Fear and loathing in an impoverished township of South Africa.
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Joan
Wardrop*: Patrolling with Soweto’s Flying Squad
I have spent
nearly 250 shifts (each about 14 hours long) observing the body language of the Soweto
Flying Squad, an emergency-response unit of 250 policemen and a few women working
in one of the most violent areas in the country.
Of the 275 South African policemen killed in 1998, more than 60 died in Soweto. Those
who survive greatly rely on the hair-trigger control of just about every muscle,
from head to foot. Experience has taught them to avoid the stereotypes of the macho
cop, as one officer explains, “We’d be killed if we did that shit.” The following
scene underscores the powerful fluency of the Flying Squad body language.
Driving through heavy traffic, the police car suddenly stops: in the next lane, a
group of seven or eight men are punching one another beside two taxis. Another battle
has broken out between two rival taxi companies. As the two policemen get out of
the car, a man at the centre of the fighting falls and is kicked hard, the sound
of boots thudding against flesh audible above the noise of the gathering crowd.
The two policemen begin pushing back the attackers, when another taximan suddenly
shoves through the crowd to kick the already bleeding head of the victim. A dozen
taxis have stopped at the junction, passengers pointing and shouting.
One of the policeman takes a step back from the standoff and casually takes a cigarette
from his top pocket. He lights it, breathing in hard, watching intently as his colleague
stands face-to-face with the most aggressive attacker. The former refuses to look
up at this man, who is taller than he is. Instead he squares his shoulders, using
the muscles of his upper body to appear larger. He then sways back an inch or two
to look directly into the eyes of the attacking taximan.
Using his body as armoury, he suddenly shouts a sound rather than a word and the
taximan flinches, jerking his head back. More than a hundred people are fixated on
the drama. The police wouldn’t have a chance if the crowd turned against them. But
the flinch of the taximan was crucial.
The other officer throws his cigarette away with an abruptness that spells readiness
to act. The two begin using their voices to push the crowds back. Control has been
established. The man on the ground drags himself into his taxi. He sits for a moment,
slumped over the steering wheel, and smiles at the police.
* Senior
lecturer in history, Curtin University of Technology, Australia
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Yesteryear’s
heroes are now villains in South Africa, where former guerrillas pushed to the fringes
of society cling to the cult of the hard body
I had just moved back
to Kwamashu (near Durban, South Africa) when I went to meet the son of a friend,
who had been like a brother to me before his untimely death. It had been ten years
since I had last seen Fernando. The 11-year-old boy had grown into a tall young man,
who, despite his size, greeted me obsequiously.
“Uncle! I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me.” “I was unsure at first, but I couldn’t
miss the resemblance between you and your father.” The mention of his father made
Fernando jolt. “You should tell me about my old man sometime,” he said sadly.
When we parted, I couldn’t help noticing the number of people staring at us. Later,
I found out that they had never seen Fernando talk with anyone but former guerrillas
or comrades who put their bodies “on the line” in the struggle against apartheid.
Some thought that he was holding me up.
In the following year, I met Fernando about a dozen times. We mostly just greeted
each other but once he asked me to loan him a few coins. Was he looking for a job?
“I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have ID papers.” Did he want me to speak with the authorities?
“No,” he said. “The police are looking for me.”
A few months later, Fernando was dead. A neighbour explained that the police had
killed him in his safe house. “Get up, you’re arrested!” they’d yelled at his friends.
But when Fernando tried to stand up, a bullet went through his forehead, another
through his cheekbone and five or so riddled his body. The officers then found a
cache of arms in the house–some of which had belonged to policemen who had been robbed
and killed.
Fernando’s story is not unique. Unable to find a job, he began training former guerrillas
to protect themselves from police attacks because many had turned to crime. Some
robbed banks, others turned to contract murders. They replenished their stocks of
arms by attacking police. But there was one taboo: they did not attack their neighbours.
They eliminated those who preyed on the community. One man captured the feelings
of many when he mourned Fernando’s passing, “We have lost a hero…”
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I
sing the body electric.
Walt
Whitman, American poet (1819-1892)
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Scarred
egos
Like
in many transitional societies, yesteryears’ heroes–the young guerrillas and comrades
who sacrificed their studies and often their lives under the banner “Liberation now,
education later!”–are today’s villains in South Africa. The “real” man is no longer
the militant, anti-authority warrior, but the law-abiding, wage-earning professional
or artisan.
In a world of globalized advertising, the male muscle-bound torso is an icon of power,
fine-tuned in the air-conditioned confines of an expensive gymnasium. But in South
Africa, that torso, called a “six-pack,” embodies inequality and oppression. The
poor nutrition and gruelling labour conditions of apartheid inured the bodies of
African men to hardship. These hard bodies were the perfect raw material for capitalists
of the racist regime. They also served individuals seeking fame in the professional
sports arena. Yet the glorification of physical strength reached new social heights
as the liberation struggle moved into the guerrilla phase in the 1970s and 80s. Comrades,
like Fernando, decided to go beyond the daily hide-and-seek with apartheid administrators
and police to pursue formal military training outside of the country. Boys who had
never known a word of praise from their families became respected heroes, revered
as “liberators.” Yet despite their inflated egos, these young men were still scarred
by the emasculation of apartheid’s class and racial domination. To be a “real man,”
many inflicted considerable violence against women, which was largely concealed during
the struggle.
Once the liberation elite moved from a state-in-exile to government, the aura and
adulation surrounding the warriors faded. Those hard bodies were progressively stripped
of their decorations as the African National Congress took power in 1994 and distanced
itself from the guerrilla’s methods and functions. Some were absorbed in the ranks
of the new army, private security firms hired others, but many were left on their
own. Lacking the skills to compete for scarce jobs, they put their guns “to work”
in crime.
Power
of the gun
With
about 13 million firearms circulating in a country of 40 million people, the gun
has become a veritable extension of the body. It represents the power to “have” women,
to rob and dominate others, to dismiss the victim’s humanity. South Africa has the
highest per capita rate of reported rape in the world (for every 100,000 women, 1,300
are raped each year, according to a 1999 study). The country also has the highest
rate of police killed. The grisly details of horrific crimes are a mainstay for journalists,
with equal space dedicated to the swift hand of justice in the form of brutal police
attacks.
The TV footage of the lifeless bodies of alleged “robbers” may satiate public hunger
for revenge. Yet they drive repudiated young men, like Fernando, deeper into the
bunkers of a violent masculinity. Perhaps the situation will change as the socio-economic
landscape evolves. But so long as police attacks continue and poverty prevails, young
men will find armoury in the cult of the hard body.
Both authors contributed to Changing Men in Southern Africa, edited by Robert
Morrell, University of Natal Press and Zed Books, 2001. |
