South Africa’s ‘Border War’: Contested Narratives and Conflicting Memories 9781472509710, 9781474210973, 9781472508249

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

War, Culture and Society Series Editor: Stephen McVeigh, Associate Professor, Swansea University, UK Editorial Board: Paul Preston LSE, UK Joanna Bourke Birkbeck, University of London, UK Debra Kelly University of Westminster, UK Patricia Rae Queen’s University, Ontario, Canada James J. Weingartner Southern Illinois University, USA (Emeritus) Kurt Piehler Florida State University, USA Ian Scott University of Manchester, UK War, Culture and Society is a multi- and interdisciplinary series which encourages the parallel and complementary military, historical and socio-cultural investigation of 20th- and 21st-century war and conflict. Published: The British Imperial Army in the Middle East, James Kitchen (2014) The Testimonies of Indian Soldiers and the Two World Wars, Gajendra Singh (2014) Forthcoming: Cultural Responses to Occupation in Japan, Adam Broinowski (2014) 9/11 and the American Western, Stephen McVeigh (2014) Filming the End of the Holocaust, John Michalczyk (2014) Jewish Volunteers, the International Brigades and the Spanish Civil War, Gerben Zaagsma (2014) Military Law, the State, and Citizenship in the Modern Age, Gerard Oram (2014) The Japanese Comfort Women and Sexual Slavery during the China and Pacific Wars, Caroline Norma (2015) The Lost Cause of the Confederacy and American Civil War Memory, David J. Anderson (2016)

South Africa’s ‘Border War’ Contested Narratives and Conflicting Memories

Gary Baines

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

LON DON • OX F O R D • N E W YO R K • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway London New York WC1B 3DP NY 10018 UK USA www.bloomsbury.com Bloomsbury is a registered trade mark of Bloomsbury Publishing PLC First published 2014 Paperback edition first published 2015 © Gary Baines, 2014 Gary Baines has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4725-0971-0 PB: 978-1-4742-5505-9 ePDF: 978-1-4725-0824-9 ePub: 978-1-4725-0566-8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. Printed and bound in Great Britain

Table of contents Preface Acknowledgements Figures Glossary of Abbreviations, Acronyms and Terms Introduction 1 Writing on the Wrong Side of History? SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War 2 The Cultural Construction of Combat: Narrative Templates of the Border War 3 Codes of Conduct in Captivity: Narratives of South African POWs in Angola, 1975–1978 4 Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and Victimhood: A South African War Veteran’s Story 5 The Battle for Cassinga: Competing Narratives and Complicating Histories 6 The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale: Successful Stalemate and Vicarious Victory 7 Digging Up the Past: Revisiting the 1989 Namibian Ceasefire Violation 8 The Spectre of Vietnam: Lessons and Legacies of the Border War 9 The Freedom Park Fracas: Commemorating and Memorializing the Border War 10 Fictive Kinship: The National Service Generation and Veteran Networks Conclusion Notes Bibliography Index

vi vii ix x 1 13 31 51 73 89 105 121 137 155 171 187 194 245 262

Preface For the sake of full disclosure, it should be noted that I am a former South African Defence Force (SADF) conscript and hence a veteran. I make no claim to speak on their behalf though. In fact, many of my opinions are at odds with those of large segments of this ‘community of remembrance’. Nor did I set out to write myself into this (hi)story. But it would be disingenuous or dishonest to deny that I have something personal invested in this project. It is easy to suspend critical judgment in a public culture which has a heightened sensitivity towards the personal experience of war-related (and other) trauma. There is the danger of the expression of personal emotion displacing historical analysis. So while I have some sympathy for SADF veterans, it is not my intention to ‘whitewash’ their defence of a fundamentally unjust political system. I have no wish to become an unwitting accomplice in the articulation of racist right-wing views. But neither would I want to deny their existence. So I believe that SADF veterans are accorded a voice and a fair but critical treatment throughout this book. Grahamstown August 2013

Acknowledgements This book has been a long time in the making. During this time I have incurred numerous debts to those who have provided information and given of their time. In certain instances assistance was solicited and in others volunteered. Whatever the case, it was given willingly. This venture started out as the South African War Veterans Project that was funded by SANPAD (South African Netherlands Research Programme on Alternatives in Development). My Dutch-based partners, Graeme Goldsworthy and Joop de Jong, helped to get the project off the ground. The team was immeasurably strengthened by the sagacity of my colleague from the Rhodes University Psychology Department, Lindy Wilbraham. Theresa Edlmann, who joined the project as a PhD student, became its pivot. She obtained additional funding from Atlantic Philanthropies that enabled the project to morph into a new phase known as The Legacies of Apartheid Wars (LAWs) Project. Situated in the Rhodes History Department under my nominal leadership, LAWs has been directed by Theresa with purpose and aplomb. Although my own work has happened in tandem with the SANPAD and LAWs projects, it has benefitted enormously from contact and engagement with many persons who have shared their life stories with me and the group. It has been an enriching (and occasionally emotionally exhausting) experience. I wish to express my thanks to the following people who have provided me with photographs and permitted me to include them in this publication: Dudley Baines, John Liebenberg and Mike McWilliams. I have also received assistance from the archivists at the Documentation Centre of the Department of Defence, especially from Steve de Agrela. My research has taken me further afield to the SWAPO archives at the Basler Afrika Bibliographien, a visit facilitated by Dag Henrichsen. Another Namibian, Jan-Bart Gewald, hosted me at the African Studies Centre in Leiden in the Netherlands, where I spent three months writing up material that appears in this book. During the course of my researching and writing, I was provided with useful information and insights by colleagues working in related fields of research or interested in my project. Collegial exchanges with Anthony Akerman, Steve

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Acknowledgements

Davis, Luise White, Rob McNamara, Sue Onslow, Richard Dale, Janet Cherry, Christopher Saunders, Pieter Wolfaardt and John Daniel proved invaluable to me. I also owe a debt of gratitude to fellow SADF veterans Cameron Blake, Clive Holt, Robert Wilson, Graham Danney, Paul Morris and Lew Gerber, as well as retired professional soldiers Jan Breytenbach and McGill Alexander. They answered questions, agreed to interviews and provided me with materials from their personal collections. I am also grateful to Mary Corrigall, the Books Editor at the Sunday Independent, who has supplied me with a steady stream of review copies of books related to the ‘Border War’. This has recently become a minor ‘industry’ amongst publishers and Mary has enabled me to keep track of developments in the field. None of the above-mentioned individuals should be held responsible for any errors and omissions in this text. I also wish to acknowledge permission from the publishers of the following journals for allowing me to reproduce material from articles that I published therein: South African Historical Journal, Social Dynamics, Safundi: The Journal of South African and American Studies and Scientia Militaria: South African Journal of Military Studies. Earlier versions of two chapters in this book were also published by Berghahn Books and the University of Cape Town Press, who have allowed me to reproduce them. Full details of these articles and chapters are to be found in the bibliography. I wish to dedicate this book to my wife and partner, Angela, who has had to put up with bouts of writing in which I became virtually incommunicado. Thanks, Ang, for understanding why I had to see it through.

Figures Figure 3.1 POW Robert Wilson paraded before the media, Luanda, 16 December 1975 Figure 3.2 Family reunion, Waterkloof Air Base, 2 September 1978 (Jan Hamman) Figure 5.1 Mass grave, Cassinga (Gaetano Pagano) Figure 5.2 Massacre at Kassinga (Pagano/Asberg) Figure 6.1 SADF convoy entering Namibia, 30 August 1988 (John Liebenberg) Figure 7.1 Mass grave near Oshakati (John Liebenberg) Figure 7.2 Eenhana Shrine showing female PLAN combatant (John Liebenberg) Figure 8.1 S.A.’s Vietnam (ECC Archives, University of the Witwatersrand) Figure 9.1 Fort Klapperkop Statue of Uniformed Soldier (Dudley Baines) Figure 9.2 Fort Klapperkop Memorial Wall (Dudley Baines) Figure 9.3 The Wall of Names, Freedom Park (Gary Baines)

55 67 97 98 108 123 126 137 157 158 161

Glossary of Abbreviations, Acronyms and Terms AK-47 ANC APLA BWS Casevac Casspir

CCB CCC CEO COIN COSAWR CPR Cuca Cutline DA DDR DSM DTA DMZ ECC FAPLA

Russian-designed and manufactured assault rifle African National Congress Azanian People’s Liberation Army, the PAC’s armed wing Breaking the Wall of Silence, a Namibian movement that publicizes the detention of SWAPO members in camps Casualty evacuation An acronym of SAP (South African Police) and CSIR (Council for Scientific and Industrial Research) who collaborated to develop an armoured personnel carrier that is able to withstand mine blasts Civil Co-operation Bureau Cultural Code of Captivity Chief executive officer Counterinsurgency Committee of South African War Resisters, an exile organization that opposed military conscription Certified Personnel Register A small shop found in Namibian homesteads named after a Portuguese-Angolan beer A cleared strip or DMZ (see below) that served as a boundary between Namibia and Angola Democratic Alliance Democratization, demobilization and reintegration Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the US medical fraternity’s bible Democratic Turnhalle Alliance Demilitarized zone where all people are treated as the enemy End Conscription Campaign Popular Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola – armed forces of the MPLA (see below) government in Angola

Glossary of Abbreviations, Acronyms and Terms

G5/G6 HNP HTML ICRC ICT IFP JMMC Koevoet LAARSA MFA MIAs MiG MK MOD MOTH MPLA NGK NIS NP NSG NSMS

NCO NGO OAU PAC PLAN PMP POWs PTSD

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Artillery cannon manufactured by Denel to combat the Russianbuilt Stalin organ Herstigde Nasionale Party (Reformed National Party) Hypertext markup language International Committee of the Red Cross Information and Communication Technology Inkatha Freedom Party, the Zulu nationalist group led by Gatsha Buthelezi Joint Military Monitoring Committee Afrikaans for crowbar. Official name for the unit was South West African Police Counter-Insurgency (SWAPOLCOIN) Legion of the Associated Airborne R.S.A., an organisation of exSADF paratroopers Minister of Foreign Affairs Missing in actions Russian-built Mikojam and Gurevich fighter-interceptor aircraft Umkhonto we Sizwe (‘Spear of the Nation’), the ANC’s armed wing Minster of Defence The Memorable Order of the Tin Hats, an ex-servicemen’s association Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk (Dutch Reformed Church) National Intelligence Service National Party, the ruling political party in South Africa, 1948–1994 National Service Generation National Security Management System, the network that exercised executive control of South Africa during the presidency of P. W. Botha Non-Commissioned Officer Non-governmental organization Organisation of African Unity Pan Africanist Congress People’s Liberation Army of Namibia, SWAPO’s armed wing Parliamentary Millennium Project Prisoners of war Post-traumatic stress disorder

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R1/4 Ratel

Glossary of Abbreviations, Acronyms and Terms

South African 7.62mm calibre rifle modelled on the Belgian FN Afrikaans for ‘badger’. A personnel carrier fitted with a 20mm or 90mm weapon Recces Members of the SADF’s reconnaissance or special forces RPG Russian-designed shoulder-mounted rocket launcher that fires armour-piercing 85mm rounds SAAF South African Air Force SABC South African Broadcasting Corporation SADF South African Defence Force SANDF South African National Defence Force SAP South African Police SCF Southern Cross Fund SWA South West Africa, now called Namibia SWAPO South West Africa People’s Organisation SWAPOL South West African Police SWATF South West African Territorial Force TRC Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa UDF United Democratic Front UK United Kingdom UN United Nations UNSC United Nations Security Council UNITA National Union for the Total Independence of Angola UNSC United Nations Security Council UNTAG United Nations Transitional Assistance Group US(A) United States of America ZANLA-PF Zimbabwean African National Liberation Army – Patriotic Front, the military wing of the Zimbabwean African National Union led by Robert Mugabe

