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Until Julius Comes. Richard Poplak
Читать онлайн.Название Until Julius Comes
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780624070108
Автор произведения Richard Poplak
Издательство Ingram
When she showed up, Zille was resolute. Nothing, she explained to us, would stop the DA from executing its constitutional right to march through the city to deliver an inchoate jobs proposal to the baffled concierge in the ANC’s Bat Cave.
‘We will march for 6 million real jobs,’ she insisted, ‘and not the bogus jobs that the ANC are offering.’ She said that the metaphors the ANC supporters rode in on were ‘state funded’, and although the ANC army were carrying caveman weapons like branches and stones, the police had yet to do anything to quell their thirst for blood. ‘We’re protecting the right for everybody in the country,’ she said, to deliver paperwork to the ANC.
With that, she donned a hard hat and walked into the crowd, who now doubled their efforts regarding song and ululations. Zille looked suitably working-person-like, except for the fact that her dangling earrings did not seem regulation, and would probably get caught in machinery were she an actual blue-collar wage slave. The DA party bus jerked unhappily into motion, to cheers from those in the mining headquarters that lined the route to Luthuli House.
And Johannesburg did feel like its essential self – a dusty sunbaked mining town, full of people bused in to work or fight or fleece the joint, and then get the hell out as soon as darkness fell. The bouncers, who owned the Joburg night, kept a tight cordon around the marchers, with an armoured vehicle and a bakkie (belonging to the ominously named South African Police Services’ ‘Saturation Unit’) taking the lead. All was well, until the proceedings jammed up on the corner of Rissik Street.
In the service of foreshadowing, I asked John Moodey if he was expecting trouble. ‘We always expect trouble,’ he told me, ‘and that’s why we take these extraordinary protections of the marshals.’
I’m not sure what Michel de Certeau has said, if anything, about the art of the ambush, but it is always most beautifully executed in the planned grid of a city. The ANC contingent was now rounding upon the DA marchers. The cops quickly formed a cordon, and when the stones and bricks were hurled at our unprotected heads, the police threw a series of stun grenades, pushing the crowd back.
The ANC supporters ran towards Miriam Makeba, trying to dog the DA march, which had now turned back because, um, obviously. As the cops formed a tight line, cocking their shotguns, a petrol bomb performed a slow, sultry arc, exploding on the tarmac in a streak of fire. Another whirled in, which was met in turn with four rubber-bullet blasts, and another stun-grenade fusillade. Two student journalists, wearing hip-hugging hipster shorts and brandishing iPhones, giggled with excitement. ‘Dude!’ said one, ‘this is all just so amazing.’
And so this insane, pointless spectacle descended into the familiar narrative of white cops chasing wily, be-T-shirted ‘revolutionaries’ down alleyways and streets, guns cocked, grenades popping. It was an artful rendering of days of olde, when Johannesburg was alive with such violence. Except, this time, there was nothing to fight for, and nothing at stake but a fake jobs proposal intersecting with a government already accomplished at creating fake jobs. It was the meaningless jibber-jabber of party politics etched onto the city’s streets, leaving them strewn with the residue of a battle forged by PR hacks.
When it all died down, I spoke with the ANC’s Deputy Secretary, Jessie Duarte, inside the air-conditioned foyer of Luthuli House. She looked small and red-eyed and wiped out by the heat. ‘When you provoke the ANC in the manner that they did,’ she said to me, ‘people respond. This was the march of people claiming a portion of the ANC’s manifesto.’
But what of the fact that the ANC’s contribution to the day’s proceedings was illegal, considering the fact that they did not have the right to gather, and that their members were tossing bombs?
‘I think it’s shameful what the DA did. People came to protect us! And when they come, we can’t turn them away. The DA came with batons and helmets and shields. That is provocation! In the history of South African marches, we’ve never been in the position we’ve been in today.’
Duarte was, of course, stating an untruth regarding the DA’s level of belligerence – armed struggle is not in the party’s DNA, and I’m not sure their mumu-wearing numbers would know how to so much as light a Molotov cocktail. But bullshit is one of Duarte’s mainstays, and she looked so tired and old that I left her to it.
I walked away from the dancing and chanting, and made my way down Sauer. The city was relaxing, reforming. The DA metaphors were now driving in convoy out of the CBD, and a group of ANC supporters were throwing rubbish from the sidewalk at the departing blue shirts. A large woman with braided hair walked alongside the buses, slamming an empty two-litre plastic bottle of Iron Brew against trees and lamp posts, each ‘bang’ sounding like the rapport of gunfire.
Then, a man raised a brick and aimed it at the fleeing buses. But the cops ran up to him and chased him away into the dust and heat of the useless day.
This is our political discourse. This is what we’ve done with democracy. Twenty years into this journey, and all we insist on creating is metaphors for the past.
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