Rhodesia Quotes

He realised at once that a mistake had been made: he had been sent the wrong hangover. Somewhere in northern Rhodesia there was a bull elephant who had got drunk on fermented marula fruit, rampaged through a nearby village, and fallen asleep in a ditch, and was now pleasantly surprised to find itself greeting the day with only the mild headache that follows a couple of bottles of good red wine… Perhaps if he got in touch with the relevant authorities he could get this unfortunate little mix-up corrected, but he would have to do so without moving his head or opening his eyes. Otherwise he would die from the pain.

The ideology of white supremacy, based on the subjugation of the black man in Rhodesia, denied the black man his full fundamental human rights and freedoms in his own native land and built a wall between black and white. The blacks decided, as the last resort, tha they were going to shoot down this wall; but the whites decided that this wall was to be maintained at any cost in spite of the glaring injustices inherent in it.

This is a story of Africa. A pioneer woman's journey north was merely the beginning.

I would say colonialism is a wonderful thing. It spread civilization to Africa. Before it they had no written language, no wheel as we know it, no schools, no hospitals, not even normal clothing.

A quarter of them came from countries overrun by the Nazis as well as from the Dominions: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Rhodesia and South Africa. There were so many Canadians that they formed separate RCAF squadrons, and so later did men from other countries, such as the Poles and French.

Among the Bemba of Northern Rhodesia, for example, it is said that to find a beehive with honey in the woods is good luck; to find two beehives is very good luck; to find three is witchcraft.

What I wanted was to get away. But the moon was too far beyond, and there were white bits under me, where the flesh was shredded off and the bone gleamed that famed ivory, and those below cowered and, if they were not quick enough, were spattered in blood. Then came the jolt, as of a fall, and I saw the leg was caught in an ungainly way in the smaller branches of a mutamba tree, the foot hooked, long like that infamous fruit.

The underestimation of Indigenous achievement was a deliberate tactic of British colonialism. Large structures of North American First Nations people were similarly ignored, or credited to earlier Europeans; and in South Africa, Cecil Rhodes made it illegal for anyone to mention the huge Shona structures found in what was once Rhodesia and is now Zimbabwe.

What had happened was that the formal pattern of black-and-white, mistress-and-servant, had been broken by the personal relation; and when a white man in Africa by accident looks into the eyes of a native and sees the human being (which it is his chief preoccupation to avoid), his sense of guilt, which he denies, fumes up in resentment and he brings down the whip.

The doctor in Murare is old - old for anybody. He is especially old for a doctor and especially old for an African. But he doesn´t have the luxury of retirement to look forward to. There aren´t enough doctors in Africa. Those who choose to become doctors here don´t do it for the money or because thy want to do good. They do it because they have to heal, the way most people need to breath or eat or love. They can´t stop. As long as they are alive, they will never not be a doctor. They can be old, or alcoholic or burnt-out, but they will always be a doctor.

The schools wear the blank faces of war buildings, their windows blown blind by rocks or guns or mortars. Their plaster is an acne of bullet marks. The huts and small houses crouch open and vulnerable; their doors are flimsy pieces of plyboard or sacks hanging and lank. Children and chickens and dogs scratch in the red, raw soil and stare at us as we drive through their open, eroding lives.

Our government doesn’t necessarily agree with Wilson’s Fourteen Points.” Maud nodded. “I suppose we’re against point five, about colonial peoples having a say in their own government.” “Exactly. What about Rhodesia, and Barbados, and India? We can’t be expected to ask the natives’ permission before we civilize them. Americans are far too liberal. And we’re dead against point two, freedom of the seas in war and peace.

among his very few belongings I found a small, green leather-bound booklet given “to Timothy Donald Fuller with the Compliments of the Ministry of Internal Affairs as a memento on becoming a citizen of Rhodesia at Umtali on 17th October, 1974.” Inside the pamphlet were a few of the sorts of things meant to inspire Rhodesian citizens onward and upward to greater things. A statue of Cecil John Rhodes, looking gouty; that was page 1.

stories involving the troubles in Northern Ireland, Morocco’s war for the Spanish Sahara, and a ring of traders violating the sanctions against Rhodesia. He was exhilarated by danger. Once in Belfast he insisted that we go cover a demonstration, when I was quite content to stay at the bar of the Europa Hotel. He showed me that even though the street clashes might seem violent and bloody on television, just a half block away things were calm and safe. Journalism required an eagerness to get up and go places. While we were out, a bomb went off at the Europa Hotel. Blundy insisted that this should serve as a lesson for me. I agreed. But when he was killed a few years later by a sniper’s bullet in El Salvador, I gave up trying to fathom the meaning of the lesson he wanted me to learn.