Introduction It is axiomatic that wars do not end with the cessation of hostilities; they have an afterlife. Wars continue to affect veterans and society more generally for a long time after the shooting is over. If the end of war carries with it an obligation to remember, and ‘the silence and disinterest of the many empower the few to shape the memory of the past for all’,1 it begs to ask these questions: who are ‘the few’ and how do they fashion the memory of a war? And what meaning(s) do they ascribe to it? This book addresses such questions with respect to South Africa’s ‘Border War’. Its thesis is that the meaning of ‘Border War’ is neither fixed nor inscribed in the event itself but shaped by mnemonic communities after the fact. These communities are comprised of memory makers or agents who fashion and memory bearers who accept, reject or reinterpret the dominant meaning of an event. Collective memory is negotiated at the interface between those responsible for the imposition of a dominant public narrative and individuals or members of a minority mnemonic group. As Timothy Ashplant and his collaborators aver, In all societies, different social groups have a differential power to make their meanings and memories central and defining. The weaker and more marginalized have less access to the agencies of either state or civil society, and less capacity to influence prevailing narratives or to project their own into wider arenas.2

These arenas are characterized by an unstable and dynamic power relationship that ‘approximates to a site of contestation which is constantly subject to changing individual and social forces’.3

The nomenclature of the Border War The contestation over the meaning of the ‘Border War’ begins with the name itself. Naming (and more so, renaming) is a political act. As Natasha Norman has it, ‘[t]he very naming of this war denotes the conflict of ideologies inherent in its opposing forces’.4 The term ‘Border War’ entered the discourse of white

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

South Africans in the late 1970s and is well established in the public domain, as well as the literature. Its common usage is exactly why the term must be problematized. My insertion of the term ‘Border War’ in scare quotes invites readers to do just that. Conventional military histories of the ‘Border War’ focus primarily on the war waged by the South African Defence Force (SADF) in Namibia and Angola.5 The standard narrative commences with the combined security forces’ attack on the South West Africa People’s Organisation (SWAPO) base at Omgulumbashe in 1966. It tracks the ‘hot pursuit’ operations and invasions of Angola launched by the SADF against SWAPO, which occasionally brought it into direct conflict with the armed forces of Angola, as well as those of its ally, Cuba. But this narrative pays rather less attention to the fact that the SADF occupied large swathes of southern Angola for extended periods in support of its Angolan surrogate force, UNITA (the Movement for the Total Independence of Angola) between 1975 and 1988. Most of these accounts also fail to mention that SADF bases in Namibia were situated in an illegally occupied territory, or that cross-border operations and large-scale incursions violated the integrity of neighbouring states, especially Angola. What they do stress is that the SADF was shielding South African citizens from the twin threats of communism and black nationalism, known in the Afrikaans language as the rooi/swart gevaar (red/black danger), respectively. Thus the term ‘Border War’ was used by the apartheid state to perpetuate the fiction that SADF troops were protecting South Africa’s border and not actually fighting on foreign soil.6 Certain commentators have employed specific terms such as ‘bush war’, ‘apartheid wars’ or ‘thirty years war’ for the conflict. Each of these terms has a connotation that is slightly different from others’. Proponents of ‘bush war’ tend to limit the scope of their inquiry to the fighting by armed formations in the veld (or bush) rather than asking uncomfortable questions about the political dimension of the conflict.7 Conversely, those who favour ‘apartheid wars’ suggest that the root causes of the conflict are the colonialism and white supremacy in the subcontinent.8 The last of these terms offers more of a periodization than a description of the conflict, commencing with the armed liberation struggle in the early 1960s and ending with the demise of white minority rule in the 1990s.9 However, none of these terms quite does justice to the complex nature of the conflict, as it was a combination of civil, (counter-)insurgency and conventional warfare; what US military theorist John McCuen has called a ‘hybrid war’.10 A term favoured by the current ruling parties in southern Africa is ‘national liberation struggle’. So, for instance, SWAPO describes the conflict against the

Introduction

3

South African security forces as part of an anti-colonial struggle that can be traced back to the Herero uprising of 1904–1907 against German rule, which they refer to as Namibia’s war of national liberation.11 This term positions SWAPO as being in pursuit of ideological and military objectives diametrically opposed to those of the apartheid regime.12 But the term ‘national’ is a misnomer when it comes to the liberation struggle. The armies of the liberation movements of Southern Africa tended to be based in, and fight from, countries other than the ones they were struggling to liberate. In some cases, guerrillas remained in camps located in other sub-Saharan countries for the duration of their exile. Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), the ANC’s armed wing, is a case in point. From bases in Angola, MK did fight alongside FAPLA (Peoples’ Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola) against UNITA, in that country’s civil war. MK launched some successful sabotage operations within South Africa, but it never established a liberated zone in the country.13 Although a more formidable fighting force, PLAN did not do so either. Neither organization returned as a victorious fighting force. Exile was the primary zone of struggle of the national liberation movements.14 Whereas military correspondent Willem Steenkamp holds that the ‘Border War’ and South Africa’s liberation struggle were ‘separate issues’ because the SADF and armed cadres of the liberation movements ‘never clashed operationally in any significant way’,15 I believe they were two sides of the same coin. It is true that the liberation armies never developed the capacity to wage anything but a low-intensity war of insurgency and so they chose their battles accordingly. But this was partly because Rhodesia (until 1980) and Namibia served to buffer the white minority regime from direct attacks. In fact, the SADF were deployed as part of the security forces that combated infiltration into the country by MK and APLA (Azanian Peoples’ Liberation Army) and crushed insurrection in the townships. The wider regional conflict was inextricably linked to South Africa’s struggle even if combatants fought one another in other countries. South Africa’s civil war was very much part of the regional struggle for decolonization that occurred within the context of the late Cold War.16 Thus the war had closely intertwined local, regional and global dimensions. ‘[T]he naming of war is closely bound up with attempts to frame the significance of a conflict in relation to competing constructions of meaning; and, as such, provides a basis for the contestation of war memory’.17 So ‘Border War’ is not a neutral term and the nomenclature is contested. The politics of naming is part of a broader struggle to make particular meanings dominant. However, my use of the term ‘Border War’ in this study should not be construed as endorsing

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

the apartheid state’s use of violence against its enemies as legitimate. Nor should its use be seen as implying acceptance of the official rhetoric of the apartheid regime, which justified waging an undeclared war in Namibia and Angola (and destabilizing other so-called ‘frontline states’). The title of this book should not be seen to imply that the ‘Border War’ belongs to (white) South Africans nor that its focus on their experiences is at the expense of other participants and victims.

Mnemonic communities and memory wars In order to understand the source of the contestations over the meaning of the ‘Border War’, we need to examine the concepts of collective memories and mnemonic communities. Collective memory is a matrix of socially positioned individual memories that intersect and create a pattern or memory field.18 They take the form of narratives that have currency in a group that originate in the past experiences of members and are crucial to the group’s conception of its collective identity. Such memories originate in the worlds of individuals who partake in the communal life of the collective, and are perpetuated by being inter-personally and inter-generationally transmitted and publicized. These groups that share collective memories constitute mnemonic communities.19 They include families, professions, generations, ethnic and regional groups, social classes, nations and even those that share communications about the meaning of the past at a transnational level.20 Indeed, there are as many collective memories as groups. And individuals are always part of several, sometimes intersecting and sometimes discrete, mnemonic communities. Such groups might not necessarily have shared experiences but are quite likely to have common cultural assumptions. For collective memory works by subsuming individual experiences under cultural schemes that make them comprehensible and, therefore, meaningful.21 Collective memories do not arise spontaneously nor take shape independently of human agency. They are born of and shaped by agents, whom we might call ‘memory makers’ or ‘memory bearers’, which include cultural brokers, public intellectuals, teachers and politicians who are instrumental in the public construction of memory. They select, modify, negotiate and reify particular versions of the past. These agents employ the cultural tools of language and narratives to make meaning. These interpretative codes play a significant part in shaping the views of the past and present that bind the members of a mnemonic community together. They are comprised of two elements: the

Introduction

5

schema, the temporal narrative structure in which individuals construe their memory, and the script, which is composed of existing preconceptions and opinions on issues that pertain to the memory in question.22 Individuals learn to conventionalize, structure and narrativize their memories in accordance with the dominant social mores and beliefs that prevail in the individual’s different mnemonic communities.23 They relate to the group’s shared experiences and memories, commonalities from which identities and narratives are constructed that articulate the individual’s self-perception in relation to others. Such constructions are, in turn, contingent upon the reactions of the dominant sociocultural group towards its manifestations.24 At an interface of formal organizations of civil society and informal networks of family and kin, there exist what Jay Winter has termed ‘fictive kinships’, such as veteran networks.25 The war veteran recalls his own experiences – his autobiographical memories – against a backdrop of social resources such as generational consciousness or the institutional memory of the armed forces. The construction of personal memories entails a negotiation within a field of memory that offers a range of possibilities for the interpretation of private experiences. As Edna Lomsky-Feder reminds us, the act of remembrance is always performed in the context of the field of memory that is socially framed and bounded.26 This field is not simply a rich fabric of meanings but also an internally ordered field, stratified according to the social prestige that is attached to the different memories. In other words, the field of memory circumscribes the available discursive resources upon which veterans are able to draw to construct their narrative identities. Christian Noll has called narratives the front line of identity conflicts. He argues that narratives produce identities that are increasingly antagonistic and polarized thereby building hostile and mutually exclusive realities in a conflict environment.27 Noll advocates the application of narrative theory to furthering our understanding of conflicts between societies or nations, but I believe his insights have relevance to other mnemonic communities too. Because memory and identity are mutually constitutive, any critique of veterans’ narrative identities is construed as an attack on the identity project itself and their sense of self (worth).28 Eviatar Zerubavel has described the spats that erupt in the public sphere and popular/social media in which memory communities confront one another with irreconcilable versions of the past as ‘mnemonic battles’.29 This is preferable to the concept of ‘history wars’.30 The latter designation implies a battle between custodians of the past waged according to the rules devised

