AFTER A WEEK’S REST, Joanna sat down at her laptop with a cup of rooibos tea and a rusk to write her first UV report. Rooibos was supposed to calm the nerves.
‘The soul of South Africa has captured me,’ she wrote. ‘I have travelled across the country, felt the vibrancy of a liberated people. Black South Africans young and old have repeatedly expressed their determination to deepen democracy. Many whites have embraced the spirit of reconciliation.’
As she wrote she could feel the man in the floppy hat gradually ease his grip.
‘Although Nelson Mandela spent twenty-seven years in prison and enjoys universal respect,’ she continued, ‘one youth from a remote Eastern Cape town told me the president remains accountable to the people and their structures. Indeed, “structures” is a magic word in South African communities. People organise everywhere. Even primary school students have their structures and can bring an irresponsible principal to his or her knees.’
She went on to describe how just that week a transport workers’ strike had halted all the trains and buses in Johannesburg. She realised Americans might not understand why such things continued even with Mandela in power. But she had to write about them, to speak the truth.
‘Yet all this struggle is done with great joy and a spirit of forgiveness that has to impress any Christian. There is no desire to exact revenge on whites. Such vindictiveness would violate the very essence of the democratic movement. With such a spirit it is difficult not to believe in this country’s ultimate success, hard not to be swept away by the tide of optimism and hope.’
Joanna had second thoughts as she saved the document and prepared to email it to Angela. Was this a true picture? She’d left out the event that probably stuck in her mind more than any other: the men attacking her in the taxi. She didn’t want to overplay it, but by omitting it she was hiding part of the truth. She now felt ‘accountable’ to UV members. Concealing painful facts wouldn’t help. She reopened the report and added a final paragraph.
‘However, there are a few worrying trends. One is the scourge of violent crime. While riding in one of the vans that serve as taxis here, I experienced a taste of this scourge. A man accosted me in the back of the van. He grabbed me forcefully and tried to touch my private parts.’
Joanna wrote this account almost as if it had happened to someone else, as if she had already moved beyond this incident. Sometimes in her dreams the man with the Bible’s .45 was pointed at her. Then she’d wake up. She was accepting that those memories were her cross to bear. But did she really need to include this event in the report? She wasn’t sure and didn’t know how to find out. She had no one to talk to.
‘Both the attack and the rescue terrified me,’ she added. ‘And my experience was only a mild dose of the multitude of rapes, carjackings and murders that take place here regularly.’
She stopped for a moment to reread her words. They sounded so self-serving. She tried for perspective, not pity, in her conclusion:
‘The solution is to provide jobs for the millions of unemployed who form the pool of perpetrators. The ANC must make good on its promise of “A Better Life for All” or run the risk of a quiet civil war between have-not outlaws and the rest of society.’
Joanna feared some people would take her tale as a betrayal, like revealing long-held family secrets to gossipy neighbours. Yet without honesty, freedom could lapse into tyranny.
Three weeks later Joanna received a copy of UV’s newsletter in the mail. The centre spread contained her report plus a photo of the smiling Mandela in his Springbok jersey as he handed over the World Cup trophy to François Pienaar. The two paragraphs about her assault had been edited out.
She emailed Angela to find out what happened.
‘We ran out of space,’ Angela replied. ‘We had to fit it all on two pages.’
‘That part was critical,’ Joanna wrote back. ‘There is danger. We can’t hide it.’
The next day Angela phoned her.
‘I understand your feelings,’ she said to Joanna. ‘But some people might get the wrong idea.’
‘The wrong idea?’
‘Lots of people think Africa is nothing but a continent of violence – never-ending coups and wars,’ said Angela. ‘We have to give a different picture. Destroy the stereotype.’
‘By hiding the truth?’
‘There’s already a mountain of criticism out there, so many who want South Africa to fail.’
‘Nothing breeds failure like mindless supporters,’ said Joanna. ‘How do we deny hatred and bitterness when we see it?’
‘Okay,’ said Angela, ‘we’ll put something about crime in the next newsletter. I’ll send you a brief in a few days.’
A week later Angela emailed Joanna, saying she’d discussed the crime issue and the omitted text with the UV advisory board. The board members all supported Angela’s decision to cut the offending copy.
‘Their view is that at the moment we should focus not on crime, but on the successes of the Mandela government,’ read the email. ‘He already has enough enemies. I trust you will accept the board’s decision.’
Joanna’s structures had her trapped. She was accountable to Angela who was accountable to the board. The UV members had no real say. In fact, they’d never find out. It was all upside down. Accountability wasn’t an issue only in South Africa.