But the private life of a black woman, to say nothing of the private life of a black man, cannot really be considered at all. To consider this forbidden privacy is to violate white privacy -- by destroying the white dream of the blacks; to make black privacy a black and private matter makes white privacy real, for the first time: which is, indeed, and with a vengeance, to endanger the stewardship of Rhodesia. The situation of the white heroine must never violate the white self-image. Her situation must always transcend the inexorability of the social setting, so that her innocence may be preserved: Grace Kelly, when she shoots to kill at the end of 'High Noon,' for example, does not become a murderess. But the situation of the black heroine, to say nothing of the black hero, must always be left at society's mercy: in order to justify white history and in order to indicate the essential validity of the black condition.

If you're going to fail, make it spectacular so you can become famous.

In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, nearly 150,000 children were sent to Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and Rhodesia. They worked in harsh conditions, but the work was only part of their suffering. From the 1940s until 1967, about 10,000 children were shipped to Western Australia to work in the fields and live in orphanages. Physical and sexual abuse was rampant and only discovered in later years. In 2009, Australia’s prime minister formally apologized to those children who had suffered under the program, for what he called “the absolute tragedy of childhoods lost.

These are quite obviously the books that nobody reads,’ said Rocky, studying their titles. ‘But it’s a comfort to know that they are here if you ever should want to read them. I’m sure I should find them more entertaining than the more up-to-date ones. Wild Beasts and their Ways; Five Years with the Congo Cannibals; With Camera and Pen in Northern Nigeria; Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia. I wish people still wrote books with titles like that. Nowadays I believe it simply isn’t done to show a photograph of “The Author with his Pygmy Friends”—we have become too depressingly scientific.

Just don’t go outside if the dogs are barking.” “Are they vicious?” asked Janet nervously. “No, but if they start barking it means there are leopards nearby. I don’t want you wandering off to have a pee in front of a prowling leopard.” That night we took turns peeing in one of Mother’s Wellington boots.

With the first rays of dawn coming from a huge orange sun, rising out of the Indian Ocean from the East, the Dominion Monarch passed the Durban bluffs and entered the protected harbor. A police boat escorted the ship in and stood by as it was secured. Everybody crowded close to the railings and looked down onto the concrete dock. From the ship you could see that there were police cars blocking the entry to the wharf area and it became quite apparent that something was amiss. The reason was soon made clear when the loudspeakers announced that before clearing the ship, everyone on board would be required to get a smallpox vaccination or present their international immunization card, to verify that they were in compliance. There had been an outbreak of smallpox and yellow fever throughout Africa especially in the Cape Province and in tribal areas. During the previous year, nearby Northern Rhodesia had reported several thousand cases of these diseases. It took hours, however everyone was happy when the health officials finally came aboard to do the vaccinating. The police boat lay in wait, until every last one of the passengers was immunized. Finally the announcement came that the ship was cleared so that we could go ashore. Not until then did the band strike up and play “God Save the King.

The deserters and dissenters expelled from the party formed RENAMO, a rebel group committed to snatching power from FRELIMO. Supported by South Africa and Rhodesia, who did not want a socialist government on their doorsteps, RENAMO conducted a campaign of terror, destabalisation and plunder, murdered hundreds of thousands of Mozambicans. It was a tragedy and travesty of the worst kind. It was a conflict that surpassed the brutality of the war in Vietnam: RENAMO, it was said, outdid the Cambodian Khmer Rouge in cruelty, perpetrating some of the most inhumane acts against their own people, with the full knowledge, support and encouragement of Mozambique’s white-ruled neighbours. [280]

With the first rays of dawn coming from a huge orange sun, rising out of the Indian Ocean from the East, the Dominion Monarch passed the Durban bluffs and entered the protected harbor. A police boat escorted the ship in and stood by as it was secured. Everybody crowded close to the railings and looked down onto the concrete dock. From the ship you could see that there were police cars blocking the entry to the wharf area and it became quite apparent that something was amiss. The reason was soon made clear when the loudspeakers announced that before clearing the ship, everyone on board would be required to get a smallpox vaccination or present their international immunization card, to verify that they were in compliance. There had been an outbreak of smallpox and yellow fever throughout Africa especially in the Cape Province and in tribal areas. During the previous year, nearby Northern Rhodesia had reported several thousand cases of these diseases. The police boat lay in wait, until every last one of the passengers was immunized. It took hours, however everyone was happy when the health officials finally came aboard to do the vaccinating. Finally the announcement came that the ship was cleared so that we could go ashore. Not until then did the band strike up and play “God Save the King.