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

by the discipline, whereas the parties involved are more often than not those with a vested interest or political stake in a particular narrative fashioned by memory makers. A case in point is the Enola Gay controversy, which involved the curators of the Smithsonian Institute, World War II veterans’ groups, politicians and even Japanese officials.31 Commentators dubbed the episode a conflict between history and memory, implying that professional historians are the guardians of history against attacks by the purveyors of memory. But both sides made truth claims, and history and memory have an intricate, complex, dialectical relationship.32 Moreover, the process of adjudicating between conflicting accounts of historians is different from that used by mnemonic communities committed to conflicting views of the past. For the latter, the issue is essentially who decides what should be remembered and why. Thus it seems more appropriate to describe the contestations recounted here as ‘mnemonic battles’ or ‘memory wars’. This work examines the contestation over the meaning of the ‘Border War’ by identifying and interrogating conflicting narratives articulated by and within different mnemonic communities. But what mnemonic communities feature prominently in these memory battles? Memory studies have taught us that it is invariably the powerful elites who monopolize memory work and construct narratives about the past in pursuit of their own interests. These elites usually enjoy access to the media and state resources but memory is not the exclusive preserve of dominant forces in the state.33 Other memory makers provide alternatives to ‘official’ history and dominant public narratives. Because SADF veterans have a vested interest in the way in which the ‘Border War’ is remembered and represented, they engage in mnemonic resistance and are the primary producers of counter-narratives. Their stories will be the primary focus of this book. Some will be examined in their own right, whereas others will be compared with those of their (former) adversaries. This study, then, proposes to examine how SADF veterans, and former conscripts in particular, have struggled to make sense of their part in the ‘Border War’. However, treating SADF veterans as a mnemonic community does not imply that they are a homogeneous group nor that their collective memories are uniform. The cohort of white males conscripted into the SADF between 1966 and 1989 has been called the national service generation (NSG). Generation here does not signify the coexistence of similarly aged people as much as it denotes their sense of belonging to a group with a shared historical consciousness.34 Personal narratives fashion the macrobiography of a generation and, conversely, the generational macrobiography produces a shared

Introduction

7

consciousness that shapes the personal narratives.35 Thus there is mediation between personal memories and those of the generational unit. Although the conscripts were all white males of a similar age, they came from a cross-section of society and responded in a variety of ways to their military experience. So I will not presume that SADF veterans speak with a singular, cohesive voice.36 The disaggregation of the veteran community makes this abundantly clear. For instance, we can and will differentiate between career soldiers and conscripts, as well as between different groups of ex-conscripts. Such fault lines are still evident in the different ways in which veterans have sought to come to terms with their ‘Border War’. In a previous contribution to the study of the legacy of the ‘Border War’,37 I argued that it was a ‘taboo’ subject. Now that is no longer the case. Indeed, the unprecedented public interest in the subject of the ‘Border War’ is borne out by the burgeoning literature, dramatic productions, video documentaries, art exhibitions and even song lyrics. Thus the ‘Border War’ deserves critical scholarly engagement commensurate with the amount of attention it is receiving in the public domain. This book is the first extended study of the afterlife of the ‘Border War’ that seeks to achieve this. This text presumes that readers are familiar with the broad contours of, and the context in which, the ‘Border War’ was waged. It does not attempt to supplant works about the course of the war as it is not a history of the conflict as such. It is a collection of independent – but not discrete – essays rather than a flowing narrative. I approach the ‘Border War’ as a historian of war rather than a military historian. I do not adopt what John Keegan has called the ‘battle– piece’ approach to war, which focuses on the events and character of a battle; rather I argue that the outcome of a war is more important.38 And while I do recognize that participants and witnesses bring to bear the voice of experience in the telling of war stories, I do not privilege personal experience over other forms of knowledge about the war. My work has been influenced by the ‘cultural turn’ in war studies. Accordingly, it owes as much to the influence of scholars who write about how war is represented by society’s elites and literati, as it does to those concerned with the common soldiers’ experience of a war. My focus is on cultural history and cultural production that shapes the experience, representation and memory of a war. Hence my primary interest is in the shaping and transmission of its memory by mnemonic communities. Accordingly, it is informed by the nascent discipline of memory studies but also borrows much of its conceptual vocabulary from media studies and discourse analysis for its interrogation of

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

articles, newspaper reports, reviews, blogs and so on. However, its appraisal of the secondary literature of the ‘Border War’ is supplemented by tried and tested historical methods such as archival research, oral interviews and an analysis of primary sources. By definition, the cultural studies approach to war is largely interdisciplinary. It borrows insights from the study of history, linguistics, literature, performance and visual culture, memory, political and international relations, psychology and so on. Apart from these disciplines, my study mines the literature on transitional justice as well as demobilization, demilitarization and reintegration (DDR). It also has a comparative dimension as it draws on insights gleaned from the literature that examines the legacies of wars waged by the German Wehrmacht, the US military in Vietnam, French forces in Algeria and the Israeli army against its Arab neighbours. Given that my subjects are primarily military veterans, who are without exception males, I will necessarily draw upon gender studies to some degree. But as I will not be able to dedicate equal attention or do justice to all these fields of inquiry, my approach is unashamedly selective and eclectic.

Synopses of chapters Chapter 1 will argue that SADF soldier-authors are attempting to reclaim the ‘Border War’ on their own terms. The publication of personal memoirs by common soldiers, viz. privates, NCOs and junior officers, about the ‘Border War’ has begun to outstrip the quantity of military histories written by senior SADF officers. In sampling a cross-section of these texts, we will ask why there is a tendency to privilege the experience of the soldier as witness to and/or participant in war situations. It will be suggested that this serves to validate the memories of SADF soldiers and to vindicate the conduct of the military as an institution. The chapter will examine the record of the SADF, paying particular attention to why the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) labelled it a ‘perpetrator organization’. Finally, an attempt will be made to ascertain whether the SADF’s reputation as a professional, apolitical and unsullied fighting force stands close scrutiny. My point of departure for Chapter 2 is that experience, and specifically that of combat, is culturally constructed. It will show that cultural codes have become intrinsic to the transnational tradition of war writing. I will identify common tropes in the literature of the Vietnam and ‘Border’ Wars to illustrate

Introduction

9

the argument that narratives of the war have acquired a cosmopolitan character as the stories of SADF soldiers are shaped by transnational memory. It is my contention that the cultural memory of past wars shapes perceptions about present war experience to a remarkable degree, even though they might be geographically and temporally remote. So the representation of the ‘Border War’ has been influenced by the global diffusion of American culture. In other words, Vietnam provides a narrative template for the cultural codification of the ‘Border War’. Chapter 3 will examine the stories of SADF soldiers captured and imprisoned by the Cubans in Angola during the abortive Operation Savannah. It focuses on the story of an 18-year-old conscript, Robert Wilson, whose sense of abandonment in the operational area translated into a distrust of military and political authorities. Along with seven colleagues, he survived the ordeal of a lengthy stretch in captivity. The chapter deconstructs Wilson’s narrative in order to examine whether it can be read as a text of fidelity, and whether it conforms to a code of captivity developed by the military, the media and the South African public. It also examines the code of conduct expected of the POWs’ families and next-of-kin. Suspicions as to the POWs’ loyalty to their country lingered even as they were feted as heroes during a homecoming media event. The chapter asks whether we are captives of our past as it examines how the ex-POWs had to live with conflicting feelings of relief, guilt and shame. War can be a transforming and traumatizing experience. For Clive Holt, a 19-year-old conscript in the SADF, it most certainly was. As a member of 61 Mechanized Infantry Battalion, he participated in a protracted campaign in Angola that culminated in the battle of Cuito Cuanavale in 1987–1988. About 15 years later, Holt began work on a memoir, which was published as At Thy Call We Did Not Falter (2003). The act of writing represents an attempt to integrate his fractured past, unsettled present and anticipated future into a coherent lifestory. This process arguably amounted to a form of narrative therapy. Chapter 4 shows how Holt and other SADF veterans have cited post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) to explain their, sometimes unpredictable and self-destructive, behaviour following their return to civilian life. It also argues that SADF veterans have tended to embrace victimhood rather than regard themselves as culpable for defending apartheid, which was declared a crime against humanity. Notwithstanding the fact that some SADF veterans suffered physical and psychological damage from their military experience, some regard them as the villains of the piece (peace?) who managed to avoid having to answer for their wartime conduct.

10

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

Chapter 5 will show that there are competing narratives about a particularly controversial episode of the ‘Border War’ and that these are still contested by those with a stake in the outcome. The chapter shows how the SADF and SWAPO constructed divergent narratives about the former’s assault on the SWAPO camp of Cassinga in April 1978. The SADF insist that it was a bona fide operation that targeted a SWAPO military base, whereas SWAPO counter that Cassinga was a refugee camp and that it was mostly civilians that were massacred. I will argue that the Cassinga controversy exemplifies the functioning of the politics of memory in South Africa and Namibia. The adage that ‘the victors write history’ has been appropriated by SADF veterans, especially by retired generals. It assumes that we remember the past according to the accounts of those that won rather than those who lost a social struggle or conflict. Whereas the winners are able to construct the ‘official history’, the losers have no voice (literally and figuratively). But is this necessarily so? Chapter 6 will suggest that in the case of Southern Africa’s conflicts, there is no clear-cut identity of winners and losers. Thereafter, it will evaluate the claim of SADF apologists to have won the so-called battle of Cuito Cuanavale and the war for Southern Africa. It will also debunk the myth that MK participated in the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. Finally, the chapter will make the argument that winning the war does not guarantee success in the battle for memory, or vice versa. There is heated controversy as to who was to blame for the slaughter of SWAPO combatants after their violation of the April 1989 ceasefire. These killings triggered a major international incident that virtually derailed the Namibian peace process. But the dead were not allowed to rest. The (re)discovery of mass graves in 2005 resulted in another round of mutual recriminations. Chapter 7 will unravel the competing narratives of this episode and argue that both sides – the SADF and SWAPO – must bear a measure of responsibility for the tragic fiasco that marked the denouement of Namibia’s ‘dirty war’. I will also attempt to delineate the role played by stakeholders in the shaping of collective memory and public consciousness pertaining to this memory battle. The term ‘Border War’ encodes white South African understanding of the conflict in Angola/Namibia in much the same way as the appellation Vietnam War represents an American perspective on the conflict in Southeast Asia.39 Chapter 8 describes the lessons and legacies of the ‘Border War’ and how it might be compared with the US military experience of Vietnam. Vietnam analogies and metaphors have been repeatedly invoked and mined for lessons learned by politicians, military leaders and historians alike. These lessons serve a didactic purpose but there is a likelihood that the particularities of the situation in southern Africa

Introduction

11

might get overlooked or that the ‘Border War’ will not be examined on its own terms. It is difficult to avoid the trap of asserting the domesticating and rhetorical function of analogy and metaphor without deploying the very comparison the chapter would appear to critique. In other words, there is a danger of producing a circular argument, which could be offset by paying attention elsewhere in the book to the specificities of the South African soldiers’ experience. The transfer of political power in South Africa was accompanied by initiatives by the ruling party to erect its own memorials to pay tribute to its heroes and martyrs who played significant roles in the creation of the new nation state. The ANC’s flagship heritage site, Freedom Park, erected in the country’s capital Pretoria (Tshwane), includes a wall upon which the names of those are inscribed who sacrificed their lives in the cause of the liberation struggle. A fracas erupted when the curators of Freedom Park declined to include the names of deceased SADF members on the wall on the grounds that they had fought in defence of apartheid. Chapter 9 shows that the SADF monument erected in the late 1970s on the Klapperkop hill to honour those who had died in the line of duty has all but been forgotten. But in response to the perceived snub by Freedom Park, a privately funded SADF memorial wall was erected in the precincts of the Voortrekker Monument. It will be argued that this episode is another example of the functioning of memory politics. Chapter 10 tackles the vexed question of whether SADF veterans should qualify for the benefits that veteranhood would seem to promise with the passing of the 2011 Military Veterans Act. Like their counterparts from the liberation armies, SADF veterans have traded on the politics of victimhood. Many of the latter are active on the internet where they create Facebook and Google groups dedicated to the ‘Border War’ so that they are able to connect with others of the national service generation. They have created a virtual community that enables them to enjoy the fellowship of former brothers in arms with whom they can share their stories. They utilize cyberspace to create discursive laagers, spaces where they vindicate their roles in the SADF and, in some cases, justify apartheid. They are quick to ostracize those from within their ranks that cross them. This seems to bear out the contention that some SADF veterans have residual militarized identities, which impinge upon their subsequent life courses. The balsak (kitbag) may have been discarded in the roof,40 but many still live with vivid and sometimes intrusive memories of their time in uniform. The suturing of the wounds in South Africa’s body politic has proven superficial as the fault lines in its fractured society remain glaringly obvious.

