicated? The answer is important in considering its implications for democratic development today and in the future. If it was primarily a "politics of hierarchy" it is more likely that what leadership says is what is believed and dissent and even healthy discussion may be discouraged.

A further question that needs to be asked is in what way these youth impacted on and changed ANC. What impact did BC have, through them, on ANC thinking? Or must we treat this as an overwhelmingly one-way process of influence?

All this needs to be located within a historical framework, the global climate of the time. Where young people were sent for training in former Socialist countries, they usually went through courses in the brand of Marxism-Leninism, then official ideology of these countries. This has had considerable impact on the mode of analysis adopted by the students concerned and concepts of state and transition that have informed the organisation.

While someone like Jack Simons stressed a critical approach, the type of methodology deployed, the Marxism generally absorbed in the wider experience of ANC members, may have been a barrier to critical thinking. Classical Marxism stresses the need to look at each problem afresh and that Marxism is not a dogma to be learnt by rote, (e.g. Marx and Engels, 1968, 679). But being equipped directly or indirectly with Soviet-type Marxist training may often have been treated as a methodology ensuring "inevitable victory". These were referred to as the "tools of analysis." It needs to be asked whether this version of Marxist categories closed rather than opened or encouraged enquiry? (Obviously some would argue that Marxism is basically a "closed system" under any condition).

Furthermore, while someone like Jack Simons used a Socratic method, encouraging classes to come to their own conclusions, that method requires some confidence and depth of knowledge on the part of the teacher. It means the instructor had to be ready for a variety of answers quite different from what he or she may have anticipated. The instructor had to be prepared to respond in a manner that encouraged diversity instead of stamping it into some mould of conformity with established policies and thinking. Someone with less depth and breadth of knowledge and confidence than Simons, may easily have been tempted to prematurely shut discussion. (cf also Adam, 1988, 107-8).

But the experience of political education may have varied significantly. According to Victor Moche, already mentioned as one of the earliest MK recruits, the way in which political education was conducted while he was in a camp in the Soviet Union, was not only communication of Marxist views on the world. In the first place, someone would be tasked on a daily basis to prepare a news bulletin. The main thrust of political discussion would be analyses of these bulletins. In that sense, he did not see anything dogmatic in how people were taught and how they argued. They had to find ways of making sense of what they learnt was happening in various parts of the world. (Victor Moche interview, 2002). Thandi Modise's account of political education in camps in Angola seems to confirm this:

"Political education focused on events in Africa, and the history of the ANC. There wasn't too much about communism. I never met anyone who hated churches." (Cock, 1991, 152).

Nat Serache, in contrast, reports that the character of political education he received in ANC in Angola in the 1970s was "straight Marxism-Leninism", based on classical Marxist and contemporary Soviet texts. (Serache interview, 2002)

Also, as mentioned in regard to the earliest exiles, later ones were exposed to the modes of government and social orders of a variety of countries that acted as their hosts. What impact did this have on their ways of viewing politics?

It also needs to be asked how ANC concepts of collective leadership interfaced with different concepts of African culture and styles of leadership. Perhaps this is most apparent when considering the leadership approach of Nelson Mandela, (Mandela, 1994, 20-21) but it would be interesting to consider in relation to President O.R. Tambo and more generally within ANC. (cf Nash, 2002).

In addition, we need to examine to what extent concepts of organisation, and relations between members of the organisation continue to be suffused with military concepts, long after the period of democracy has opened. Current ANC discourse is full of words carrying military connotations, including, "deploy", "marching orders", "line of march", willingness to "take orders from the organisation", the latter being a quality that evokes praise.

The ANC bureaucracy

While not formally constituted as a government, ANC in exile exercised many of the functions of a state in relation to its members. In many ways, the relationship between the national executive committee and membership had characteristics of dependency rather than active membership.

To carry out the extensive welfare, military, educational, political, and other tasks, an extensive bureaucracy was developed. Many members of ANC in exile were primarily formed in this environment and had little experience of political activity within the country. (Lodge, 1983,1988; Ottaway, 1993, op cit). Professor Marina Ottaway writes (at 45-6:)

The exiled ANC consisted of an informal government-the National Executive Committee- a military wing in the form of Umkhonto we Sizwe, and a bureaucracy manning the various departments. In Zambia and Tanzania, the ANC's bureaucracy ran farms, schools, and workshops; and in Angola, Umkhonto ran training camps. The Congress had diplomatic offices in London and representatives in many capitals around the world. What the external organisation did not have on a significant scale was a membership, that is, people belonging to the ANC and supporting its political goals but not directly working for it or being supported by it. Many ANC members in exile, particularly those in African countries, depended on the organisation for their survival. They were employees of a government bureaucracy, personnel of an army, or clients of a welfare state, not members of a political party. (See also Adam, 1988, 96-7, Pampallis, interview, 2002)