I want to single out one man in particular who spoilt Mugabe - Rugare Gumbo- who is still in the government. He had been in charge of publicity in the Chitepo-led external group before Mugabe left Rhodesia. He was a very effective propagandist, an ideologue. He began preaching Marxism. Mugabe liked the sound of this ideology and before long, he had completely fallen for it and begun to sing the Marxism/Leninism song. But that's all it was - rhetoric. There was no genuine vision or belief behind it.

But he knew the support of the local populace was essential and wanted to have the resistance establish their credentials with the local people before lashing out at the enemy. Mao’s dictum was clear in his mind: the insurgent is like the fish, the people are the sea. Once local support was established, he would switch to a more aggressive role and take his fledgling army onto the offensive.

Walls, like most generals, quite correctly relied on junior officers to do all his staff work for him,” recalls an officer who worked with him. “Not having a personal staff officer at his side was certainly seen as very unusual.

He was extremely calm under pressure and could out-think the enemy even when the odds were stacked against him and his fighters.

He was a born leader and could get his men to do the impossible and always had a good chuckle after the battle was won as he saw the funny side of many a contact.

He kept us committed and positive and this came from dedication and combat experience. “Darrell

A forgotten hero but remembered by us few who served with him and are alive today with wives and children because of one unselfish, remarkable man. We were crazy about this calm, relentless bush-fighter who loved his job and his country; when you look at the evil in the modern world I know we need more people like him. The war is over for us but I, Sergeant Mike West of the C Squadron Rhodesian SAS, want to thank you for your outstanding leadership and devotion to duty and to us, your soldiers; for leading us into battle with the ferocity of a grizzly bear and being a dear friend when we were back in Civvy Street. I know I speak for one and all when I say you are always in our thoughts.” A

I never fought for racial domination. I fought against a force that I thought would destroy the country I loved. Sadly we soldiers were not allowed to complete our task and I have been proved right. Zimbabwe is a ruined country. This is the truth from my heart.

Amazingly,” says Watt, “I never saw anyone throw in the towel despite the strain. Pride in the regiment and being part of this unusual brotherhood made them determined to stay the course. Incredible when you bear in mind some of them were barely out of school and others had not yet even started to shave.

Before stopping, even if it was just for a smoke, we would do a dog-leg: walk past the point where we were going to rest, then double-back and hide where we could see our incoming tracks. Anyone tracking us would follow the spoor past our position and the sentry would raise the alarm. This tactic saved many lives.

Success is assured through achievement. Fame through spectacular failure.

I believe this quasi-religious attitude explains the repeated misunderstandings and deficiencies of revolutionary Marxism in the face of all the major events that have accompanied decolonization—such as the secessions of Katanga and Rhodesia, the Biafra war, and even the Algerian war and the Israeli-Arab conflict. Marxists seem to circle round and round these problems without knowing from which angle to tackle them. Innumerable ‘mini-theories’ are produced that contradict one another; words are refuted by other words; and no current doctrine of imperialism is accepted by more than a small group, even within the great ‘left-wing’ parties themselves on those occasions when reflection is encouraged, allowed or simply tolerated. This confusion becomes unbearable when the inadequacy of the old concepts is recognized and people try to save them with a multitude of deductive developments instead of firmly replacing them by new ones.

The young man outside. But he is not part of the unreality; he is for good now. Odd…somewhere there was an idea that he, that living with him, was part of the holiday, the strange places. [...] The heat of shame mounted through her legs and body and sounded in her ears like the sound of sand pouring. Pouring, pouring. She sat there, sick. A weariness, a tastelessness, the discovery of a void made her hands slacken their grip, atrophy emptily, as if the hour was not worth their grasp. She was feeling like this again. She had thought it was something to do with singleness, with being alone and belonging too much to oneself. She sat there not wanting to move or speak, or to look at anything even; so that the mood should be associated with nothing, no object, word, or sight that might recur and so recall the feeling again….Smuts blew in grittily, settled on her hands. Her back remained at exactly the same angle, turned against the young man sitting with his hands drooping between his sprawled legs, and the lion, fallen on its side in the corner. The train had cast the station like a skin. It called out to the sky, I’m coming, I’m coming; and again, there was no answer.