12

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

I conclude by arguing that the battle lines have been redrawn; that former enemies remain adversaries although the fighting consists primarily of a war of words. I reject the view that South Africans should necessarily strive to achieve consensus about their divisive past. Rather, I believe that a robust debate is healthy for the growth of democracy and advocate that we should develop the mechanisms to contain rather than avoid confrontation. I follow Leigh Payne’s Unsettling Accounts (2008), which advances the notion of contentious coexistence or a conflictual dialogue approach to democracy in deeply divided societies.

1

Writing on the Wrong Side of History? SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War

In a review of three South African Defence Force (SADF) veterans’ memoirs,1 Aubrey Paton suggests that ‘[l]ike the American soldiers in Vietnam, South Africans are raising their voices to reclaim the Border War’. By this statement, Paton seems to suggest two things: first, that former SADF soldiers have become sufficiently emboldened to shrug off their stoic ‘silence’ about the war and, second, that they also seek to challenge the verdict of history that it was a lost cause. He accepts at face value the contention that ‘the SADF was never defeated in a fair fight, but sold out by their [sic] leaders’. Thus he invokes the ‘stab in the back’ myth common to defeated armies.2 He opines that ‘[t]he South African army was denied the triumph and had to retreat, undefeated from a war of [right] ideals’. Not only is he (by his own admission) ‘blithely unaware of the wealth of local writing’ on the Border War, but Paton’s reading of a crop of memoirs also amounts to an exercise in validating his view that the apartheid army was ‘on the right side of history’. So are veterans asserting ownership of the ‘Border War’? Whose war is it anyway? The prevalent viewpoint is one that characterizes SADF veterans as the villains of the piece who fought on the ‘wrong side of history’.3 Indeed, many of the national service generation (NSG) who fought for the apartheid state ‘still struggle to swallow the bitter pill that their battle landed on the wrong side of history’.4 But what actually does this mean? That as an institution the SADF fought to preserve white power and privilege rather than protect the country? Is it a way of saying that it has not been well judged by history? That neither the present nor the future will look favourably upon the values that it represented? This assumes that we are now in a better position than contemporaries to pass judgment on a particular society, ideology and political system; that (selfappointed) arbiters are capable of making better-informed (or enlightened)

14

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

decisions. While this is patently untrue, it does not change the fact that that the actions of the apartheid state and its agencies have been subjected to criticism and censure. Do they deserve such opprobrium? How do veterans represent their own involvement in the SADF and the ‘Border War’? Since 1994, many former SADF soldiers of all ranks have been actively engaged in (re)writing the history of the ‘Border War’ from their vantage point as participants and witnesses. Some have boldly proclaimed that their first-hand experience enables them to know and write the truth about the war. Others have been more modest in their claims, and asserted that they are simply contributing personal insights to an understanding of the course and nature of the war. This chapter will examine the grounds for soldiers making truth claims in their accounts of war by reviewing a selection of SADF veterans’ memoirs of the ‘Border War’. Then it will examine the writings of high-ranking SADF officers, especially retired and deceased generals, who have defended the record of the SADF as an institution. The chapter will focus on SADF soldier-authors’ quest for validation of their roles in the ‘Border War’ and the vindication of the goodness of the conduct of the SADF.

We were there: The authority of the soldiers’ witness The soldier’s mantra is that only those with prior knowledge of war are capable of understanding what he has experienced or witnessed. Captain Mike Barno of the US army offers a typical recent statement of this position in an entry in his blog: I don’t enjoy having conversations about Afghanistan with people who haven’t been there. It is not that I don’t want to share or help others understand the conflict or my experiences. My issue is that the stories I truly want people to understand are so visceral that words rarely due them justice. Especially when my words fall upon ears that don’t already have some basic connection to this conflict: the ears of someone who has never served in the armed forces, who has no relatives who have been to Afghanistan, who couldn’t find Afghanistan on a map.5

Substitute Angola for Afghanistan and Barno’s statement might have been made by an SADF soldier. Like their counterparts from other recent wars, SADF veterans reckon that their experience affords them a privileged understanding of combat. Accordingly, they have asserted their right to tell their stories from their perspective as participants. The corollary is that the uninitiated and scholars

SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War

15

conducting research in the rarefied atmosphere of the ivory tower are dismissed with the throwaway line: ‘How can you understand? … You were not there …’ .6 A recent collection of writings compiled by former SADF chief General Jannie Geldenhuys published in Afrikaans as Ons was Daar and translated into English as We Were There7 would seem to insist that ‘having been there’ is a prerequisite for providing an authoritative account of the ‘Border War’. The title of this volume is an assertion of authority based on participation in the conflict, of knowledge derived from being on the battlefield. It is taken for granted that the narrator of a war story should be a veteran since it is believed no one else can actually tell the truth. This position is well established and seldom questioned. Why has this come to pass? Yuval Noah Harari’s study of military memoirs reveals that the ideal of firsthand experience, or what he calls ‘flesh-witnessing’, became a potent new source of authority during the post-Napoleonic era. Military experience, especially combat, was invested with privileged knowledge. Harari notes that two stock expressions repeat themselves in 19th-century memoirs: ‘it is impossible to describe it’ and ‘you had to undergo the experience yourself in order to understand it’. These formulae posit a fundamental difference between fleshwitnessing and eye-witnessing. According to Harari, the knowledge gained through eye-witnessing and scientific observation is factual, and can be quite easily transmitted to other people. In contrast, a flesh-witness can never really transmit his or her knowledge to other people; she or he cannot really describe what she or he witnesses, and the audience cannot really understand. Harari adds that the differentiation between eye-witnessing and flesh-witnessing is doubly important in today’s highly mediated world, when so many people eyewitness war via live television broadcasts, without ever flesh-witnessing it.8 Harari demonstrates that the common soldier gained a new, elevated status because he had as much ‘experiential authority’ concerning the body in combat as did his commanders.9 Accounts by junior officers and enlisted men, rather than high-ranking officers, were amongst the chief vehicles that caused Western war culture’s reorientation towards experiential knowledge. They reinterpreted war as a ‘sublime revelation’.10 Romanticism emphasized ‘sublime’ experiences as privileged sources for knowledge and authority, and war experience fitted perfectly with the Romantic definition of the sublime. Combat was depicted as a quasi-mystical experience of revelation. To be clear as to what Harari means by this, one should remember that revelation indicates only a method of gaining knowledge, and has no essential connection with religion.11 The experience of war was tantamount to a secular revelation that taught soldiers life’s lessons.

16

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

This is captured by the phrase ‘baptism of fire’, which likens the religious ritual to initiating one into combat. Harari holds that the quintessential late modern Western war story describes war as an experience of learning the truth about oneself and about the world. The hero of the story is most often an ignorant youth whom war turns into a wise veteran; a typical rite of passage story or Bildungsroman. What is it about war that teaches wisdom? Most late modern veterans point to the extreme bodily conditions of war: hunger, cold, exhaustion, injury, the presence of death – the exhilarating adrenalin rush of combat and occasionally the thrill of killing. Pushed to its limits, the soldier’s body is subjected to such physical strain and pain that test the will to survive. Eschewing the rationalist authority of logical thinking, and the scientific authority of objective eye-witnessing, veterans lay claim to the visceral authority of ‘flesh-witnessing’. They are neither thinkers nor mere eyewitnesses. Rather, they are men (and occasionally women) who have acquired knowledge with their flesh.12 Although Harari’s explanation of the higher regard for the common soldier might well overstate the valourization of the bodily experience,13 there is little doubt that the typical 20th-century war memoirist is inclined to assert his testimony as direct knowledge of past events or as an authority to which historical narratives must in some sense be answerable. War stories have all the trappings of historical narratives. They tend to emulate the rhetoric of historical argument in their explication and defence but they belong to distinct categories. They appeal to affective values whereas histories are bound by the rules of the discipline or certain epistemic values.14 And yet, testimony seems to be accorded a special epistemic privilege in our common understanding of the past. But should this be the case? Is personal memory not merely one source of knowledge of the past that is in need of corroboration by other sources? Should it be subject to the norms of historical inquiry? Held to the same evaluative standards as historical writing? Stephane Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker reckon that it became very difficult for historians to contradict, let alone question, testimony from World War I combatants as a large volume of first-person accounts appeared in print after the conflict. They contend that ‘the soldiers set themselves up as historians of their own experience, reacting against and wanting to correct the distortions and misperceptions in the home front’s view of them’. They assert that … veterans, who obviously had the incontestable status of witness to the war experience, also gave themselves the status of historians with the exclusive right to talk about the experience.15

SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War

17

They contend that a campaign to challenge the authority of the historian commenced with the Great War and amounts to a kind of ‘tyranny of the witness’. They advocate that historians should free themselves from this tyranny and not surrender their autonomy. They argue that experience alone does not entitle soldiers to speak about war or, conversely, disqualify anyone without first-hand knowledge from doing so. Accordingly, we must reject the idea of a closed circle of understanding and truth. In his discussion of Great War memoirs, Dominic Harman notes that ‘narratives exist as discourse rather than lived experience, [and they] can never bring us to a full understanding’ of war …’ .16 As language is unequal to the task of describing warfare, there exists a gap between life and literature.17 War veteran and scholar Samuel Hynes, who champions the soldiers’ voice in The Soldiers’ Tale, reminds us that personal narratives are not history,18 and that a comprehensive knowledge of a historical event – especially of one as complex as war – cannot be derived from the subjective experience of any one person. John Keegan points out that the ordinary soldier’s battle is a microcosm of the war offering a limited or keyhole perspective on the overall situation.19 This is not to argue that his experience is any less valid than his commanding officer’s, but to reveal that the view from the foxhole is different from that of the ops room. It is also worth bearing in mind that each participant and/or witness makes their own truth claims. And that ‘truth’ is compromised by the very nature and limitations of language; that language is an inadequate and arbitrary means of communicating the ineffable.20 Indeed, no account of war, however faithful to factual events, can enable the reader to live the (physical) experience of war. At best, a text may achieve verisimilitude, the appearance of being real or true. Social constructivism challenges the view that narratives are capable of rendering ‘ultimate truth’. Narrative provides internal meaning, an emotional or experiential truth about war. For the memoirist the experience of the past is different from that of the historian; it belongs to a different order or mode of experience.21 Memoirs and history, then, are distinct discourses about the past. The former work towards bridging the gap between lived experience and its historical transcription. They complement historical accounts and bring valuable personal insights to bear on the experience of war. They add another dimension to the reader’s understanding thereof. But they also suffer from an inherent weakness, namely, a loss of overall perspective due to an intense focus on the singular lived experience. Memoirs that examine the minutiae of historical experience from the vantage point of the individual soldier often lose sight of the bigger picture

18

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

or the overall context that frames and gives meaning to the soldier’s conduct during war. As we will see when we examine a sample of SADF memoirs in the next section, many add important personal insights to, although situated inadequately within, a wider socio-political context of the ‘Border War’.

