YOU CAN'T BE HIS FRIEND

 

During the Apartheid Era I was working in a hospital where political prisoners were continually being brought for various treatments.
I learned to respect and admire them for their unyielding dedication to the ANC cause, their inspiration and their kindness and sense of humor even under the most severe conditions.
Many of these prisoners were highly intellectual and spent a lot of time in prison studying and teaching and continuing with their education; so that at one stage their part of the prison resembled a school or even a university.
This book is written just to give a ‘taste’ of that time. I have not used ‘real’ people, though I have tried to make them as ‘real’ as possible.
What I have tried to portray is the confusion of the white man at this time. The situations are also not ‘real’ but very ‘real’ in another sense.
I wrote this novel after the Apartheid Era had ended, when the New South Africa was beginning to take shape, achieving things beyond all expectations.
I dedicate this book to all who went through indescribable suffering but who never lost their self respect and the ultimate respect for others.

YOU CAN’T BE HIS FRIEND

When Glen Wiles receives an unexpected summons for divorce, he thinks in some ways that his life had ended. In fact, it is only beginning as he gets to know people who change his perceptions and his life. 
This is a story, set within the Apartheid Era in South Africa, where Glen becomes involved with a political movement which at that time was banned and to be involved was dangerous. He is challenged and inspired by the ‘struggle’ against cruel and violent discrimination and finds that nothing, even prison, can keep him away.

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I present, in this blog, a few abstracts for “Just a taste”.

Glen settled down to eat his sandwiches on the beach, his lunch being inspected and nearly taken away by a particularly friendly penguin.

A man was sitting close by reading a book and the penguin tried to bite the book out of his hands.

Glen returned the book commenting on how friendly the penguins were and how lucky South Africans were to have a well populated penguin beach.

The two men spoke for a while, Glen feeling comfortable with him and telling him about his divorce and his shock at now being alone. Two penguins came close to them and the subject went back to the penguins. Glen had established that the man’s name was Bennie. Again Glen commented on the beauty of the penguin colony.

“You know,” said Bennie.

 “You know, we have a greater penguin colony, greater in every sense of the word. There are far more penguins in Dassen Island and Robben Island.”

“But no one can go there, “ said Glen. “No one lives there.”

“Many people live on Robben Island,” said Bennie. “On Robben Island we have the world’s heroes, South Africa’s new leaders.”

Glen looked at him and quickly looked around. He could be arrested if anyone heard him say that.

“But that is a prison island,” said Glen. “There are political and other criminals.”

“There are a lot of penguins there” said Bennie ”and these penguins have the privilege of contact with some of the world’s greatest statesmen.”

Again Glen glanced around furtively and then looked back to Bennie. Bennie was a white man. Well, that was obvious because no black man would be allowed to picnic on Boulders Beach.

“You mean the ANC, the African National Congress,” whispered Glen.

The man nodded, looking Glen straight in the eyes.

“But they are dangerous criminals, “ said Glen. “They are terrorists.”

“No, “said the man. “Glen please think about it. They are our country’s future.”

Glen was disturbed by the intensity and inspiration in the man’s voice. It was making him feel extremely uncomfortable. He moved away towards the ocean. He would paddle in the water and walk along to the other side of the beach, and maybe leave and go shopping. He did not like this talk of politics and of the ANC.

Little did he know that within the coming days and weeks he would become committed to the Struggle to the point of risking his life for it.

.

……and later

 “Your house is the first one in which I have been allowed to drink from your cups, eat on your plates and eat with your cutlery. It just wasn't done in anyone else's home. It still isn't. And of course, I have never ever, except here, been able to use the family toilet, or even to wash anything but my hands in the bathroom or kitchen. I had a small, cracked toilet bowl behind a broken door with a chain that only sometimes pulled. Oh, and there was a tap, cold water only, from which I could wash, but no basin or anything. But I got used to living like that in all the places I went to. It was worse in places where they had 2 maids and then we would have to share the room and the bed, or I would usually prefer then, to sleep on the floor.

“But I managed. I worked hard from 6 am till 7 pm, unless I was baby sitting and then I could stay in the house till midnight or after.

“But I wasn't allowed to sit on the couch or anything like that. I would have to sit on the kitchen chair or on the floor.

“You are right about the holidays. I would only be able to take 2 weeks to go home and these two weeks would be when I could be 'spared'. And when I came back all the dishes for days would be piled up for me and the house would be stinking because no one would have cleaned it. And there were very few Xmases that I ever got home because people needed me to wash the dishes. But every week I was given off Thursday and Sunday afternoons after I had done my regular work.