In order to execute its tasks ANC amassed substantial properties in a number of countries. (Rantete, 1998, 4-6, Davis, 1987, ch 2) In Africa, these were devoted to a variety of functions related to maintenance of official and military structures, provisioning of the membership and educational, welfare and health functions of various types. It has been noted that failure of other liberation movements to secure their means of subsistence for members resident in African states, especially Zambia, had been a source of tension. (Davis, 1987,38). ANC sought to avoid this by provision of members' requirements through extensive agricultural developments as well as some small manufacturing and maintenance structures. This was achieved (with varying degrees of success), through considerable foreign funding and the development of skills of its members in the activities concerned. ( Sellstrom, 2002. Morrow, 1998).

Related to welfare functions of the organisation, is the question of what determined "career paths" in the organisation? Who got scholarships to which countries and how? On what basis was this decided? Who or what structures were able to access what resources and how were these dispensed? To what extent did ANC bureaucratic networks establish patron/client relationships, and if so, have these relationships continued into the present, and with what consequences? According to John Pampallis, who taught at Solomon Mahlangu Freedom College in Tanzania, for 8 years, there was little evidence of people "jumping the queue" for scholarships. The key issue that determined whether or not someone got an educational opportunity was whether they acquired the necessary qualifications. (Pampallis, interview, 2002). Whether or not this was a general experience or impression needs further research.

To what extent was SACP membership a path to these opportunities, as well as a "route to greatness" within ANC during the exile period? (Suttner, 2002)

A recent study on SACP in exile draws on still inaccessible internal documents, but, regrettably, throws little light on these questions. (Maloka, 2002).

Part of the bureaucracy was ANC security. It is now acknowledged there were substantial abuses by some ANC security personnel. (e.g. Marais, 1992, ANC 1996). Has this matter been fully aired? ( Ellis and Sechaba, 1992, Ellis, 1994). Have all perpetrators been brought to book and to what extent have those wrongly abused or arrested had official and public acknowledgement? If there is a residue of bitterness due to some matters being concealed from the public and even family of those (wrongly) accused, it has implications not only for ANC but also for building a human rights culture today.

MK and combination of belief systems

In joining ANC, receiving advanced military training and political education, many acquired skills never open to them inside the country. They had access to ideas and scientific skills generally the preserve of whites. But very often these new skills and beliefs coexisted with a variety of cosmologies and belief systems that preceded involvement in ANC.

How people related to different activities of the organisation may have been mediated by how they interpreted and related to their own cultural experiences prior to joining ANC. These belief systems, of a variety of kinds, re-surfaced at distinct times. In more than one interview, the question of access to healers to strengthen combatants or reduce prison sentences has arisen. (Sobizana Mngqikana interview, 2001, regarding awaiting sentence).

General Sandi Sijake relates how the MK group with whom he travelled in 1962 met with the late Elias Motsoaledi, veteran ANC and Communist Party member, who later became a Rivonia trialist. He describes Motsoaledi's preparations for the safety of their journey:

From there he would take a broom and put some medication inside a bucket so that the combi would not be apprehended. Comrade Motsoaledi was one of the great communist leaders, but at the same time he still believed in his medicine.

It was a bucket with some water. He would dip in a broom, a special medical broom, spray and put in, dip in and sprinkle around, dip in, sprinkle around saying whatever words people say to ensure that bad luck does not befall us. That was the basic thing he did with our combi before heading for Zeerust. (Sijake, 2001, interview.)

Meshack Mochele describes similar use of medication prior to his departure to join MK around 1976, but it does not seem to have been applied by an ANC or MK person, but the father of one of those departing. (See Mochele interview, 1992)

These practices re-emerged in 1967, when Sijake and others were in a camp near Morogoro in Tanzania. When there was talk of returning home, as fighters:

People started to look around for traditional healers around there. There was a local chap, one of the Tanzanians, who was said to be able to treat a person and once treated a bullet would turn into water. A number of people, because they did not have money, they had clothing from the Soviet Union- would trade some of their clothing for this medicine that would change a bullet into water. (Sijake interview, 2001).

This claim to turn bullets into water is, of course, a fairly common phenomenon, found amongst others, with Mlanjeni in the mid 19th century in the Eastern Cape (Wilson and Thompson, 1969, 256, Mostert, 1992, 1000) in the Maji Maji war against German occupation of Tanganyika, (Iliffe, 1995, 196), amongst the Mbunda in pre-nationalist resistance in Angola (Davidson, 1972,28-29) and in Che Guevara's experiences during his campaign in the Congo in mid 1960s. (Guevara, 2001, 14).