Subaltern narratives: Conscripts’ confessions and catharsis Much of the recent writing about the ‘Border War’ provides narrative accounts of battles and campaigns. This body of work is what Keegan calls ‘battlecentric’ history,22 a genre that gives undue prominence to military operations without adequate contextualization (see Chapter 6 for elaboration). Accounts of the exploits of elite units such as 32 (Buffalo) Battalion, the reconnaissance commandos and other special forces, have similar shortcomings. They tend to be part personal and part unit histories, and so they are not memoirs in the strict sense of the word. They are written for a lay readership that obviously includes a good number of fellow SADF veterans. Much of this literature is written by senior officers and presents to the soldiers what the SADF’s erstwhile military leadership believes the soldiers should think about the war. Thus certain veterans have taken to rehearsing the arguments of retired generals who hold that by fighting the Cubans, Soviets and the liberation movements, the SADF held the line until communism collapsed and thus (paradoxically) made possible a peaceful transfer of power on favourable terms. They wish to take credit for having the prescience to defend the status quo until such time as the Cold War ended.23 Some have also expressed the view that their contribution to building the ‘new’ South Africa should be acknowledged. For instance, a national serviceman who goes by the name ‘Dave’ seeks affirmation and validation of his role as a ‘good guy’. He seeks to reclaim what he believes to be the NSG’s rightful place in history and dismisses the ruling party’s version of the past as ‘revisionism’,24 thereby suggesting that he fought on the ‘right side of history’. Alongside these military histories, memoirs by former national servicemen about their experiences in the SADF, and especially about the ‘Border War’, have recently proliferated. No sooner had I suggested that veterans had been ‘silenced’ by a combination of political circumstances and self-imposed restraints,25 than the floodgates opened and the pent-up stories grew from a trickle to a stream. Like W. G. Sebald, who reckoned that German writers failed to engage with the issues of suffering and trauma after World War II,26 I probably overstated my argument that ex-conscripts were caught up in a cycle of guilt and shame that

SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War

19

made them reluctant to tell their stories. If such a ‘taboo’ ever existed, it has been overturned. Indeed, the subject of the war has become commonplace in artistic, literary, dramatic and visual representations. The fact that the authors or storytellers are mainly ‘ordinary soldiers’ from the lower ranks, especially NCOs and lieutenants, seems to lend credence to the claim that the ‘Border War’ was a corporal’s and lieutenant’s war. Memoirs by infantry or riflemen, artillery gunners, junior officers and medics include Rick Andrew’s Buried in the Sky (2001), Clive Holt’s At Thy Call We Did Not Falter (2005), Nico van der Walt’s To the Bush and Back (2007), Steven Webb’s Ops Medic: A National Serviceman’s Border War (2008), Frank Nune’s Altered States (2008), Tim Ramsden’s Border-Line Insanity: A National Serviceman’s Story (2009), Granger Korff ’s 19 With a Bullet: A South African Paratrooper in Angola (2009) and Anthony Feinstein’s Battle Scarred: Hidden Costs of the Border War (2011). This body of writing might well be called ‘subaltern narratives’. I am not employing the term ‘subaltern’ in the manner commonly used in the academy today, which denotes the lowest ranks of any hierarchy, and which has given its name to subaltern studies, which seeks to give voice to the bottom rungs of society. Instead, I use it in its original sense when subaltern was first and foremost a military rank, denoting all officers below the rank of captain. Harari argues that the memoirs of subaltern soldiers were amongst the first and most successful examples of how a subaltern group can utilize the importance of feelings and experiences to destabilize hegemonic narratives and unsettle cultural and political consensus.27 But is it the case that SADF memoirs have challenged the orthodoxies and narrative of power in post-apartheid South Africa? Some of the above-mentioned memoirs fit the mould of soldiers as brave, courageous heroes. For instance, Korff ’s 19 With a Bullet is an action-packed account replete with boastful bravado. By way of comparison, Steven Webb Ops Medic seems mundane and tedious. The author feels the need to apologize to the reader for the ‘tameness’ of his story because he was not caught up in the full force of the war. Although a medic, he seems to somehow feel cheated that he was not able to put his military training to full use and become a full-blooded grensvegter (literally, ‘border fighter’). A distinction between the ‘ordinary soldiers’ or ‘troepies’ whose ‘masculinity was not threatening or hyper-masculine’ and the grensvegter who personified the man of action has been drawn by Daniel Conway. As he puts it, ‘[t]roopies were the affectionately regarded sons and protectors of white South Africa and grensvegters were the revered warriors defending the Republic’s borders against communist takeover’.28 The former were those who counted the days until they would be reunited with their families

20

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

and loved ones, whereas the latter were the battle-hardened heroes of special forces operations who thrived on the adrenalin rush provided by the adventure and dangers of combat. However, it should be remembered that combat was not the primary experience of national servicemen, not even of those troepies who served in the operational area. Nonetheless, there is little doubt that conscripts involved in combat did frequently suffer from combat-related stress or some form of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Feinstein’s Battle Scarred relates a number of episodes that reveal the deep emotional and psychological wounds incurred by those engaged in the ‘Border War’. He tells of the security policeman who, following an ambush in which he failed to overcome his fears, experienced nightmares during which he regressed into a state of childhood. In At Thy Call (which will be discussed at length in Chapter 4), Holt recounts how he was involved in the heavy, sustained fighting during the battle of Cuito Cuanavale, which left him stressed and depressed. Feinstein and Holt both frame their stories within a PTSD paradigm – the first because he is a psychiatrist and the second because he familiarized himself with layman’s literature on the subject. They might not have taken their cue from the Truth and Reconciliation (TRC) Report, which acknowledged the need to ‘raise public awareness about the reality and effects of post-traumatic stress disorder’ and suggested that former conscripts and soldiers who participated in the conflict be encouraged ‘to share their pain and reflect on their experiences’.29 But they appear to have identified with the TRC-proposed projects aimed at rehabilitating and rebuilding the lives of veterans, projects that envisaged that they could possibly be ‘help[ed] to tell and write their stories.’30 Feinstein and Holt have done so of their own accord primarily because they believed that the writing of their memoirs might prove cathartic. Notwithstanding the confessional nature of many of the memoirs, almost all of the soldier-authors demonstrate considerable political naïveté. In his review of Holt’s memoir and other publications about the SADF, William Minter notes that ‘[t]here is neither justification nor critique of the apartheid system … There are no reflections on guilt or the nature of the South African system, or even acknowledgment that such reflection might be called for …’ . He adds that all these soldier-authors ‘deny that they were fighting for ‘apartheid’, but they are remarkably vague on what they thought they were fighting for.’ Minter describes them as living within an ‘armoured bubble, isolated from any consideration of the meaning of death and suffering they and their fellows inflicted.’ He deduces that the typical national serviceman (NSM) was neither a stereotypical patriot

SADF Soldier-Authors Reclaim the Border War

21

nor an Afrikaner nationalist but someone whose loyalty ‘appears to have been to the military itself ’ and whose ‘cause’ ‘appears to have been the excitement of war itself ’. Minter concludes that ‘[i]n effect, the military was the ‘country’ they thought they were defending and the social context that defined their reality and protected them from contradictory perspectives’.31 This seems to amount to an argument that for NSM the war was not at all ideological but a matter of commitment to the SADF as an institution and a loyalty to brothers in arms. I would concede that this is true of some of these authors but would argue that others (such as Feinstein) have a slightly more subtle understanding of their roles in the SADF. Jacqui Thompson’s collection of conscripts’ reminiscences published under the title An Unpopular War: Voices of South African National Servicemen (2006) proved to be a bestseller.32 The stories in this volume are probably not representative of the conscript experience as they reflect primarily the recollections of Englishspeakers. Moreover, the book bears an inappropriate title as the ‘Border War’ was never unpopular amongst the majority of conscripts or with the white populace at large.33 There is more than enough anecdotal evidence to suggest that many conscripts took great pleasure in wrecking military equipment and vehicles for the hell of it and subverting the military system at every possible opportunity, but few took a principled public stand in voicing their objections to military service. Even during successive states of emergency during the 1980s when troops were deployed in the townships, military service was still regarded by the majority as a necessary price to pay for white rule. Many of those who once supported the war do not now think it was worth fighting and this is evident in the regret that shapes some of the stories told to the author. Hindsight and the realization that they were ‘fighting on the wrong side of history’ has fashioned their mixed, sometimes contradictory, memories of national service. The elision of guilt and innocence makes for considerable moral ambiguity in some of this literature. But this moral ambiguity conferred on the ‘Border War’ has happened retrospectively, and then only for some veterans. Thompson’s book was the inspiration for two similarly styled collections of conscripts’ stories by Cameron Blake, titled Troepie: From Call-Up to Camps (2009) and From Soldier to Civvy: Reflections on National Service (2010).34 These volumes are based on interviews that Blake conducted with SADF veterans who visited his store, which stocks military memorabilia, including medals and other items issued to soldiers who rendered service on the border. A constant refrain that veterans mouthed was that national service was ‘the best two years of their lives that they would never want to do again’.35 It is apparent that many

22

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

SADF veterans still cherish fond memories of military service. This much is also evident from accounts that recall military service with good humour rather than resentment.36 The stories related by Blake are enriched by the addition of the insights of the women – the mothers, wives and girlfriends – who were affected by the absence and, sometimes, the loss of their male soldiers. It is the unflinching honesty of some of these recollections that leave the reader in little doubt that national service and participation in the ‘Border War’ had a profound influence on white South Africans. Indeed, one reviewer of Blake’s books has suggested that the ‘Border War’ is a significant marker of white identity.37 However, this ignores the fact that operational experience and combat was confined to a relatively small sample of white males, and that women were only directly affected if they had attachments to these soldiers. It is probably more accurate to argue that certain veterans attach significant meaning to their war experience and jealously guard their memories against the condescension of the past. Some of the above-mentioned soldier-authors have written from (selfimposed) exile where they presumably feel less constrained to write honestly about their service in the SADF. A number of them have undoubtedly found their writing cathartic and their style tends to be confessional. The stories are told with a blend of honesty and self-delusion, candour and scepticism and self-deprecating humour. In some cases, the narrator confides dark secrets to the reader who should presumably empathize rather than become judgmental. Others are evidently still dealing with the impact of their brutalization from military training and combat, and in search of therapy for their traumas. Some soldier-authors rendered national service unwillingly and express remorse for their role in defending the apartheid system. Other writers seem to have no regrets about having rendered national service and express pride in their accomplishments whilst in uniform. Indeed, some seem to have relished killing and live without regrets for their actions making recourse to the argument that they were simply following and executing orders of superior officers. Some stories are suffused in nostalgia for the ‘good old days’ when military service was a rite of passage whereby boys became men. The observation that nostalgia serves as a form of compensation so as ‘to create a sense of cultural security during a loss of political, and possibly cultural power’ seems apposite here.38 All in all, the stories evince a mixed range of responses to national service and combat on the border: for some it was a just and necessary war. But many of the NSG express the conviction that they were betrayed by the older generation that sent them to wage an unwinnable war.39

