Apartheid South Africa: A Memoir of 1960

Memories of apartheid South Africa have been in the air lately since the death of Nelson Mandela. I have been reminded of a visit I made there in February 1960, and of memories of some of the excesses of apartheid and of some more liberal views that were more openly expressed than I had expected. Thirty-seven years later I made a second visit to South Africa in which I was able to observe changes that had occurred as a result of the abandonment of apartheid.

During the decade leading up to my visit in 1960 the apartheid policy of segregation, domination, exploitation and political castration of the non-white population by the whites had rapidly risen to a peak. Objections to apartheid had developed in democratic countries and by 1960 formal policies were starting to develop in Australia and other countries for boycotting exports from South Africa and shunning any friendly dealings with it. This was the atmosphere in which my visit took place.

In February 1960 I was due to visit Israel and the Netherlands in connection with my research program at the University of Western Australia on the psychology of immigration, and I discovered that it would be relatively easy to go to those countries via South Africa. It was just a matter of one flight from Perth to Johannesburg and another from Johannesburg to Tel Aviv. (Britain still ruled Libya and, unlike today, it was possible to fly over that country en route to Israel.) Although an official boycott movement against South Africa was not yet in operation, there were already strong sentiments against any visits there, especially in the academic circles in which I mostly mixed, and my intention was strongly criticised by some of my colleagues. Nevertheless I wanted to see the situation for myself.

During the 1950s I had become friendly with a few enterprising families who had emigrated to Perth from South Africa, mainly from Johannesburg, in order to escape their personal conflicts about living in a racist nation. They represented the first trickle of what was later to become a stream, although none of them were militant dissenters who needed to flee for their safety. These friends provided me with introductions to a number of Johannesburg residents, including some quite influential citizens. However, one thing my former South African friends were unanimous about was that I should not talk politics with these contacts unless they raised the topic. Although I took this warning to heart, it turned out to be unnecessarily alarmist.

My main host in Johannesburg was a well-known psychologist and former professor at Witwatersrand University, Simon Biesheuvel, whom I had met before at international meetings. Simon was Dutch-born, not an Afrikaner, and was international in his outlook rather than parochial. He was known not to be a supporter of apartheid—but not an active opponent either. He was a specialist in organisational psychology and his work was directed towards the welfare of African (black) workers. Simon booked my hotel and arranged for his associate, whom I shall call Dr Pieter, to meet me and to act as driver and guide during my stay. On arrival I was immediately reminded of the economic base of the area by a long mound of gold mining mullock across the street from my hotel, which was on the edge of downtown Johannesburg.

Overt signs of the separation policy were everywhere: “Whites Only” (or “Europeans Only”) signs on water fountains, park benches, public toilets and public transport. The middle-class homes that I visited invariably had a staff of African servants, most of whom had to travel long distances from their homes to get to work, either by a long walk or in a segregated bus. To justify their presence in their employers’ area, the Africans had to produce a pass on demand. The pass-books were much hated and at the time of my visit were the subject of open controversy which was to lead to fatal clashes between the police and non-white demonstrators.

Dr Pieter fitted the picture that was widely held in the outside world of the typical white South African. To all outward appearances he was an ordinary academic colleague, but it soon became obvious that he was a typical verkrampt (narrow) Afrikaner, even to being an elder of the Dutch Reformed Church and endorsing religiously-based theories of racial hierarchy. Far from avoiding discussing politics with me, as I had been led to expect, he readily introduced politics into the conversation. This was my experience also with others I met, whether they were pro- or anti-apartheid. Afrikaans-speakers, such as Pieter, constituted the majority of the white population and they dominated politics—ironically, in view of the defeat of the Boers only half a century earlier. I was reminded of the “born to rule” attitude of the Afrikaners when a waitress complained stridently about me to Pieter: “Why doesn’t he speak to me in our language!”

Apart from professional colleagues, most of the South Africans I talked with were as a result of the introductions from my Perth friends. They were mostly English-speaking Jews and included such celebrities as the mayor of Johannesburg, the editor of a daily newspaper, a leader of the liberally-oriented Progressive Party and some successful businessmen. I was invited to the home of a Jewish businessman in an upper-class suburb. Relationships with their black servants seemed calm—for whatever that observation is worth—and my hosts made a point of expressing sympathy for the hardships encountered by their servants in coping with travel difficulties and pass-book restrictions. They mentioned, with apparent approval, that the husband of their live-in maid was living with her in their home without the required permit. However, there was no evidence that they were doing anything about these problems. It seemed to me that these liberal whites were ready to express their embarrassment about the apartheid policy, but not to discuss what should be done about it.