But the question of medication arose again when the group met up with ZAPU comrades in Zambia:

At a broader level, when we met with the Zimbabweans we had this problem that they insisted before going into Zimbabwe they needed to be strengthened with medication, … while in Zambia. And also when they arrived home they would need to go to a traditional healer…. This would be someone who, when you arrive, you report to, report, "I have come back, I have returned home".

Before we arrived [in Zambia] we didn't want this. Most of us dismissed this as rubbish. Then the leadership including OR [Tambo] and JB Marks said: "Look guys you are the ones who said you want to go home and you want to explore the route through Zimbabwe. To go through Zimbabwe we believe it is better for you to go through with people who are in the Zimbabwean liberation army…you go through together with these people. This is their tradition. If you are to go with them you have to respect their tradition. Otherwise there is no way you can have a working relationship with them…"

As a result, we then had to go through this whole process…You find one evening they make a fire, they prepare some food in front of one of the tents. There will be a string and a pot here with food without salt corn in a small pot, the size of a meatball without corn bread, salt, piece of meat without salt and then some mqombothi [a traditional brew made for ceremonial purposes-RS]. When you come there is this guy with a big tummy, African personality. Also this medicine in a bowl with water, he dips a broom and sprinkles you with this broom and then you jump, you walk over the string, and once you walk over, there is an incision here [points to chest] then he applies some medicine, then you get a piece of corn ball bread like and a piece of meat and go under a specific big tree, with a specific name which is said, usually, it is good for ancestors. In the old days they used to sit under that type of a tree. There is a lot of mqombothi, then you are ready to cross.' (ibid)

Sijake argues that one should distinguish two types of access to "medicine". In the first case, individuals sought to strengthen themselves in order to prepare for battle. The second was an organisational agreement between ZAPU and ANC. "It was formal, unlike if I just take my coat and approach a traditional healer and swop it for medicine. Two different levels." [ibid]

But it appears, in addition, that performance of rituals associated with "traditional" beliefs and access to sangomas/inyangas was an accepted part of MK life and to some extent, exile life in general. Victor Moche relates:

If you ask any of the Luthuli brigade and comrades they will tell you about a guy we used to call Dr Biyela. He came from Zululand and was a fully fledged traditional healer- inyanga, who was allowed as a matter of course in MK to go and find roots and herbs and mix potions and treat people, because it was tradition. So you had people who needed him and used him. And people who disdained the whole thing as a charade. So you had both poles of the perception. So it was a normal and accepted thing in MK, quite honestly.

While Dr Biyela normally functioned as a practitioner treating illnesses and prescribing remedies for these, he did on occasion also provide treatment in order to strengthen people for possible combat. (Moche, interview, 2002)

Moche also refers to people keeping their fighting sticks that were specially treated by an inyanga. (Moche, interview, 2002). In another context, that of Dakawa, it was reported in 1985 that comrades were "frequenting the witch doctors in the villages and this finally come [sic] to our residence to do their work to their customers." The Commissar instructed that visits by healers to the residences should stop forthwith. (Morrow, 1998,509)

What these examples illustrate is not the displacement of science by pre-scientific belief systems, but coexistence of more than one belief system. Resort to healers in order to strengthen the combatants does not seem to have been regarded as a substitute for the deployment of firepower in the manner in which they had been trained.

Some time ago Jack Simons wrote that magic "begins where scientific knowledge ends." (Simons, 1957, 90). Godfrey Lienhardt (1961), Mary Douglas (1966,59) and many others indicate that the notions of cause and effect that inform rituals in societies practising forms of magic are complex, and do not necessarily mean the denial of conventional scientific conceptions of cause and effect. In many cases, there is a coexistence of magical and scientific modes of belief and causation, one dealing with one sphere of existence and the other dealing with another realm.

It needs also to be acknowledged that too much can be made of the extent to which a scientific culture is in fact diffused within "science-based societies." According to Charlotte Seymour-Smith:

[I]n modern "scientific" cultures a large proportion of the population "believe" in scientific or technological phenomena without understanding them, a belief which is perhaps as magical or as religious as that held by a member of a simple society in the knowledge which the ritual specialists of the group possess. The scientific knowledge for which we all tend to take credit is in fact only understood and created by a very small proportion of the population…. (1986,175)

With MK fighters (who used such resources), we are talking of something supplementary to scientific knowledge. This is not the same as individuals relying solely on the power of medicine, as in the case of some of the Congolese fighters with whom Che Guevara interacted (Guevara, 2000,14) or in other cases where pre-nationalist movements had people treated in order to convert bullets into water. Medicine was seen as supplementing what they learnt in formal military training, with what some (though not all) regarded as an important additional source of strength. This is also quite different from a millenarian type movement, relying almost exclusively on the power of their beliefs as with the Israelites prior to the Bulhoek massacre. (Edgar, 1988).