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23

The SADF’s reputation: Setting the record straight The erstwhile leadership of the SADF has a vested interest in defending the name and reputation of the institution to which they dedicated their lives. Apart from Jannie Geldenhuys, the SADF’s foremost champion has been Magnus Malan, the former SADF chief (1976–1980) and defence minister (1980–1990). Whereas Malan was a technocrat who owed his rapid rise in the ranks to his managerial skills and political connections, Geldenhuys earned considerable respect on account of his reputation as a professional soldier.40 Whatever their differences, they shared convictions that the SADF should establish itself as Africa’s preeminent armed force and that the conduct of their troops was exemplary. They propagated myths that the SADF was ‘invincible’ and that its conduct was beyond reproach. They also presumed to reflect the views of all members of the SADF. The institutional culture of the SADF was shaped by a generation of leaders that attained high rank under the apartheid regime. The upper echelon of the army – more so than the air force or navy – was made up of Afrikaans-speakers who supported the ruling National Party and its policies. Yet, professional career officers dismissed charges that the SADF was an ‘apartheid army’ that defended an unjust system that discriminated against black South Africans. Indeed, Malan insisted that the SADF was at the forefront of reform when the organization recruited and trained black soldiers to fight its battles in the 1980s to offset the number of casualties amongst white conscripts.41 Despite the fact that the SADF had some racially integrated units, it was never representative of the country’s populace. Instead, it made extensive use of surrogate and proxy fighting forces, as well as soldiers (or armies) for hire. For instance, 32 Battalion had white SADF officers but its foot soldiers were mainly black Angolans. Mercenaries, including veterans of Portugal’s colonial wars in Africa (such as the Flechas) and of the Vietnam War (i.e. former US soldiers), joined its ranks. After 1980, many veterans of Rhodesia’s ‘Bush War’ joined SADF regiments or the so-called ‘homeland’ defence forces.42 The SADF subscribed to the principle of ‘minimum own force casualties’.43 Hence it armed and trained UNITA as a surrogate force although the Angolan guerrilla army bore a proportion of its own costs through the sale of illicit diamonds and ivory. Despite its territorial base and its nominal autonomy, the South West African Territorial Force (SWATF) fell under the command of the Chief of the SADF. While the bulk of the SADF’s manpower was obtained from South Africa, its proxies bore the brunt of the fighting.44 These proxies served as a redoubt for white South Africa, its first line of defence. Given this and its manpower composition, the SADF can hardly be described as a national defence force.

24

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

The ruling National Party’s politico-military leadership, including Malan, reckoned that the SADF served the best interests of all its peoples who had to be protected from the ‘total onslaught’ orchestrated by communist bloc countries. All those who took up arms against the apartheid state were labelled ‘terrorists’.45 The logic of the SADF leadership was that it was a politically impartial organization serving the democratically elected government of the day. In other words, the SADF regarded itself as preserving South African national security rather than white privilege and power. It claimed to be ‘above politics’. Accordingly, its actions in safeguarding the status quo in South Africa and destabilizing neighbouring states were wholly justified. But this viewpoint was not shared by its critics and enemies, or by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). Following South Africa’s political transition and the appointment of the TRC, investigators commenced an examination of the SADF’s human rights record. A group of retired and serving SADF generals held meetings with TRC representatives to clarify whether any amnesty the TRC granted for violations of human rights in neighbouring states would still apply in international law. When it became evident that amnesty granted by the TRC was not valid in international law, and that crimes that came to light in TRC hearings might lead to prosecution in the courts of sovereign states, the generals refused to apply for amnesty and distanced themselves from the TRC.46 This was unnecessary as the leadership of the ANC’s armed wing, Umkhonto weSizwe (MK), also favoured a general amnesty. In fact, there never was any intention to stage a Nuremberg-style tribunal and hold perpetrators of human rights abuses accountable in terms of international law.47 So whether offences were committed in South Africa or its neighbouring states, the chances of being prosecuted for human rights violations were slim. This was because the TRC had no powers to prosecute offenders and could only refer cases in which full disclosure was not made or acts were not politically motivated to the courts. And because the TRC was part and parcel of the South African legal process, its ambit did not extend to contraventions of international law. Members of the SADF were also discouraged by a coterie of generals from making individual applications to the TRC, and were encouraged to use the ‘nodal point’ set up by the South African National Defence Force (SANDF)48 to process any applications to the TRC’s Amnesty Committee.49 However, the fact that few applications were actually received50 led the compilers of the TRC Report to note that ‘the Commission received a strong impression that the nodal point acted as a gate-keeper rather than facilitator for amnesty applications’.51 Conscripts who acted independently of the gatekeepers and admitted culpability

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for human rights abuses were summarily dismissed as sympathy seekers or outright liars by the generals and their apologists.52 Their disclosures broke an institutional code of silence. Journalist Karen Whitty explained ex-conscripts’ reluctance to testify in the following terms: Bound by a sense of honour to their fellow troops, and the patriarchy still espoused by white South Africa, few men have come forward and spoken about their experiences, however barbaric and mundane, in South Africa’s border wars.53

The few who did testify probably did so out of a sense of guilt stemming from searching their own consciences rather than for fear of the legal ramifications. There was little compunction for conscripts to confess to human rights abuses. Subsequently, a clique of retired generals formed a contact bureau to protect the interests of former SADF members and liaise with the TRC and government bodies. In October 1996 the bureau produced a document titled ‘The Military in a Political Arena: the South African Defence Force and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’, which stated its position with respect to the role of the SADF in the previous dispensation. Amongst other things, it insisted that the SADF acted at the behest of the government of the day to ensure the security and stability of the country and thus did not have a political agenda.54 The ex-generals were convinced that the TRC was biased against the SADF and predisposed to finding it guilty of misconduct. They declined to take responsibility for their acts of commission and omission. Not surprisingly, the submission was subjected to considerable criticism, including rebuttals by certain TRC commissioners. According to the TRC Report, former SADF chief, General Constand Viljoen, declined an invitation to attend the TRC’s special hearing on conscripts, insisting that his presence would only give legitimacy to a ‘one-sided programme which did not analyse the past honestly’. The Report disputes the claim made in the SANDF submission to the TRC that ‘no serving or retired members of the SADF or SANDF (with the exception of General Viljoen) were invited to attend or provide information for the hearing’, or that the TRC ‘only heard one side of the subject’. The TRC Report holds that this statement is factually incorrect, providing examples of correspondence with the SANDF’s nodal point for liaising with the body. It also pointed out that three participants in the special hearing were either current serving members of the SANDF or retired members of the SADF.55 But it is still worthwhile noting that unlike Geldenhuys and Malan who opted to tell their side of the SADF story, Viljoen did not appear before the TRC, nor has he tried his hand at writing a memoir. But he did defend ‘the

26

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

righteousness’ of the SADF’s conduct in a paper titled ‘The Honourable Actions of our Soldiers’.56 General Magnus Malan took it upon himself to testify before the TRC in May and October 1997 on behalf of the SADF because he reckoned that his testimony would frame that of subordinates who might follow him and place such evidence in the ‘correct’ context. This was tantamount to claiming omniscience or, at the very least, a superior understanding of the situation in southern Africa to that of rank-and-file soldiers. While Malan no doubt had a vantage point on account of his membership of the State Security Council, the inner circle in P. W. Botha’s National Party government, his memoir suggests that his hindsight has many blind spots and it is no mea culpa. Indeed, it is entirely devoid of critical selfreflection and repeats the platitudes of the apartheid regime’s threat perceptions and ‘total onslaught’ ideology. It is a self-serving attempt to salvage his own reputation and exonerate the SADF for the human rights abuses committed by the army and other state agencies.57 The state subsequently brought charges against Malan for murder arising from Operation Marion, specifically for the attack by SADF-trained Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) assassins on ANC supporters in KwaMakutha in 1985. The former general insisted that the TRC was intent on finding evidence to incriminate him and his SADF colleagues for atrocities and war crimes. Malan opined that ‘[t] here was no indication that the training they received on returning from Caprivi was of an offensive nature, or that it was aimed at unlawful operations’.58 He insisted that he had never authorized any member of the SADF to kill political opponents of the government but conceded that innocent civilians had been caught in the crossfire.59 He felt vindicated by the verdict of the KwaZulu-Natal Supreme Court that acquitted him and 19 other SADF generals of the charges. The one and only opportunity to hold senior politicians and security force officers accountable for crimes committed under apartheid was either bungled or sabotaged.60 And so the trial proved to be a travesty of justice. Following the court case, Malan was recalled by the TRC to testify on the KwaMakutha killings in December 1997. This reinforced his suspicion that the TRC had made up its (collective) mind about his guilt and was intent on arriving at such a conclusion irrespective of the findings of the court. Malan attributes TRC bias to its councillors’ preconceived view that the SADF – not the ANC – were the transgressors in the conflict and the chief perpetrators of human rights abuses.61 In actual fact, the TRC declared both the ANC and the SADF ‘perpetrator organizations’62 or ‘institutional perpetrators’.63 This does not imply that all members of these organizations were perpetrators but that the TRC was

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firm on holding the upper echelons accountable for the actions of foot soldiers. Its Report stated unequivocally that those at the top of the chain of command bore responsibility for gross human rights violations by subordinates.64 The TRC Report revealed systematic human rights violations by the South African security forces in Namibia. SWAPO members were detained in terms of ‘anti-terrorism’ legislation adapted from South Africa and once in custody frequently tortured by the police. The SADF waged counter-insurgency warfare in tandem with and sometimes in competition with police units.65 While the generals liked to believe that the SADF’s conduct was exemplary and that charges of egregious violence were a product of SWAPO propaganda, this was certainly not the case. On two separate occasions, in 1986 and 1988, President P. W. Botha granted indemnity to SADF troops facing murder charges in Namibia on the grounds that the deeds were committed ‘in good faith’ during the performance of their duties. Then a blanket indemnity was extended to all South African security force personnel in the final days of South African rule by Administrator-General Louis Pienaar. This proclamation was apparently issued in accordance with the framework developed by the United Nations for the transition to independence rather than the customary practice of invoking Article 103 ter of the 1957 Defence Act.66 Irrespective of its genesis, this act established a precedent for the non-prosecution of war crimes in Namibia and the perpetuation of impunity. Geldenhuys has always insisted that the SADF had relatively few ‘bad apples’ in its ranks. He has been at pains to emphasize the distinction between the different branches of the security forces emphasizing that counterinsurgency units such as Koevoet fell under a different command structure that was headed by the chief of the South African Police (SAP). Its approach to counterinsurgency strategy differed significantly from that of the military,67 and there is a history of rivalry verging on antagonism over their respective claims as to who could boast the better kill ratio in the war against SWAPO.68 Koevoet developed a modus operandi of tracking SWAPO ‘insurgents’ by means of mineresistant armoured vehicles called Casspirs.69 It earned a deserved reputation for being efficient and ruthless in its ‘hot pursuit’ operations and worked on a bounty system that rewarded members for ‘kills’. Its practice of using solitary confinement and torture to ‘turn’ SWAPO captives is well documented.70 In testimony given to the TRC, allegations were made that some of Koevoet’s victims were civilians, and that prisoners were summarily executed once they had given up their information.71 Koevoet was perhaps the worst, though not the only, exemplar of a pattern of systematic abuse of SWAPO detainees/prisoners