She remembered her own mother tucking her into bed and explaining the reality of life in Rhodesia: if someone with mal intent enters our property, they have declared war on our family.

What if I don’t want to join the army?” I asked, guardedly. I certainly didn’t want to be cornered into something which sounded worse than boarding school. “Then you might have to go to jail,” responded Mother gravely.

Quite how a magazine of live rounds ended up in my particular gun was never fully established, even after an exhaustive inquiry. I was reasonably certain, even with the dislike I had for some of my teachers, that I hadn’t personally been responsible.

He didn’t possess a single hair on his scalp and saw no reason why anybody else should either. We emerged from our encounter with our heads resembling freshly-plucked turkey breasts.

I remember an old scout in Rhodesia, who had done many queer things in his day, once telling me that the secret of playing a part was to think yourself into it. You could never keep it up, he said, unless you could manage to convince yourself that you were it.

On the wall facing him was an oil painting of two Spitfires taking off, a none-too-subtle reminder of the prime minister’s war record for the British, his having flown for their air force. The painting had been a gift to the PM from a group of British supporters a decade or so earlier. A lot had happened since, although there were still a few in Britain who believed in white Rhodesia. The rest of the room was decorated in the usual heavy government style: wall-to-wall red carpet, curlicued lintels over the door and, despite the heat, thick curtains in a hideous floral pattern framing the windows.

His loyalty was to Rhodesia, and he would do whatever it took to ensure it remained under white rule – ‘in civilised hands’, as Smith himself had once put it. And Campbell-Fraser was prepared to work without Smith’s knowledge, or even against him, if he felt it was in Rhodesia’s best interests.

The Commander hates the Brits.’ As do I, he felt like adding. ‘He doesn’t usually stand for “God Save the Queen”, it’s true, but Roy and I go back a long way. And we happen to have complementary aims here, which is of course the continuation of white rule in Rhodesia. Strange bedfellows and all that.

Andrew Young,

Both good and bad were destroyed and thrown on the rubbish dump of war

To beat or destroy your enemy, you’ll have to first find him and bring him to battle

Propaganda is a deadly weapon when used against the uneducated

Rules of Engagement had consequences for those who fought with everything they had, far beyond the end of the war

To pass yourself off as a terrorist was no easy task. The pressure was continuous, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. You were operating in a world where a slip of the tongue, a wrong item of clothing could cost you and your team their lives.

Skuzapo label: a soldier who was not black or white but simply a vital half of one soldier

European-run plantations were a feature of parts of Mozambique, Angola and the Belgian Congo. But these were not comparable to the individual, small settler estates characteristic of Kenya or Rhodesia.

It is impossible to say how many innocent black men in the colonies that became Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), Australia, and the United States were jailed or killed on the pretext of having victimized a white

You can practise as often as you like,” says Jordan, “but I challenge anyone to simulate this situation and the feeling that hits you. The desire, want and need to just run like hell is so strong but you have to remain perfectly calm and collected because that is what is going to save your life.”86

Through lions, pestilence and loneliness a pioneering family had won itself a place in the sun but at a price and one, it appeared, they had not finished settling.

Exactly. What about Rhodesia, and Barbados, and India? We can’t be expected to ask the natives’ permission before we civilize them.

Israel sold defense equipment to disreputable regimes from the outset. These states include Burma in the 1950s in its war against a communist insurgency. Its most successful early weapon was the Uzi gun, first designed in the late 1940s shortly after the birth of Israel. It has sold Uzis in more than ninety countries and they’re featured in the militaries of Sri Lanka, Rhodesia [today’s Zimbabwe], Belgium, and Germany.

Our history of the last 20 years seems to have been one long series of retreats and humiliations, from Suez to Aden, from Cyprus to Rhodesia,’ he lamented, in a mournful ode to the symbols of Britain’s faded power.