Prison experience(s)

The prison experience has had a very definite impact on the culture(s) of the ANC. Although prisoners were held in a variety of different prisons, it is the impact of Robben Island that undoubtedly had a decisive influence on political development of large numbers of people inside the prison, and after release, on those with whom former prisoners interacted. I realise in concentrating on the Island I am perpetuating the privileging of that experience over other prison experiences. But the number of white male prisoners and white and black female sentenced prisoners was always relatively small. In contrast, the Robben Island experience was one that impacted, in the case of ANC, on over 1000 people. This is not to deny that prisoners from other prisons sometimes had great influence after their release. But purely for quantitative reasons we are dealing with quite different phenomena. And in prison, numbers are important, facilitating smuggling of news and political material and other activities relevant to political education and prisoners' morale.

But what may need further attention is the arrest of thousands of people during the states of emergency of the 1980s. Political education did take place in some of these detention centres. Its character and how enduring its was, needs further investigation.

A large number of young people received much of their political education about ANC on Robben Island. (Sisulu, 2001,162, Joseph Faniso Mati in Coetzee et al, 2002) Some people first learnt to read and write on the island or acquired advanced education and became seasoned political thinkers or analysts there. Mati reports, when he arrived in the early 1960s:

Fortunately, when we got to Robben Island we found that the ANC was already organised. There were group leaders and a structure….(Coetzee et al, 2002,38)

"People must study", the ANC would repeatedly say. If you got a matric, you had to teach others how to read and write, had to teach those who were attempting standard six or the junior certificate. Every person on the Island knew that he had an obligation to teach others. Later on when we managed to get study rights the teaching was more formal, but initially we specifically tried to help those who couldn't read or write. (at 45. See also interview with Monde Colin Mkunqwana, in Coetzee et al, 2002,at 87)

…[T]o avoid a situation of people simply hanging around, the leaders decided that we must get busy in studies and in other forms of activity….Several things took place during this period but the ANC Disciplinary Committee (DC) concentrated on encouraging and enforcing two things in particular: studies and political discussions. (at 45)

The DC, Mati explains, was not elected, it was appointed.

We did not know who appointed the DC and we did not know who exactly were its members. But the important thing was that the people knew very well that there was a DC. Members of the DC were appointed in each section. When I became a member, somebody just told me: "You are now a DC member."

Then he explained to me how to behave and what I should do as a member. The main function of the DC was to see to it that there were political discussions. In prison the food of the politician is discussion; political discussion. Nobody should be excluded and nobody should be allowed to loiter in the yard… (ibid) No-one who spent time on the Island can say that he hadn't been strengthened politically. …Ours were serious discussions-no applauding, no clapping of hands. It was a serious affair-organised by the political committee for when we were locked up in the cells…. (at 49-50)

Walter Sisulu explains his own role:

When we settled down in Robben Island…we had to create machinery for all prisoners, not necessarily the ANC alone, for discipline and all. And in that situation …one of my tasks was to educate people about the history of the ANC and that is what I did.

We were working at the quarry. Now we worked there as groups. So those of us who were taking particular classes would group together, work together. Then a lecture takes place there while we are working. (Sisulu, 2001, 162-3. See also Dingake, 1987,214)

Some of the ideas of the leadership were reduced to writing (and some have now been published, cf Mbeki, 1991, Maharaj, 2001). But this was all strictly illegal and carried out in secret. (cf Harry Gwala, quoted by Buntman, 1996, at 106)

The Island was decisive in the political education of the young generation of 1976, consolidating their understanding of the history of resistance and in many cases, converting many to ANC. It may be that the processes of induction of this generation on the island bore some similarities to what happened on reception by ANC in exile. Daniel Montsisi, a leader of the 1976 rising in Soweto records:

The Island was a political education for me. Firstly, we developed a deep comradeship through discussion with the older leaders, and a deep respect. Before I went to the Island my understanding of the Freedom Charter was not thorough. There I had the time to look back at history…It was like putting together pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which had been missing all along. We delved into our history. We discovered that we young people were not the first to take up the fight against apartheid, but a new part of a developing process. (Johnson, 1988, 107)

To ensure maximum benefit of political education, it was necessary to tackle illiteracy. Buntman writes:

Academic education was also valued for its contribution to the community as a whole. Islanders sought to increase the educational standards of all prisoners, and formal and informal education was conducted across organisational lines. One of the key areas of this effort was the attempt to ensure that no man left the Island without being able to read and write if he came there illiterate. (1996, at 112).