28

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

by the security forces in violation of the general rules of engagement. Several Koevoet operators were prosecuted for common crimes such as robbery, rape and murder following due process.72 Such incidents are invariably dismissed as unfortunate by-products of the cruelty of (counter-) insurgency warfare but Koevoet systematically contravened common law. In fact, Koevoet was a law unto itself and apparently answerable to none; its leaders and members have never been held accountable for their deeds. While critical of the SADF, the TRC Report fell short of outright condemnation of its conduct. While studiously avoiding the term ‘war crimes’,73 the TRC documented a number of assassinations, atrocities, ‘dirty tricks’ and other offences committed by South African security forces within and outside of the country. But the body’s researchers had neither the time nor the resources to make an in-depth investigation into all such instances. Their investigation was confined to a number of high-profile occurrences such as Koevoet’s atrocities, the Cassinga ‘massacre’ (see Chapter 5), the Lubowski assassination, Project Coast and the events of April 1989 (see Chapter 7). These researchers only had partial access to SADF records in compiling the TRC’s somewhat sketchy report on South Africa’s occupation of Namibia and aggression against the Frontline states.74 These records were made available by the Department of Defence’s Documentation Centre, which at that stage was staffed by personnel appointed by the chief of the SADF. The SADF archives were only partially catalogued and required considerable time and patience to access – which the TRC researchers did not have in abundance.75 So while the Report deplored the SADF’s reluctance to supply documents, it is not clear whether the archivists have been, or the institution itself has been, charged with obstructionism. Moreover, security force members had destroyed stacks of incriminating evidence about the operations of secret paramilitary organizations such as the Civil Co-operation Bureau that had organized hit squads and political assassinations.76 TRC researchers had to negotiate a hostile working environment in which functionaries of the old order served as gatekeepers of the SADF’s record. The SADF was doubtless complicit in gross human rights violations during its 15-year occupation of Namibia. In the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, SADF apologists, and especially the retired generals, have claimed that the TRC has damaged its reputation. But its unsullied record only existed in the minds of the generals. A useful analogy can be drawn between the SADF and the Wehrmacht. Wolfram Wette’s study of the German army that fought for the Nazi regime suggests parallels with the apartheid army. He reveals how the myth of the Wehrmacht’s ‘clean hands’ arose out of a combination of factors:

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the conspicuous silence about the participation of ordinary German soldiers in the war of annihilation waged against Jewish Bolsheviks and partisans in the occupied territories, as well as the propensity of citizens in post-war Germany to deny guilt and engage in self-exoneration. The above-mentioned SADF contact bureau was not all that different from the group of Wehrmacht generals who drew up a Memorandum in November 1945 in which they denied allegations of war crimes and crimes against humanity so as to pre-empt charges preferred against them by the impending Nuremburg tribunal. One German historian has called the memo a ‘document of self-deception’. But Wette reckons that it was an important step in the great cover-up that would produce the myth of the Wehrmacht’s ‘clean hands’.77 This effectively freed the German people from the burden of guilt, and armed them with a narrative that called the whole notion of ‘war crimes’ into question.78 After World War II, the defeated German generals assumed the task of writing up the history of the conflict from the Nazi German perspective much like the generals who have produced accounts of their role in the SADF’s history. It could be argued that the Wehrmacht generals succeeded because, since reunification, Germans have largely ignored the criminal nature of the Nazi regime and its violation of international law, and instead treated its offensive war as more or less the equivalent of the defensive war waged by the Allies.79 Similarly, SADF apologists have asserted a moral equivalence between the war to defend apartheid and the liberation struggle. But the argument that the SADF’s campaigns against its enemies amounted to a just war is impossible to sustain in light of the fact that apartheid was declared a ‘crime against humanity’ by the international community.

Conclusion SADF veterans constitute a heterogeneous and conflicted mnemonic community. Some seem to believe that as veterans they have not been acknowledged for doing their duties and making sacrifices on behalf of their country. They reckon that the time is right for a re-evaluation of their roles in the country’s recent conflict. Some wish to shrug off the shame of being regarded as vanquished soldiers who lost the war and so ended on the wrong side of history. Others have dismissed any suggestion that they share a measure of blame for being complicit in an oppressive system and have embraced victimhood instead. Still others have celebrated the part that they as members of the SADF played in making South

30

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Africa safe for whites, only to be sold out by untrustworthy politicians. All of these positions are evident in the memoirs of soldier-authors writing to reclaim the ‘Border War’. SADF generals and their apologists have vindicated their defence of apartheid with the argument that they held the country’s enemies at bay long enough for a transfer of political power to take place after the collapse of communism. By buying time, South Africa was spared the fate of its neighbours, of being ruled by a Marxist or communist regime, because the ANC had to negotiate a settlement in a world ineradicably altered by the fall of the Berlin Wall. They have also insisted that the many failings of the ANC government serve as confirmation of their misgivings about black majority rule. But the claims that the SADF made possible a better peace or helped establish freedom and democracy in South Africa,80 are risible.

2

The Cultural Construction of Combat: Narrative Templates of the Border War

The proclivity to regard war as a primordial or foundational experience is as old as war itself. For many, of course, war is an initiation into violence and killing; a first taste and smell of death, pain and loss, fears and tears and so on. Combatants, especially, are convinced that the experience of war is completely independent of all previous cultural constructions. However, this is not borne out by memoirs and other imaginative writing about combat. Indeed, my analysis of the literature of the ‘Border War’ suggests quite the reverse. It attests to the fact that post-modernist scholarship is correct to assert that lived experience, including that of combat, is culturally constructed. Images precede and shape reality rather than vice versa. Following Y. N. Harari, it is argued here that we cannot experience anything unless we have first of all constructed and given meaning to that experience, and this is something we can only accomplish with the help of narrative templates and cultural models.1 As was the case with US soldiers in Vietnam, ‘it would seem that [South African soldiers] were unconsciously mythicising their [border] war even as they fought it’.2 Consequently, the narrative constructed of that experience has taken on a shape, texture and an identity that is separate from reality and exists apart from it. This symbolically constructed world of the South African soldier in the ‘Border War’ has obvious resonances with stories of other modern wars, especially with narratives constructed by American veterans of the Vietnam War. Why was this the case?

Cultural codes and the transnational tradition of war writing The Vietnam War was widely invoked by South African military and political leaders (see Chapter 8), as well as ordinary soldiers. The troops incorporated

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many Americanisms into their jargon. For instance, they called South Africa or home ‘the States’ and South West Africa (Namibia) ‘Nam’. So why was Vietnam a frequent reference point for troops trying to make sense of their experience of the combat in Namibia (and Angola)? In his analysis of the social reality shared by a generation of American males sent to war in Vietnam, Lloyd B. Lewis identifies the media as one of the agents of socialization by which the ‘symbolic universe’ borrowed exclusively from World War II was transmitted from one generation to the next (the other agents were the family and the military).3 Thus John Wayne, the ultimate machismo warrior in a string of Hollywood war films provided a role model for early American volunteers for Vietnam.4 The values of duty, honour and sacrifice were reinforced in American homes where fathers and other male relatives were veterans of the ‘Good War’. But South Africa’s national service generation had no such role models. There was no intergenerational brotherhood of warriors, and little continuity or solidarity between veterans of World War II and the Border War. This was because the government’s decision to go to war against Germany in 1939 had been divisive, especially in Afrikaner families, even though most of the volunteers were drawn from the ranks of poor white Afrikaners.5 Under apartheid, patriotism and conformity to the ideology of white supremacy was reinforced by a value system upheld by the family, the church, an educational system that included cadets for white male school goers and military service itself. The media played less of a role in reinforcing a worldview than in providing a frame of reference, which enabled soldiers who served on the Border to understand their experiences. While drawing upon their own personal memories, soldiers also mined a cultural memory shaped by the mass media and texts of other wars.6 We have noted in Chapter 1 the burgeoning literature on the Border War. My reading of this body of work suggests that the English literary texts about the ‘Border War’ have been more obviously informed by a transnational tradition of writings about modern warfare than their Afrikaans-language counterparts. This is not to suggest that the former is insular or that the latter is necessarily more derivative but that they are products of their times. Works of fiction penned almost exclusively by young white male Afrikaner intellectuals known as grensliteratuur (‘border literature’) challenged the official discourse of the ‘Border War’. This body of imaginative literature was written mostly by those with first-hand experience of bearing arms for the apartheid state. The early works of the 1970s, which drew inspiration from the country’s own frontier history, were usually fairly graphic descriptive accounts, which explored personal encounters with violence and death. The later works of the

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1980s ‘embody an attempt to come to terms with living in a state of constant friction and permanent tension’.7 H. E. Koornhof holds that ‘[t]he writing explores not so much the war, but the breaking up of the previously monolithic Afrikaner ethnic identity in the face of the [then] current political, military and moral crises in the country’.8 This identity, largely constructed around the symbolism generated by the Anglo-Boer War (aka the South African War), was deconstructed and, to a lesser degree, reconstructed around another war – the ‘Border War’. Some of the writings are replete with an anguished and rather tentative notion of a new, inclusive South African cultural identity. This abandonment of Afrikaner nationalism and its historical and cultural heritage is conveyed in metaphorical terms in Louis Kruger’s novel ‘n Basis Oorkant die Grens in which the body of the leader of a failed mission is carried back across the border by his squad.9 The corpse serves as a metaphor for the ideological baggage of the past, which has to be lugged about at risk to life and limb, until it can be given an honourable burial. The border in this instance is not only a place of refuge from the pursuing enemy but also a boundary that must be crossed in order for society to come to grips with its militarization as much as with a state of actual war. These dissident Afrikaner writers found military conflict to be the most apposite context in which to explore their perceptions of the dissolution of Afrikaner unity and hegemony.10 In other words, grensliteratuur reflected the construction of a new Afrikaner identity in the face of an uncertain future.11 Whereas grensliteratuur has its roots in the local experience of conflict, especially of the frontier and Anglo-Boer wars, it occasionally references the corpus of writings of modern warfare in which Vietnam looms large. Dorian Haarhoff reckons that grensliteratuur parallels much of the Vietnam literary experience dealing as it does with the psychological effects of war on individual metropolitans.12 He cites the case of J. M. Coetzee’s Dusklands (1974) in which Vietnam serves as a basic metaphor. Another work that bridges local and transnational traditions of war literature is Mark Behr’s Die Reuk van Appels (1993), translated as The Smell of Apples (1995).13 The story revolves around two incidents that expose the hypocrisy of the white Afrikaner establishment epitomized by the conduct of the protagonist’s own father who is a senior officer in the SADF. The first is his father’s rape of his 11-year-old friend and the second his announcement that South African armed forces were not in Angola (when they were). These incidents force him to rethink his white, male Afrikaner identity and question the patriarchy of his society. These qualities situate the text within the grensliteratuur tradition, whilst other features show the novel’s indebtedness to the transnational corpus of war writing.

