LITMIR.BIZ

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place for safekeeping. A day or two later he contacted another ANC unit headed by Pravin Gordhan. He gave his word to Pravin that he would never reveal the transfer of Ebrahim. He would be the end point. No matter what happened, this transfer would not be revealed.

      A few evenings after Yunis, Shamim and my father were detained, I was taken to one of the interrogation rooms. A junior officer was left to guard me. I could hear screams and knew they were torturing Yunis. Each howl cut deep into me. I hated myself then for that telephone call. In the silence of the interrogation room I sobbed like a child. For the first time in many years despite been a committed Marxist, I prayed to an invisible God to stop whatever was being done to Yunis. But the torture went on and on for hours.

      Much later I learnt what had happened to Yunis in that room. He had been blindfolded, stripped naked and made to kneel on all fours on the table. His hands and legs were held down. A medical doctor inserted an instrument deep into his rectum. Yunis screamed in anguish and agony while Lieutenant Botha began his interrogation. With every denial Yunis made, the instrument was pushed deeper and turned to cause maximum internal trauma and pain.

      Yunis endured his torture drawing on the inner resilience that defined him. He took the worst that Lieutenant Botha could offer and withstood it. He said nothing, denying the allegations put to him. He suffered his torture in part for the glorious ideals of the struggle but more because of the commitment he had made to Pravin. Under torture, resilience is not born of ideals but of love and loyalty to others. Torture is endured to protect human love. For Yunis it was for Pravin. For Shirish and me it was for Yunis.

      Eventually, the doctor weakened at his own cruelty and insisted that Yunis be returned to his cell. The Bathroom Officer was in the room during this time and had witnessed the interrogation in silence. He was shocked by what he’d seen and overcome by shame, feeling that his presence made him a participant in this act of inhumanity.

      I was not interrogated that evening. Instead I was taken back to my cell consumed by fear, self-loathing and grief. It was then that I came to understand the depth of Lieutenant’s Botha’s depravity. For the first time in my life, and perhaps for the only time, I knew what it felt like to hate.

      In my anxiety, I was torn between my love for my family and my commitment to the ANC. I wondered if working with family in the underground was a good idea. There were the obvious benefits of trust, reliability and resources but such proximity violated the rules of secrecy. Working with family seemed to be an easy option. Yet so many of the errors I had committed were because I had worked with family members. I had taken too many things for granted.

      Yunis eventually found a way to send a message to Lambie that he needed medical attention. Lambie demanded to see him and although the guards initially refused, faced with his insistence, they relented. He found Yunis curled in the foetal position on his bed, racked with fever and drenched in sweat. Lambie comforted him as best as he could and demanded that Yunis be given urgent medical attention. Later in his own cell, the helplessness of a father unable to protect his children from the cruelty of others got the better of him. His blood pressure became erratic. Not wanting to risk a detainee having a stroke or heart failure in detention, the Security Branch had him hospitalised.

      Meanwhile, a thousand kilometres away in Pretoria Central Prison, Klaas de Jonge sat in his cell deep in contemplation. He had agreed to point out one of the targets that he had reconnoitred: a building in the inner city of Pretoria. His handcuffs were removed, and his leg irons loosened so that he could walk. He led his captors into the building, and they took the lift to the designated floor. As they emerged from the lift Klaas pointed to the right. When the Security Branch officers glanced in that direction, he made off to the left and burst into an office, the security officers shouting behind him.

      ‘I am a Dutch citizen. I demand the protection of my government!’ he yelled at the stunned receptionist.

      People came pouring out of their offices to see what the commotion was all about. By then one of the Security Branch officers had grappled Klaas to the floor and was struggling to secure the handcuffs. He shouted, ‘I am an officer of the South African Police, this man is a detainee of the South African state. Stand back. Stand back.’

      At which point someone said in a loud and clear voice, ‘This area is the property of the Dutch government. It is the official Embassy of the Netherlands. You cannot effect an arrest here! You have no jurisdiction!’

      The Security Branch officers were stunned. Klaas de Jonge, the clever Dutchman, had outsmarted them. Their eagerness and carelessness had created a serious problem: they could not leave Klaas behind. The official reprimand would be extreme. Ignoring the diplomatic protests, they handcuffed Klaas and marched him out of the building to the unmarked police car and promptly returned him to his cell.

      For the next week the diplomatic row between the Netherlands and South Africa intensified with the exchange of strongly worded missives of accusations and counter-accusations. In the end the South African government was forced to return Klaas to the Dutch Embassy on the condition that he not leave the embassy premises on pain of arrest.

      The generals in charge of the investigation of Klaas de Jonge and Hélène Pastoors were livid at this setback. They had hoped that a trial of the couple would place European governments on the back foot. Now, the reverse had happened. South Africa’s security legislation and the Security Branch’s power became the centre of international focus.

      Back in Durban, the investigation into Ebrahim was stalling. The Security Branch could find neither him nor his car. They had received a bad press especially because of Lambie’s hospitalisation and decided that there was no further purpose in detaining him, Shamim, Myreen and Yunis. After spending a month in detention, they were all released.

      Before they left CR Swart Square, they were permitted to see me through the grille of my cell. We said our goodbyes. Yunis and I smiled at one another and gave the thumbs-up sign indicating that all was well. This was the best day of my detention. I looked at my father: he was weary, unwell and his age was showing. It was in that moment that I saw his powerlessness. There was nothing he could do for me; we both knew this. Distraught, he turned and walked away. My heart went out to him. Our relationship would never be the same again.

      7

      The week after Yunis, Shamim and my father and cousin were released, I was in the best of spirits. I believed that I had outsmarted Lieutenant Botha. And while I felt anxious about this unfolding game of tit-for-tat, controlling some aspects was reward in itself. Clearly Shirish was sticking to the legend so it was probably only a matter of time before he too was released. That would have meant total victory.

      Another reason for my high spirits concerned a ‘line’ I had opened to the outside world.

      As with the Bathroom Officer, good luck and happenstance played a part. One night a young white policeman doing the inspection rounds mentioned to me that we had a mutual friend named Shaun.

      Initially I was suspicious that this might be a ploy to win my trust but I was also intrigued. Shaun was a community activist and for this cop to have known him meant that he had to have contacts in interesting circles.

      ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘how do you know him?’

      It turned out that the young policeman had joined the police to avoid military conscription. His name was Phillip and he became a godsend. He had met Shaun through their respective activist groups, and I decided I could trust him.

      Cautiously, over some weeks, I got to know Phillip and eventually asked him to carry vague messages to Shaun. I knew that the activist in Shaun would seize this opportunity to allow others in the underground to contact me. He did.

      One day Phillip returned with a message from the ‘man on the hill’. It was a phrase known only to me and Yacoob Abba Omar, a student leader and a member of the underground. I now began to communicate with Abba through cryptic messages passed between Shaun and Phillip, messages understood only by Abba and me. In this way I learnt that our underground units were intact, and that the contagion had not spread. As nothing communicated via Phillip ever arose in the interrogation sessions, my trust in him was affirmed. The Security

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