According to Gwala, literacy was needed in order to conduct the political theory classes that he and Stephen Dlamini started on the Island. Gwala explained that people who were illiterate could not understand the abstract concepts they were teaching and using. "So we organised…literacy education." (Buntman, 1996, 112-113)

The programmes of political education on the Island were not conceived purely to keep prisoners occupied and avoid idleness, though that may have been a factor, since idleness could lead to demoralisation. There was, additionally, a very self-conscious motivation, to prepare prisoners to play a significant political role after release. Fran Buntman writes:

The inmates on Robben Island had always regarded it as their duty to produce capable activists who would eventually go back into their communities. The youth of '76 represented the future of the movements and the liberation struggle. These were the future activists, leaders, and soldiers, and so their recruitment was a necessity. Recruitment was, of course, a starting point for the critical process of training activists, teaching them organisational histories, ideologies and strategies, and preparing them for their political obligations and mandates upon release… (Buntman, 2001,156. See also at 168, 170)

Time spent on the Island appeared to have been a way of crystallising thinking and developing common positions on various issues. The Island graduates' entry into UDF organisations in the 1980s usually connoted arrival of people who were seen as having much political maturity, and able to advance non-sectarian and unifying positions. This may not always have been the case, and some individuals were in the centre of division. But my impression is that the overall experience brought by many who became active in UDF was valued.

Certainly there was an element of romanticism attached to being in prison. It carried considerable authority, feeding into the hierarchical character of ANC and especially underground. There was often an assumption that activists in the 1980s could not rely on their own judgment, needing to buttress this with appeal to a higher authority. Insofar as ANC official leadership in exile was not easily accessible (although many people listened illegally to Radio Freedom broadcast from Lusaka), the next best may have been to consult a prison veteran.

Many of these older comrades had experience of underground that proved useful when UDF faced intense repression. (Lodge and Nasson, 1991,95). Former Islanders also played an important role in building ANC underground and MK structures in various parts of the country. (Buntman, 1996, at 134, Serache interview, 2002). Islanders also helped bridge inter-generational gaps, in a way that would impact on the struggle outside:

The Islanders' resistance also fulfilled another function, of facilitating cross-generational communication between different age-sets of activists who were thrown into prison. At times relationships could be tense, especially in the post-1976 period, but generally the prisoners worked to understand each other and build their organisations from the perspective of different generations. This meant, inter alia, that former prisoners leaving the Island to resume activism would carry with them the knowledge and insights of multiple periods of struggle, as well as the ideology and histories of the outlawed organisations. (Buntman, 1996, at 135. My emphasis.)

Was the hegemonic experience carried by top leaders like Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu &endash;that conception of the ANC generally understood as characterising the 1950s? If so, what precisely do we understand that to be? Insofar as people like Harry Gwala and Govan Mbeki contested Nelson Mandela's leadership on the island, what did this imply? To what extent does the hegemonic influence of the island and the counter-hegemonic position hold sway in the organisation today?

Against pure emphases on class struggle and the working class, people like Walter Sisulu and Nelson Mandela argued for the unity of the organisation and its character as a "broad church". This was their central teaching. Obviously in prison as well as outside, unity can be both a positive phenomenon-necessary to maintain an organisation's existence and a negative one, constraining (albeit not always forbidding) alternative tendencies.

The concept of a "broad church" needs closer examination. The concept of a church implies a category of people, the priesthood with superior powers of interpretation. It needs to be examined to what extent this is valid for ANC and whether it has led to a form of "epistemological absolutism". (Phrase of David Masondo, at seminar 15 August 2002).

It may be that throughout ANC's existence it has battled to deal with tension between different tendencies, challenging and periodically changing the basis of organisational unity. At times it may be that orthodoxy has constrained divergence and diversity, but in many phases of ANC history people who "made a difference" may have been those who sought to break from orthodox views.

Mati's reference to how he was appointed to the DC and that "the leaders decided we must get busy in studies and other forms of activity", is revealing. It may demonstrate how top down, command-style cultures were not only found within military structures, but may have suffused activities of the organisation in a number of arenas. (See also Buntman, 1996, at 121.) But some such norms were necessitated by security considerations, given that authorities would not have allowed such structures and political education.

Intersection of belief systems and practices in prison

The prison experience was a total world. (Lewin,1974). It aimed at self-sufficiency, providing all necessities of life. However limited prison authorities notion of "necessities" may have been, little could be obtained or accessed from outside that world. But some ANC prisoners, especially young people who arrived after the 1976 risings wanted and expected to perform initiation rituals while on the Island. Mati says:

...We realised that most of these youngsters were to stay in prison for a long time and that circumcision was necessary for them. It was all done clandestinely. We did not know when it would happen and the ANC pretended as if they did not know about it. There were no celebrations afterwards and we would only discover it that following day when we were going to play soccer and found that most of the youngsters were not there.