Southern Rhodesia who was reading geology. I tutored

Beyond the desire to give U.S. prestige a shot in the arm, Kissinger justified his policy by arguing that an MPLA victory would encourage armed struggle and subvert Vorster’s détente in southern Africa. He was right, but South Africa’s détente was, as Neto said, a “chimera,” and violence was inevitable as long as apartheid ruled South Africa, a racist regime dominated Rhodesia, and Namibia was occupied. Just as the MPLA’s victory in Angola brought hope to South African blacks, strengthened SWAPO, and spurred the United States to seek majority rule in Rhodesia, so IAFEATURE’s success would have strengthened the forces of racism and apartheid in southern Africa. And what for? To teach Brezhnev the rules of détente?

What I could have explored is how the human mind – our minds – continually try to soften and hide bad experience, by deliberately forgetting or distorting. The way not only individual minds, but collective minds – a country’s, a continent’s – will forget a horror. The most famous example is the Great Flu Epidemic of 1919–1920, when twenty-nine million people all over the world died, but it is left out of the history books, is not in the collective consciousness. Humanity’s mind is set to forget disaster. That was the contention of Velikovsky, whose story of our solar system’s possible history is dismissed by the professionals, though surely some of what he said has turned out to be true. There is certainly nothing in the human consciousness of the successive calamitous ice ages, and we – humanity – lived through more than one. There are glimpses in old tales of great floods, but that is about it. In the book which I failed to write would be implicit the question: Is it a good thing that every generation decides to forget the bad or cruel experience of the one before? That the Great War (for instance), such a calamity for Europe, became the ‘Great Unmentionable’ – which made my father and other soldiers, of France and Germany, feel as if they were being nullified, discounted, were just so much human rubbish. That five or six years after that terrible civil war in Southern Rhodesia, the new young generation had forgotten and ‘didn’t want to know’. Well … it could have been a good book.

Back in London, on news of the atrocity, Dr Owen was asked to comment. He expressed reluctance to do so while awaiting confirmation as to the identity of the perpetrators. He was holding out the possibility the Rhode-sians had shot their own aircraft down then bayoneted the survivors to death. He refused to condemn the obvious and never did. It was an awkward situation in which he again found himself: the killers had acted on behalf of a leader who the British government refused to criticise.

From the mid-1970s, Christian organizations would begin to play a more prominent role in international politics, supporting causes associated with America’s resurgent nationalist right. Some worked with the American Security Council to oppose disarmament treaties and defend Ian Smith’s white government in Rhodesia.

We are living in a time of great white evil. They are dehumanizing blacks in South Africa and Rhodesia, they fermented what happened in the Congo, they won’t let American blacks vote, they won’t let the Australian aborigines vote, but the worst of all is what they are doing here. This defense pact is worse than apartheid and segregation, but we don’t realize it.

was not until 1925, eight years after the Balfour Declaration, that Chaim Weizmann warned: "Palestine is not Rhodesia and 600,000 Arabs live there who . . . have exactly the same rights to their homes as we have to our National Home.

Hutt defended the property restrictions designed to protect white-minority rule as a bulwark against “ ‘one man, one vote’ tyranny,” calling Rhodesia “the most promising deliberate attempt the world has ever seen at creating a wholly democratic, multi-racial society.”188 As paradoxical as it might sound, Hutt argued that it was precisely by denying universal suffrage that true democracy could be realized.

Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia) is a classic case. After its independence, the leftist government nationalized (confiscated) many of the farms previously owned by white settlers. The most desirable of these lands became occupied by the government's senior ruling-party officials, and the rest were turned into state-run collectives. They were such miserable failures that the workers on these farmlands were, themselves, soon begging for food. Not daunted by these failures, the socialist politicians announced in 1991 that they were going to nationalize half of the remaining farms as well. And they barred the courts from inquiring into how much compensation would be paid to their owners.

With modern medicine we’ve cut the child mortality rate in Rhodesia by eighty per cent in the last fifty years.” “They won’t remember that. They’ll want their land back. Like the Russian peasants. People always want what they haven’t got. They don’t see hard work and knowledge as a prerequisite for making a success of their lives.

The Duke of Newcastle, as lord of the Manor of Worksop, was entitled to supply a glove for the sovereign’s right hand and to support that hand when Elizabeth clasped the royal sceptre. Unfortunately, the duke had gone off to live in Rhodesia in 1948, and he showed no inclination to come back for the day.

