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and of course the security police, who constantly visited us, called it protest theatre. We liked the term. It meant that the white ones aren’t comfortable with this theatre. So that’s how all the other works grew, right up to Sizwe Banzi and The Island.

      Ruda: And those two plays, Sizwe Banzi and The Island,1 took you out of Port Elizabeth and to the world stage. How did you experience that – being in London, being in America, where colour did not determine everything?

      John: It was an incredible experience just to stand at Sloane Square in front of the Royal Court Theatre, just to stand in Trafalgar Square. Just to see this is Hyde Park Corner. Just to be met by all the South African people who were in exile and were living in a democratic environment. That is where I learned the word democracy. You could do what you like.

      It was kind of strange to see a policeman walk past . . . and you think, “Here is my passbook,” but he is not interested! And seeing the community of London, black and white, Indian, Pakistani, just living together. We were staring at black-and-white couples, we were staring at everything around us. But what was important, what we were all focused on, was the story we were telling in the theatre. All the awards and the recognition really blew our minds. Because we really had a tiny story of a man who’s got a passbook and changed the photograph because he wants to stay in Port Elizabeth, and the story of two men on Robben Island preparing to do a play for the other prisoners. We were amazed at the reaction.

      And the people that came out to see the production. Father Trevor Huddleston came to see it. And I remember O. R. Tambo saying, “What you did tonight in this production is what we’ve been trying to do for over thirty years: to explain the situation at home, to explain how the system of apartheid is inhuman. Not whether it is illegal or oppressive, just inhuman.”

      We grew as actors very quickly, and we had to deal with watch-­what-comes-out-of-your-mouth. I remember Athol Fugard saying, “Just say the truth. The answer you give must be the truth. The situation in South Africa is terrible enough, you don’t have to lie or make it worse. Just say the truth.” And that’s what has guided me through­out my career when I go overseas. When people ask me what’s going on in South Africa, I just tell the truth.

      Ruda: And the Tony Award you won in New York? That must have been absolutely unbelievable – two young men from Port Elizabeth in South Africa winning Broadway’s biggest prize.

      John: We didn’t know what the Tony Award was. We did not know. Our producers were the ones who were excited, because when we got the nomination bookings went up by 20 per cent that same day.

      Ruda: Of course.

      John: Of course. So we went to the Winter Garden Theatre [in New York City] and we sat there and we saw all the stars you’d watched all your life, from Hollywood . . . There was Walter Matthau, Meryl Streep, there was Ellen Burstyn, o my God, there’s Jack Lemmon . . . Everyone you’d seen on screen, they were all there. It was a big thing.

      We spoke to Fugard in Afrikaans, saying, “God, the Americans take themselves far too seriously.” So I didn’t hear what was going on onstage. And they said, “The nominations for best actor are John Carn-eye, Anthony Hopkins, Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady, Ben Gazzara, Winston Moshonas . . .” I wasn’t listening; it was going on and on and on. Then this guy says, “And the winner is – oh my God, the winners ARE . . .” For the first time in the history of the Tony Awards, they gave the best actor award for two different plays.

      So I didn’t know – did I win for Sizwe Banzi is Dead or The Island, or did Winston win for Sizwe Banzi or The Island? – but we won. We went up on the stage and I said to Winston, “What are we going to say? There’s no speech prepared.” And Winston said, “I am just going to say thank you.” I said, “I am also going to say thank you.” We go up, I get my award, I hold it like this and I say, “Thank you.” Winston comes and says, “Thanks.” And that was it.

      The New York Times the next morning says: “It was the most powerful political statement made by actors who in their own country, through the evil apartheid system, are not even recognised as human beings, and to find that the world confirms their identity . . .” I said, “No, man, we didn’t have anything to say!” And that got me into trouble when we got back to South Africa. That’s why we were arrested.

      Ruda: Tell me about that.

      John: We came back from the Tony Awards . . . The season stretched to 1976. We played on Broadway during 1974, 1975, 1976. Then we went to Australia. [Back in South Africa] we’re playing in a small town called Butterworth. Jirre jong, toe sien ek . . . hoekom sien ek ’n polisieman by die exit uitgaan? Another one there, another one there, toe dink ek, o Jirre, dit gaan vandag gebeur.2

      I go on with Sizwe Banzi; the Butterworth city hall is packed. Black and white. People are standing. At the end of the performance, as I take the curtain call, security police grab me and pull me off the stage in costume. The other ones grab Winston. The audience, black and white, rush to grab us – this is 1976 – away from the police. The police reach for their guns.

      And I see a young man I know. I say, “Four nine two seven four, four nine two seven four.” That was Athol Fugard’s number at home in Port Elizabeth. We’re bundled into the cars, driven to Umtata, and detained for twenty-three days in solitary confinement. The young man realised it must be a Port Elizabeth number. So he called Athol. And while we are being processed in Umtata, charged under section R400 of the Riotous Assemblies Act, promoting hatred through violence, promoting hatred among races, furthering the aims of banned organisations, furthering . . . I am thinking, “We did a play.”

      Then the phone rings and this guy says, “Hold it, Lieutenant, hello . . . no . . .” It was Athol phoning: “Are John Kani and Winston Ntshona detained there?” And the guy said, “No, we don’t know what you’re talking about.” But because of that call there were massive demonstrations all over the world: New York, London, Paris, Sydney. People writing to the South African government, even Peter Brook,3 the Fraternity, the Screen Actors Guild. And through that pressure, we were released.

      Ruda: The next point that stood out for me in reading your story was the interaction with Sandra Prinsloo on stage. A black man kissing a white woman – well, they kiss each other – and the huge reaction. What was the play?

      John: Miss Julie. It’s 1985, right? I was so fed up with protest theatre, I wanted to do something else. And then I got a call from John Slemon at the Baxter Theatre: “Would you like to do Miss Julie by Strindberg?” I said, “Fantastic!” Then I found the script and I read the play. I thought, oops, the relationship between these two people may cause a little bit of uncomfortableness. But it’s not protest theatre really. It’s a play written in 1888. Strindberg is a bloody Swede, he has nothing to do with my country.

      Ruda: The play doesn’t say it has to be a black man and a white woman. It just happened like that. It’s not like Desdemona [in Othello].

      John: No, it’s not like Desdemona. Miss Julie is upper class. From the nobility.

      Ruda: It’s about class differences.

      John: Ja, Miss Julie is the nobility. And John is a footman, he’s a servant. So it was unthinkable that a relationship could develop between a man and a woman from these two classes. In fact, in 1888, when the play was performed in Stockholm, it caused the same furore, because it would encourage crossing cultural and class lines.

      So toe dink ek, Sandra is so mooi, blonde, blue eyes en mooi gebou, dit gaan bietjie lekker wees.4 Bobby Heaney was the director. And then a journalist from the Sunday Times came to take a picture for pre-publicity. She said to me, “Hold Sandra like this, and just . . . almost kiss.” There was about two centimetres between our lips. We didn’t really kiss.

      Jirre, the Sunday Times! BLACK MAN KISSES WHITE WOMAN ON STAGE. Dr [Andries] Treurnicht raised the issue in Parliament: “Kyk as ons nie versigtig is nie, sal die toekoms só lyk.”5 What a prophet!

      At the first performance, there was a bit of a tension. Two people walked out. On the second performance, the word had gone out. Jirre, the community of Cape Town, from Langa, from Gugulethu, from all

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