They had been circumcised by [Johnson Malcomess] Mgabela- in small groups together. They would stay in the cell the following day or two-no water, their wounds being dressed by Mgabela, sometimes suffering from severe pain. All of this was done with the connivance of the person in charge of the hospital. (Coetzee et al, 2002, at 52)

Mgabela describes his role:

When I first came to work in the hospital, I felt happy. I wanted for quite some time to work there, because I was an Ingcibi when I was outside. An Ingcibi is the person who performs circumcision- cuts the boys, dressed their wounds, helps them to become men. Long before I started to work in the hospital one boy came to me. He knew that I did that work outside and he wanted me to circumcise him. But I was afraid that if they discovered that I did it, they would put me away for an extra two or three years. After this boy, other youngsters also approached me: "We are getting old here inside. And there are still more years because we are doing fifteen, seventeen, eighteen or twenty years. When we go home, we will be old and this thing must be done." (Coetzee et al, 2002, at 70)

In the meantime, some of the boys among us continued to demand: "You must cut us!" They even said:" You refuse to help!" I started to realise that these boys of the Western Cape, Transkei, Border and the Eastern Cape had a better chance now. And they would be old when they were released. After all, Schoeman[the head of the hospital] was not too negative and the prison chiefs took no steps after Fourie had left. [A white warder who had Mgabela circumcise him, only to have it discovered by the authorities]. So the next year I started to circumcise. It was April/May 1974 that I started, right up until July and then I stopped. Then I started again in December. So many! Do you know how many altogether? Three hundred and sixty one-total number!

You see, after 1976 all these school boys were arrested; they were flocking to the Island. They all said they wanted to go and be circumcised by me.... Later on, we accepted that the prison authorities would look the other way. They pulled up their shoulders and said that nobody should come and tell them that somebody else had cut him. (at 71)

Circumcision of PAC and black consciousness youth sometimes paved the way for their recruitment to ANC:

I circumcised even a few PAC boys-although the leader of the PAC did not like this idea and told the young PAC men: "This communist wants to circumcise you and after he has cut you he will organise you and will make you an ANC." The young PAC members did not like this interference and replied: "You can't tell us what to do with our bodies!" But the PAC leader was right. We did recruit many young PAC supporters as well as members of the Black Consciousness Movement. After circumcision we would be sympathetic and ask: "How do you feel?" They saw that the ANC had helped them and they became members of the ANC. (ibid)

More investigation will be required to understand what significance and meanings attach to the demand for initiation, in this context. Did it emanate mainly from people coming from certain parts of the country, in particular, rural areas and especially Eastern Cape? Insofar as ANC and MK was primarily an urban movement, to what extent does existence of certain townships (e.g. Guguletu, Kwazakele) or pockets of townships (e.g. parts of Soweto) that are ethnically very homogeneous explain this phenomenon? What did resort to such rituals mean?

Is it to be interpreted purely as continuation of a "traditional" practice, without which manhood could not be attained? Or did observance of these rituals also connote elements of resistance, as has been the case in other situations? (Spiegel and Boonzaier, 1988,52ff). Many writers have shown that the same phenomenon may have exactly the same form, but its social significance may vary under different conditions. (e.g. Spiegel and Boonzaier, 1988,53, Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983)

Already, some decades back, Philip Mayer, in a study of initiation practices in New Brighton township, showed how conditions in the city, in the absence of adequate infrastructure and broader social conditions, precluded observance in the same way as in rural areas (1971).

As with resort to healers, we may be dealing with coexistence and intersection of distinct forms of social knowledge and belief systems. While Mayer reports that most Africans in his study placed great store on acquiring the knowledge and technical skills provided by "Western" education, initiation schools were regarded as providing additional social knowledge and skills needed to acquire manhood (1971).

Obviously we need to interrogate these claims more closely, in particular, whether there is an unchanging notion of manhood or whether these notions are perpetually being reconstructed. If there has been change, what is its character and to what extent is this reflected in expectations from initiation practices and the actual conduct of these and teachings by those officiating? (cf Nomboniso Gasa, unpub, 2002 regarding the contested nature of concepts of initiation amongst the Xhosa)

Obviously in carrying out initiation on Robben Island many features of "traditional" initiation, in particular the extent of seclusion and presence of elders to lecture initiates on the significance of transition to manhood, could not be fulfilled. In the account thus far, circumcision has been emphasised, though it comprised merely one element of a wider process of induction into manhood or "liminality". What modalities were used to encompass these or were they not dealt with in the situation on the island? To what extent did an abridged form of initiation (if it was that), change its meaning or implications?