The international press does not discuss the issue — it is taboo — but, since the end of apartheid and the establishment of a Black government, South Africa is slowly sinking into barbarism. The first to suffer from it are, of course, the Blacks themselves. Some of them (as happened in Rhodesia, Algeria and elsewhere) are beginning to miss ‘White power’ . . . Unemployment has tripled since the abolition of apartheid and crime rates are today the highest in the world: 12,000 murders and 50,000 rapes a year. 95 per cent of the victims are Black. Heavily guarded by militias, the wealthy Whites live in the cities, surrounded by electrified barbed-wire fences. The situation is paradoxical but explicable. Since the inauguration of Black power the difference in the standard of living between Blacks and Whites has increased by 10 per cent to the advantage of the Whites and de facto apartheid has become much more marked than under the old de jure apartheid.

Arguments for war based on the principle of 'setting the world an example' are always dangerous. They can be used to justify quite disproportionate responses, as occurred in South-east Asia in the 1960s and 1970s. They tend to be selective: why for instance did Britain not use force in 1965 to uphold the concept of majority self-determination in Rhodesia?

Retired missionaries taught us Arts & Crafts each July at Bible Camp: how to glue the kidney, navy, and pinto bean into mosaics, and how to tool the stenciled butterfly on copper sheets they'd cut for us. At night, after hymns, they'd cut the lights and show us slides: wide-spread trees, studded with corsage; saved women tucking T-shirts into wrap-around batiks; a thatched church whitewashed in the equator's light. Above the hum of the projector I could hear the insects flick their heads against the wind screens, aiming for the brightness of that Africa. If Jesus knocks on your heart, be ready to say, "Send me, O Lord, send me," a teacher told us confidentially, doling out her baggies of dried corn. I bent my head, concentrating hard on my tweezers as I glued each colored kernel into a rooster for Mother's kitchen wall. But Jesus noticed me and started to knock. Already saved, I looked for signs to show me what else He would require. At rest hour, I closed my eyes and flipped my Bible open, slid my finger, ouija-like, down the page, and there was His command: Go and do ye likewise— Let the earth and all it contains hear— Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire—. Thursday night, at revival service, I held out through Trust and Obey, Standing on the Promises, Nothing But the Blood, but crumpled on Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling, promising God, cross my heart, I'd witness to Rhodesia. Down the makeshift aisle I walked with the other weeping girls and stood before the little bit of congregation left singing in their metal chairs. The bathhouse that night was silent, young Baptists moving from shower to sink with the stricken look of nuns. Inside a stall, I stripped, slipped my clothes outside the curtain, and turned for the faucet— but there, splayed on the shower's wall, was a luna moth, the eye of its wings fixed on me. It shimmered against the cement block: sherbet-green, plumed, a flamboyant verse lodged in a page of drab ink. I waved my hands to scare it out, but, blinkless, it stayed latched on. It let me move so close my breath stroked the fur on its animal back. One by one the showers cranked dry. The bathhouse door slammed a final time. I pulled my clothes back over my sweat, drew the curtain shut, and walked into a dark pricked by the lightening bugs' inscrutable morse.

Times change, wars change The very things we fight for change But, at the bottom Is still the common soldier. —CHAS LOTTER

We had entered the museum together, but soon I was separated from the group. I lingered near the start of the display, fascinated as well as repelled, transported to the days of my youth in Rhodesia, as I listened to an interview. It was a filmed interview, on a loop, and so the images and the words recurred at regular intervals. A white woman, in her mid-thirties, speaking with those clipped southern African vowels, was setting out her concerns about majority rule. I cannot remember any more detail. But in familiar code-word language, in a reasonable tone, quite matter of fact, as if spelling out the obvious, she justified an evil system. Over, and over, and over again. It became the voice I had heard throughout my youth, and beyond. I watched and listened, mesmerised by this voice from the fifties. Then it hit me. I was overwhelmed by a great wash of sadness for generations lost during the scourge of apartheid. Not just for the millions who died, directly or indirectly, victims of war or preventable disease; but for the might-have-beens, the should-have-beens, the could-have-beens: the unread writers, the unheard musicians, the uncelebrated athletes, the talented and the ordinary – lost to Africa, lost to the world, sacrificed to prejudice. Suddenly and unexpectedly, I was weeping. Or to put it bluntly, I sobbed. There was none of the dignity that can be associated with the word ‘weep’. These were not discreet tears, not dignified drops, rolling down my cheeks. My shoulders shook and my nose ran copiously.