At the limestone quarry we gaze into the mouths of caves, dark against the white stone. ‘They served as latrines,’ says the guide. Her tones are strident, but I still wish she was using a microphone. On the other buses I see guides with microphones. Someone has told our guide that she doesn’t need one. But she does. We are towards the back of the bus and we cannot catch every word. We get the gist, though. Prisoners forced to labour for hours under the punishing sun. No hats and precious little water. Shitting in the shadows offered a brief moment for communication which was otherwise strictly forbidden. The passing on of vital snippets of news about the world outside – the world happening just across the bay. Even the possession of a scrap of newspaper was a punishable offence.
Decades later the place still oozes brutality. The landscape offers no relief from the harsh conditions endured by exiles, lepers, the mentally insane and finally the militant opponents of apartheid. We were surprised to find that the Irish also occupied the island for a time, evidenced by a tumble of gravestones and a Celtic cross.
We stop briefly for a photo opportunity with the
iconic Table Mountain in the distance then back on board. Passengers are
starting to feel cheated. The half hour sea crossing stuffed into an airless
cabin and now a hot and dusty bus ride is not what we were expecting. ‘What
about the prisons?’ murmurs one. ‘Aren’t we getting out?’
One couple has already disembarked in shame. They were
young with a whimpering baby. As the bus pulled away from the harbour, the
frustrated mother stood up to haul the little one into a front-loading sling
carrier. She hurtled him into the air and banged his head with a loud thud on
the overhanging luggage rack. There was a collective gasp of shock as we
watched the infant’s face contort in pain. A screech followed that no
microphone could cover. The father berated the mother and then hurriedly
gathered up the child and the buggy demanding to be set down at the roadside.
The driver was reluctant – idlers were not to be allowed to wander at will, but
the man was insistent. As we drove off, we watched the little family walk forlornly
back down the hill. We did not see them again. The passengers were relieved. We
judged and tutted. No one wants a crying baby on the tourist trail. Like the
generations of jailers who trod these roads before us, we had left our
compassion and tolerance back at the landing stage.
Just as we are running out of breathable air, one of
the women on the bus begins to sing. There are five of them and we had noticed
them queuing to board the ferry. They are dressed to be noticed - ostensibly in
the pristine white of a religious sect but bejeweled to the nines with designer
handbags and heels to match. Their buxom figures are tauntingly on display in
plunging necklines and buttock-hugging mini dresses. They look like girls on a hen
do yet they are clearly pledged to a Higher Power. They announce that they have
travelled from beyond the Cape, and I get the impression that, like me, they are
Robben Island virgins – but with makeup and lace.
As we disembark, they burst into song:
The Holy Spirit must come down,
And Africa will be saved.
African women sing like no others – loud, confident and in full harmony. They segue into the national anthem:
Nkosi sikelel’ Afrika.
We instantly forgive them their sexual brashness, follow behind their sashaying hips and join in the tune, if not the words. We know neither Xhosa nor Afrikaans.
As we approach the actual prison buildings, a holy hush descends and the singing fades. An old black man is waiting to conduct this part of the tour. He is wearing a metal cross and has the weakened arm of someone who has suffered a stroke. I ask him who he is. He says he will answer questions all in good time. First we are free to wander through the cell block and prison kitchen; there are stories to read and straw palliasses and a wooden rack used for torturous punishment to marvel over.
We proceed in respectful silence to the section where hardline maximum security political prisoners were housed. We are all thinking about Nelson Mandela. To
our chagrin, few among us can remember the names of any of the others. The gentleman introduces himself. He is Tom
Moses who was incarcerated in this very place and clearly bears the mental and
emotional scars. In a long speech he details the prisoners’ suffering – a very
personal account of isolation, deprivation and terror. The sixties were the worst,
he said. Men who were convinced of the rightness of their cause living in
constant fear and at the whim of cruel and vindictive guards.
He is emotional
and, at times, angry. His well-worn recital descends into diatribe directed,
somewhat surprisingly, not at the Afrikaners who perpetuated apartheid, but at successive
black governments who have failed to honour the collective sacrifice of
political prisoners. He is scathing about the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission and leaders who have greedily amassed wealth without making any
provision for the families of those who fought with their freedom for the
privileges enjoyed by the elite. He is a sad and tormented soul whose evident pain
belies talk of forgiveness. My eyes well with tears.
I try to tell Moses that I understand something about political
prisoners and terrorists in government. ‘It’s not colour that corrupts,’ I say,
‘it’s power.’ I am white and he is black. I am ignorant and he has been to hell. There is no understanding.
I walk alongside a fellow visitor. His name is Roger. We
search for Mandela’s actual cell. ‘It’s the one with the bucket,’ the guide has
told us. And there it is – a narrow tomb with a straw bed and a lidded metal pail
for waste. Deliberate, I realise. There is no shrine to the man who only spent
eighteen years confined on this island when others stayed longer and
were soon forgotten.
We emerge from the darkness of concrete walls and
bleak despair into the brilliant white light of an African day. Summer will
soon reluctantly give way but for now the sun is beating us as it has
beaten generations of people for whom there was no escape. Our route off the
island is clear – a downhill trek to the harbour. Our own personal ‘long walk
to freedom’ quips Moses as we shake his hand. He glances at me in disappointment
– clearly the woman in front of me laced his palm with rand. I did not come prepared,
and I feel guilty.
I look around for Roger. He is gazing down the long
road to the sea. He is never going to make it. He is only about four and a half feet tall and
severely disabled. He has managed to shuffle his way on and off the bus and
through the corridors, but this is too far. I look back towards the building we
have left. There were ramps inside; maybe there’s a wheelchair.
But Roger is not looking for a chair. He is
clambering up onto a huge boulder where he manages to stand. Without fuss or
ceremony his friend is reversing into him and lowering his strong body so that
Roger can clamber onto his back. I have only just dried my eyes and now I am
weeping again. It’s a baking hot day and carrying an adult that distance is no
easy feat, but this friend has obviously done it before. Many times. That verse
in the Bible about greater love and laying down your life springs to mind.
At the waterside there is a delay. The ferry has not yet
returned from Cape Town. We buy ice lollies and settle down to wait. I need to
talk to Roger and his saviour. They are
old friends from school. Roger is very witty and makes me laugh. Adam is Jewish with a flop of black curly hair. He is now living
in the UK, but he comes back to the Cape every year. We talk about parallels with places like Auschwitz and he tells
us that all of his grandfather’s family disappeared during the Holocaust. He introduces
us to an American cousin found as a result of relentless searching for
survivors and says that through the miracle of the internet they are still making
connections across time and continents. He is looking forward to discovering
more family members.
Roger is not Jewish and not family, but the love the two
young men share is that of brothers. I tell Adam that he has such a big, embracing heart. He thanks
me. I want him to know that his act of selfless kindness has touched me deeply.
I can feel the warmth and generosity of his spirit borne out of generational
suffering. Not all horror leads to bitterness. I am glad we have met.
On the return crossing, as civilization and mountain hurtle
towards us, we sit with our new friends. There is no movement of air in the cabin,
and we are sweating uncomfortably. Suddenly,
one of the crew takes pity on us and invites us to sit out on deck – only a limited
number. We jump up with our new friends and finish the five and a half hour round
trip with the cool breeze in our hair.
Robben Island is a beacon of hatred and control of
what could not be tolerated. Our visit would have been a cold experience
without Roger and Adam – flesh and blood examples of how hope can triumph over
fear and unconditional love over adversity.