If authorities turned a blind eye to the practice, why was this the case? Was it because they saw no harm, and in fact beneficial results deriving from what they identified as "traditional" ritual, cementing notions of unchanging "tribal" and ethnic identities? To what extent are we dealing with a phenomenon whose meaning was contested? What was the precise attitude of the ANC towards initiation practices, assuming they must have been aware of its being conducted? What meaning did the organisation attach to its practice?

If initiation was demanded by youth on the Island, it seems likely that those in the MK camps would also have wanted to observe this practice. Was provision made, and what did this signify? While not yet able to conduct extensive research, I have been informed that some people were initiated in Lusaka (rather than in MK camps). Furthermore, I have learnt, many MK and PAC members, some as old as forty, were initiated on their return to South Africa in the early 1990s.

Although interviews have not been conducted, I have been informed that initiation took place in some prisons during the states of emergency in the 1980s. This was especially in Port Elizabeth prison where large numbers of people were detained.

While all these questions need to be pursued, the much wider context of this phenomenon needs to be acknowledged. While we are dealing with a specific application of a practice in South Africa, it is also a species of rites of passage. This is a universal phenomenon, fulfilled in various ways in numerous situations in all societies. (cf e.g. Rapport and Overing, 2000, 229-232). This is no less so where some of these are treated more as forms of constitutional transition than as ritual (e.g. coronation of royalty. Cf Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983). They are nevertheless examples of the same phenomenon.

In South Africa itself, there are numerous examples of liminality or rites of passage found in a variety of communities and religions. These include the barmitvah amongst Jews, which is a crucial element in transition to manhood, marriage, parenthood and numerous other important rites of passage experienced by many or most members of South African society.

But in the evidence presented in this paper rites of passage have been treated purely in relation to males. Were there rites of passage peculiar to women taking place within the liberation movement?

Also, were there any other forms of initiation attached to joining or participating in the organisation? Were there oaths of loyalty and if so what form did these take? And, having pledged loyalty to the organisation in whatever form it may have taken (with or without any ritual), what happened to other belief systems in the case of members of non-African communities? These are some of the issues that still need to be investigated.

Conclusion

This paper represents an early attempt to extract qualities that may represent cultural traits of the African National Congress today. It has tried to show that beneath media reports alleging conflicts between different strands of the ANC lie complex cultural experiences, which inform or condition the practices and expectations of members from a variety of backgrounds. But within each of these experiences there are many variations. The exile experience cannot be summarily categorised as militaristic, top-down and bureaucratic. Likewise the internal experience, which is not covered in this paper, cannot be simply typified as a golden era of popular democracy. Within each of these experiences or cultures there are many variants that qualify what may be seen as the general character of the period or the tradition it generated.

What will have to be further interrogated, as this research unfolds, is the extent to which the cultures referred to close off or open up certain options and what impact this has on the future development of South African democracy.

The paper has also raised a wider issue relating to "non-political" or apparently non-political identities that nevertheless have a bearing on political practice. This is where access to multiple belief systems impact on political practice. This is not something whose significance has disappeared. It survives in numerous spheres of South African society, including trade unions and pre-match preparations of football teams. While the question of access to healers and initiation has been referred to, the issues form part of much wider issues concerning the recognition of distinct identities and understanding how these relate to an over-arching loyalty to a national liberation movement.

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Ellis, Stephen, Sechaba,Tsepo [pseud]. 1992. Comrades against Apartheid. The ANC & the South African Communist Party in Exile. James Currey. London. Indiana University Press. Bloomington & Indianapolis. 

Ellis, Stephen. 1994. "Mbokodo: Security in ANC Camps, 1961-1990." African Affairs. 93: 279-298.

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Hooper, Charles. 1960. [1989]. Brief Authority. David Philip. Cape Town and Johannesburg 

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Israel, Mark. 1999. South African Political Exile in the United Kingdom. Macmillan. Houndmills, Hampshire.

Johnson, Shaun (ed). 1988. South Africa: No Turning Back. Macmillan in association with the David Davies Memorial Institute of International Studies. Houndsmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire and London.

1988 a. "'The Soldiers of Luthuli':Youth in the Politics of Resistance in South Africa" in Johnson (ed), 94-152

Kriger, Norma J. 1995. "The Politics of Creating National Heroes: The Search for Political Legitimacy and National Identity" in Ngwabi Bhebe and Terence Ranger (eds) Soldiers in Zimbabwe's Liberation War. James Currey. London. Heinemann. Portsmouth, N.H. University of Zimbabwe Publications. Harare., 139-162

Kuper, Adam. 1999. Culture. The Anthropologists' Account. Harvard University Press. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London.