“I never was given what the family ate . I was given my own meat to somehow cook. The butcher did and still does have inferior 'cuts' for 'boys' and 'girls' meat which we would be given. Sometimes I would be given leftovers but only when they were hardly edible or when they were going mouldy or bad.

“Sometimes people would give me their old clothes. At times these were ragged and unusable and some were good although a little out of fashion." She laughed, her brown eyes alight.

"Don't think we were sad or upset or bitter. We laughed and we laughed plenty and we loved and we cried. It wasn't all bad. We had our moments and we enjoyed ourselves, even though we were made to feel that we were second class or even third class citizens Are we citizens? We don't have a vote .

“Well, even though we were considered second or even third class citizens, I think in many ways we were happier than the first class ones."

………….The inevitable

Prison life was beyond anything he could ever have imagined and yet he soon guiltily realized that because he was white he was treated very differently from the black prisoners and this sickened him and in a way strengthened his resolve. He had to do everything within his power to change things.

He suddenly felt overwhelmingly weak. What could he do? What effect could he have: A man, a simple man, a white man? How could he truly understand the depth of pain his fellow South Africans were experiencing? How could he do anything?

And yet, because he was privileged and white, he had been told that he could make a contribution. He could infiltrate where they could not when they could never have a chance at infiltrating

Well he would have to concentrate on that, concentrate on the task he was given. But what use would he be to the AWB, and why would they recruit him? Why did they want him? Perhaps it was for the same reason, to infiltrate.

He had not been given any more instructions , just to get arrested, be in prison, allow them to work on him, and eventually , and not so easily, ‘break’ as it were, and move over into the enemy camp.

He shuddered. How were they going to break him? He of course did not like the thought at all. He had heard the screams and the cries of torture coming from the other cells and then the quiet whimpering as they were left alone by their interrogators and tormentors.

Even though he was given more privileges with his white bread and real plates and better, far better prison food, he was actually terrified of what was going to happen to him.

To the Rescue…

Glen immediately saw that Andries had been drinking again and he greeted him with an accentuated handshake.

"Hi Glen," he said. "I was just hoping you would come and help get through this boring evening. Did you bring any...."

"I brought some whisky", said Glen, "and some koeksusters, two dozen of them. Could we manage that?"

"We sure could," said the man, licking his lips. "I didn’t had a proper meal tonight. Stomach felt a little whoosey. koeksusters will be just what the doctor ordered."

"And I brought biltong", said Glen, knowing that the dried, salt meat would make the man so thirsty he would drink more and more.

The man chuckled in satisfaction as Glen opened the package.

"Peppermints too," said Glen, "just so  that no one will dream we have been drinking."

"Oh we never drink," said the man self righteously. "Just a little to keep our spirits up."

Glen sat with him for an hour, listening to the swearing of the prisoners and the occasional chant of songs. Yes, it must be difficult to be on night duty in a place like that, very very difficult.

"I must just stretch my legs", said Glen. "Which way shall I go?"  He looked around vaguely and then started to ascend the steps. They seemed endless. Why were there so many steps? He didn't remember that there had been so many.                                              

He quickly went to the end of the passage, counting the windows as he went.

Yes, this end cell had to be the one above the ghost. Nothing else was possible. It was the bathroom with the end toilet and washbasin which had been made into a tiny cell beneath. There was definitely no trap door. It was just not possible. He examined the toilet and the washbasin carefully . No, there definitely was nothing  that could go beneath them. There was absolutely no possibility.

Giving a sigh he descended the stairs, slowly this time, slowly enough to notice a small door about a third of the way down the stairs. Was it a cupboard? Was it possible, yes, was it possible that it led to a service floor between the two floors.

He tried the door but it would not budge. It was obviously locked. This might be the answer.

He came down and found the warder sprawled across the desk. "Hey, " he said, "I just found ..." but the man opened his eyes and looked at him and shut them again. One look at the empty whisky bottle was enough to explain his stuporous state.

But Glen was not taking too many chances. "I saw the strangest little door on the steps. Where does it lead to? Can I have a look? It really looks mysterious."

Again the man turned a glazed look at him.

Besides being available on  Createspace.com, this book is available on all the Amazon websites, both as an ebook and in paperback.

 In South Africa is is available from Kalahari Books..