The Progressive Party leader that I met did describe how he was working to moderate that policy by political action. The Progressive Party belonged to what Prime Minister Vorster dubbed “the coffee club”, and it was only many years later that I realised that neither in my conversations nor in the newspapers did I hear or see any mention of the individuals who were actually trying to change the policy by advocating violence. There were no references to the militants who were in prison, or on the run, or who had fled the country. I never heard the name of Mandela or any of his associates, for example, and no mention of the white communists who were actively supporting the Africans at considerable personal cost. At that time most of the militants, including Mandela, were still free but were being pursued by the police. The law by that time made it illegal to publicise or promote any “banned” individuals, such as Mandela, or “banned” organisations such as the African National Congress and the Communist Party. This might explain why none of my interlocutors talked to me about the militants, even though it would not have been illegal to do so—or it could be that the militants were just not on their minds. The Progressive Party supporters that I met may have worked for a modification of the apartheid policy through political means, but they did not discuss with me their views on militant opposition to that policy.

I came across the more typical mentality of liberally-minded middle-class whites when I was invited by the School of Medicine at Witwatersrand University to speak to their colloquium on my research in Australia on the psychology of migration. When I had finished delivering what I thought would be an enlightening academic exposition on the topic we came to question time. The first question was, “How do we get a visa to move to Australia?” All subsequent questions were on the same topic; none were on the topic of my presentation. While this may have been a reflection on the quality of my talk it also revealed the audience’s priorities.

I did, however, have two experiences that constituted near-exceptions to the passivity of the people I met. I went to dinner in a restaurant in Johannesburg with a left-wing British psychologist who had been working in Rhodesia together with his South African wife. His wife informed me that there would be trouble if the police had found us eating together in a public restaurant. Whether that was actually the case, I don’t know. Although it hadn’t occurred to me that she was other than white, she was classified as Cape Coloured (mixed race) and it was illegal for her to eat in a white restaurant. I don’t know whether the couple were legally married but it would have been impossible for them to marry in South Africa. She was a journalist on the Drum, a journal for non-Europeans, especially Africans, which was published legally but was under surveillance. She was outspoken in her resentment of the situation but I would guess that her activism was confined to her journalism. Soon afterwards she and her husband moved back to England.

A second example of actions against the regime’s policy was a housewife who invited me home to dinner with her husband. She was a member of the Black Sash movement, an organisation of white women who worked to resist apartheid and tried to ease the suffering of non-whites that occurred as a result of the policy. She told me she had spent that day driving Africans to work so that they could avoid using the segregated bus services that they were boycotting at the time. Without the help of well-wishers the Africans would have had to walk very long distances, perhaps ten kilometres or more. This anti-apartheid activity was particularly noteworthy in view of the housewife’s membership of one of the most prestigious Afrikaner families. Her husband was Jaap Marais, an eminent journalist, whose grandfather was one of the Boer leaders during and after the Boer War.

This encounter reminded me not to stereotype the stance of the Afrikaners. There were some outstanding cases of Afrikaners putting their safety on the line to combat apartheid. Also, some degree of flexibility was required for Prime Minister F.W. de Klerk to collaborate with Nelson Mandela in 1990 to start dismantling the apartheid policy and subsequently to establish the remarkable Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

Despite heart-warming surprises arising from such meetings as that with the Marais family, the general picture I observed was of a country largely dominated by Dr Pieter and his kind. Apartheid was there to stay, and indeed it persisted for another thirty years. I was not, however, aware of the degree of turmoil that was bubbling under the lid until six weeks after my departure the explosion occurred at Sharpeville when thousands of Africans demonstrated against the pass laws. The police response cost sixty-nine African lives. That public event opened up the seething conflict that had not been fully revealed to me in my short visit of a week.

After the stimulating exposure that I had had to a country in thrall to a divisive government policy and one meeting after another with people who either felt constrained to justify the policy or apologise for it, it was a relief to board a Sabena plane for Israel. Sabena was then the Belgian national carrier, but eventually, when the Congolese airport official at Leopoldville greeted us with a heartfelt shalom, I cottoned on to the fact that I was actually on an El Al flight masquerading as Sabena. But apartheid South Africa had been no masquerade.

In 1997 I paid a brief visit to Cape Town with an Australian tourist group. Apartheid had been abandoned and the contrast with my 1960 visit was striking. This time the po-faced, Afrikaans-accented guides who showed us around expressed their pride in the changes in their country. They spoke positively about Mandela as they ferried us to show where he had been imprisoned on Robben Island. They may have just been putting on a good act for the benefit of the tourists—I cannot say—but it was most impressive to see the radical change in their expressed attitude in such a short space of time.