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Lienhardt, R.G. 1961. Divinity and Experience. Oxford University Press. Oxford 

Lodge, Tom. 1983. Black Politics in South Africa since 1945. Ravan Press. Johannesburg

1988. "State of Exile: The African National Congress of South Africa, 1976-86", in Philip Frankel, Noam Pines and Mark Swilling (eds) State, Resistance and Change in South Africa. Southern Book Publishers. Johannesburg

and Bill Nasson (eds). 1991. All, Here, And Now: Black Politics in South Africa in the 1980s. Ford Foundation-David Philip. Cape Town

Luthuli, Albert. 1962. Let my people go. An Autobiography. Collins. Fontana Books. Glasgow

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1991. Learning from Robben Island. The Prison Writings of Govan Mbeki. James Currey. London. Ohio University Press. Athens, Ohio. David Philip. Cape Town 

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Naidoo, Indres. 2000 Island in Chains. Ten Years on Robben Island. 2 ed. Penguin Books. London

Niehaus, Isak, with Mohlala, Eliazaar, Shokane, Kally. 2001. Witchcraft, Power and Politics. Exploring the Occult in the South African Lowveld. David Philip. Cape Town. Pluto Press. London. Sterling, Virginia.

Ottaway, Marina. 1993. South Africa. The Struggle for a New Order. The Brookings Institution. Washington, DC

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Said, Edward. W. 2000. Reflections on Exile and other Literary and Cultural Essays. Granta Books. London

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Sellstrom, Tor. 2002. Sweden and National Liberation in Southern Africa. Vol 2. Solidarity and Assistance 1970-1994. Nordic Africa Institute. Uppsala. 

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Sisulu, Walter. nd c. 2001. I will go Singing. Walter Sisulu speaks of his life and the struggle for freedom in South Africa. In conversation with George M Houser and Herbert Shore. Robben Island Museum. In association with the Africa Fund. New York.

Sparg, Marion, Jenny Schreiner and Gwen Ansell. (ed). 2001. Comrade Jack. The political lectures and diary of Jack Simons, Novo Catengue. STE publishers and ANC. Johannesburg.

Spiegel, Andrew and Emile Boonzaier. 1988. "Promoting tradition: Images of the South African past", in Emile Boonzaier and John Sharp (eds) South African Keywords. The uses & abuses of political concepts. David Philip. Cape Town & Johannesburg.

Suttner, Raymond and Jeremy Cronin. 1986. 30 Years of the Freedom Charter. Ravan Press. Johannesburg.

Suttner, Raymond. 2001. Inside Apartheid's Prison. Ocean and University of Natal Press. Melbourne, New York, Pietermaritzburg.

2002. "The Tripartite Alliance. Is it Falling Apart?" INDICATOR SA, 19,1: 24-29 

Turok, Ben. 2002. "Why NNP MP's Joined the ANC. Manie Schoeman, Gert Oosthuizen, Pierre Gerber talk to Ben Turok" New Agenda. First Quarter: 126-142

Unterhalter, Elaine. 2000. "The Work of the Nation: Heroic Masculinity in South African Autobiographical Writing of the Anti-Apartheid Struggle", The European Journal of Development Research, 12, 2: 157-78

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1983. Keywords. A Vocabulary of Culture and Society. Revised Edition. Oxford University Press. New York 

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Unpublished works

Erlank, Natasha. 2001. Gender and Masculinity in African Nationalist Discourse, 1912-1950.

Gasa, Nomboniso. 2002. The making of a man: claiming the wholeness of manhood in Xhosa society &endash;man in the initiation process. 

Hassim, Shireen. 2002. Identities, Interests and Constituencies: The Politics of the Women's Movement in South Africa. 1980-1999. Unpub. PhD thesis. 

Kraak, Gerald. 2002. Homosexuality and the South African Left: the ambiguities of exile. Seminar paper. Wits Institute for Social and Economic Research (WISER), University of the Witwatersrand, 27 August 2002. 

Lamb, Guy, Mokalobe, Mafole. 2002. "`Soldiers of Misfortune'. The Forgotten Warriors of South Africa's Liberation Struggle." Paper presented to conference on "Re-Conceptualising Democratisation and Liberation in Southern Africa." Windhoek, July 2002.

Interviews

Jeremy Cronin, interview with Helena Sheehan, 2001, 2002, www.comms.dcu.ie/sheehan

Mochele, Meshack, 15 December 1992, interview with Wolfie Kodesh. Oral History of Exiles Project, Mayibuye Centre for History and Culture in South Africa, University of the Western Cape.

Sobizana Mngqikana, Stockholm 2 February 2001, interview with Raymond Suttner

John Pampallis, 5 August 2002, interview with Raymond Suttner

Nat Serache, 31 August 2002, interview with Raymond Suttner

General Sandi Sijake, Stockholm, 23 February 2001, interview with Raymond Suttner 

Victor Moche, Johannesburg, 23 July 2002, interview with Raymond Suttner

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