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Collectively, the corpus of ‘Border War’ literature tends to reiterate certain themes, which amount to a form of codification that standardizes the representation of geographically and temporally remote wars. Paul Jay provides a useful framework for understanding the nature of the relationship between local and transnational traditions of war literature. While Jay is well aware of the potentially harmful and homogenizing effects of cultural globalization, he notes that similarity or uniformity is as much undone by contact with other cultures as it is enforced by hegemonic ones. He also points out that these effects are not necessarily deleterious and that they are experienced differently around the world. Jay reckons that transnationalism also facilitates two-way exchanges. He contends that transnationalism has ‘productively complicated the nationalist paradigm’ and ‘transformed the nature of the locations we study, and focused our attention on forms of cultural production that take place in the liminal spaces between real and imagined borders’.14 Accordingly, the representation of the Border War has been influenced by cultural globalization, especially the diffusion of American culture in South Africa. Such is the volume and impact of writings about the Vietnam War that it exercises a pervasive influence on the transnational tradition of modern war writings. It is my contention, then, that South African soldier-authors have tended to draw upon references to Vietnam rather than the country’s own wars in relating their life stories. Cultural-social criteria circumscribed the narrator’s choice of cultural models and templates within a field of war stories dominated by the American experience of Vietnam. And it is representations of the Vietnam War, in particular, that provide a narrative template for (re)imagining the Border War. I propose to make my case by identifying universal war themes and, thereafter, tropes that feature in the literature of both wars.

Universal war themes There are many themes that crop up regularly in the literature of modern warfare, especially 20th-century conflicts. They are transnational, if not virtually universal. They might also be abiding, even timeless. Indeed, in his study of military memoirs spanning five-and-a-half centuries, Y. N. Harari reckons that the key ingredients of the master narratives of late modern war experience were in place by the first half of the 19th century.15 He enumerates ten themes that constitute the key experiences of war. I have identified exactly the same number of themes from the literature of the Border and Vietnam Wars. Those are delineated below; they approximate but do not replicate those of Harari.

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(1) Rite of passage: American literary scholar and World War II veteran, Paul Fussell, has suggested that most war stories have three phases: innocence, experience and reflection. Whilst narratives do not necessarily demarcate the phases neatly and sequentially, they are evident in many of the texts referenced in this chapter. The loss of innocence and demonstration of manhood is usually marked by the initiation into fighting, often referred to as a baptism of fire.16 Phillip Caputo remarked that In the spate of two months, [we] passed from boyhood through manhood to a premature middle age … We left Vietnam peculiar creatures, with young shoulders that bore rather old heads.17

Journalist Michael Herr describes the ageing experienced by a young soldier in these terms: He had one of those faces, I saw that face at least a thousand times at a hundred bases and camps, all the youth sucked out of the eyes, the color drawn from the skin, cold white lips … Life had made him old, he’d lived it out old.18

Elsewhere, Herr speaks of soldiers being ‘twenty-seven pushing fifty’. This rapid coming of age is also a feature of ‘Border War’ stories. Anthony Feinstein’s account of how a skirmish between a SAP detachment and SWAPO guerrillas separates the men from the boys is typical.19 The public also bought this line of reasoning. One of a group of white women visiting the boys on the Border apparently stated that ‘[t]he Border is where our sons become men’.20 (2) Love–hate relationship with combat: There is little doubt that (certain) men love war. In an article about Vietnam, William Broyles attempts to explain its visceral appeal to those engaged in a battle for life and death.21 The hyperstimulation of the sensibilities of soldiers who experience a firefight is well documented. Combat has its highs and lows, and seems to bring out the best and the worst in human nature. In his Vietnam memoir, Caputo recounts the paradoxical attraction and repulsion of battle: … I could not deny the grip that war had on me, nor the fact that it has been an experience as fascinating as it was repulsive, as exhilarating as it was sad, as tender as it was cruel.22

Similarly, Herr captures this ambivalence with his observation that Maybe you couldn’t love the war and hate it inside the same instant but sometimes these feelings alternated so rapidly that they spun together in a strobic wheel rolling all the way up until you were literally High on War, like it said on all the helmet covers.23

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This simultaneous thrill and fear of battle is also evident in Mark Behr’s account of an engagement on the Border. The excitement of combat was in stark contrast to the immobility induced by fear.24 Feinstein describes the mixed emotions experienced after a skirmish: The euphoria would not leave me. It was like that for all the men, relief and exhilaration feeding off us. We chatted animatedly, comparing experiences. One man candidly confessed he had to relieve himself during the battle in order to avoid the embarrassment of becoming incontinent. The elder of the two warrant officers had been overwhelmed by fear. He had sat immobile throughout the battle and had to be told when the fighting was over.25

Hardened policemen are turned into gibbering wrecks in this ‘contact’. Any encounter, especially a close brush with death is likely to cause an adrenalin rush but when the excitement wears off it can leave the soldier in an emotionally drained state. The sense of elation upon surviving a firefight is invariably offset by an equally acute sense of loss or depression at the death of comrades in arms. These ambivalent feelings towards combat are evident in much war literature. Indeed, it is a myth that constant exposure to battle situations necessarily turned ‘rookies’ (or ‘scabs’) into hardened warriors for troops never really grow accustomed to the emotional extremities of combat. (3) Dehumanization of the enemy: This practice planted the idea that those killed were not really human.26 In naming the enemy, soldiers tend to use monosyllabic terms which can be spat out with contempt. In Vietnam the Americans called the Vietcong ‘gooks’, ‘dinks’ or ‘Charlie’, while in Namibia SWAPO guerrillas were dubbed ‘terrs’ and a host of other more derogatory names. Feinstein notes that The enemy was despised, nothing but a half-human, ill-educated kaffir whose remains could be obscenely displayed in our bar as trophies of battle. This dehumanising of the enemy was an essential first step that allowed the police and the army to hunt and kill insurgents with complete equanimity.27

South African soldiers substituted ‘kaffir’ for ‘gook’ when repeating the aphorism ‘the only good gook is a dead gook’ which was widely employed in Vietnam. Racial prejudice and the othering of the enemy served to fuel gratuitous violence. The denigration of the ‘other’ led inexorably to the committing of atrocities. (4) Terror and gratuitous violence: Rules of engagement counted for little or nothing in Vietnam and Namibia. Indigenous people lived in a state of perpetual fear as the armies of occupation employed tactics such as ‘search-anddestroy missions’ to eliminate the enemy. In the process, they used arbitrary,

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37

indiscriminate brutality and gratuitous violence against innocent civilians. The character Senator in Webb’s Fields of Fire explains war’s brutalization of combatants in these terms: You drop someone in hell and give him a gun and tell him to kill for some amorphous reason he can’t even articulate. Then suddenly he feels an emotion that makes utter sense and he has a gun in his hand and he’s seen dead people for months and the reasons are irrelevant anyway, so pow. And it’s utterly logical, because the emotion was right … It isn’t even atrocious. It’s just a sad fact of life.28

Caputo recounts how he instructed a patrol to capture Vietcong suspects but that the men under his command interpreted this to mean that they should take whatever course of action they chose.29 Not surprisingly, civilians were killed for the hell of it. The subsequent court martial provided an opportunity for Caputo and his colleagues to recognize the wrongfulness of their actions, but they were not about to admit as much when the findings of the court amounted to an official condonation of such acts. My Lai and other atrocities committed by American soldiers were not aberrations but relatively commonplace occurrences. This is graphically illustrated by an incident in which a US reconnaissance patrol abducted, repeatedly raped and murdered a Vietnamese girl.30 The bodies of dead enemy soldiers were often mutilated and parts taken as souvenirs.31 Such acts are usually attributed to the frustrations of the war, the wish for troops to avenge the loss of buddies, and their brutish state caused by being exposed to a situation where life (of the enemy) had little value. The conduct of SADF soldiers and their collaborators was little different from their American counterparts. In a significant text in the grensliteratuur corpus, Alexander Strachan describes how the recces disfigured the corpses of PLAN cadres.32 Gordon’s examination of the construction of terror in grensliteratuur suggests that the issue was handled with considerable forthrightness,33 something that was missing from the earlier English-language memoirs. Indeed, the committing of atrocities by the SADF was hardly hinted at. But a recently published memoir about the notorious police counter-insurgency unit known as Koevoet is brutally honest in revealing that members of the unit engaged in acts of egregious violence such as rape, torture, summary executions and so on.34 Whilst perpetrators of atrocities and war crimes are often riddled with guilt and remorse, Arn Durand expresses no such regret. Most war narratives acknowledge the collapse of moral certainties during combat but few evince such a total disregard for the rules of war. (5) Fatalism/superstition: The randomness of death is a striking feature of war stories. South African troops rather naively did not expect to have to encounter

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death and life-threatening injuries. Narrators express astonishment when a buddy is killed in front of their eyes or is flown home in a body bag, or they themselves have a close call with death. Recognition of vulnerability and mortality meant that fatalism invariably set in. Rick Andrew relates the words echoed by many on active duty that ‘if the thing’s [rocket, in this instance] has your name on it then it’s your time’.35 Narratives of Vietnam are also replete with instances of fatalism. Journalist Herr speaks of the ‘charmed grunt’ or talisman, and comments that no one expects much from a man when he is down to one or two weeks. He becomes a luck freak, an evil-omen collector, a diviner of every bad sign.

Herr tells of the many superstitious practices of American GIs that were believed to increase their chances of coming out alive. For instance, when on patrol they remained as close as possible to a soldier who appeared to live a charmed existence in combat.36 (6) Emasculation: As with the soldiers of previous wars, American soldiers in Vietnam frequently felt betrayed by the folks and loved ones back home, and especially by unfaithful women. In Vietnam narratives, the soldiers are constantly worried about girlfriends’ or wives’ infidelity. The legendary ‘Jody’ figure, who steals the soldier’s wife or girlfriend while he is away, features frequently in this literature.37 W. D. Ehrhart remarks on the consequences of an unfortunate soldier being unable to cope with rejection: Calloway had gotten a Dear John letter from his wife – worse, actually a divorce request from her lawyer – and had blown his brains out with a forty-five automatic.38

Partly by way of compensation for this (real or imagined) emasculation, American soldiers in Vietnam partook of consensual sex with local women, the service of prostitutes and engaged in acts of sexual violence as described in Daniel Lang’s Casualties of War.39 Despite the fact that fraternization and all contact with women of the indigenous populace was strictly forbidden by SADF standing orders, Andrew suggests that liaisons with Owambo women were not unknown.40 In the official discourse of the ‘Border War’, women were regarded as supportive of their men in uniform, upright, moral and faithful. But the literature suggests otherwise. The character who receives a ‘Dear John’ letter in Andrew’s Buried in the Sky is betrayed by his best friend, and yet the girlfriend is regarded as being wholly to blame.41 While women are usually treated with suspicion in war stories, men are deemed reliable and trustworthy. The camaraderie and male bonding formed during training and combat is regarded by soldier-authors as one of war’s – indeed life’s – most lasting gifts.

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39

(7) Combat madness: Descriptions of soldiers cracking under the strain of combat are to be found in a range of war literature. In John Del Vecchio’s The 13th Valley, the character Cherry regresses the deepest into savagery. A member of his squad exclaims: ‘That Cherry. He gone nuts. He crazy, L-T. You can see it in his eyes, L-T. Cherry becoming a animal.’42 Symptoms associated with crossing the thin red line between sanity and insanity are said to include irrational, impulsive behaviour and foolhardy bravery in the face of enemy fire. This included death-defying charges at enemy positions. In the ‘Border War’, any strange behaviour was immediately regarded as a sign that the person concerned was bosbefok or bossies, which meant suffering a mental breakdown. Both wars had their fair share of aberrant behaviour. In Etienne Van Heerden’s My Cuban, the protagonist captures and leads an imaginary captive around like a dog on a leash. The previously mentioned ‘n Wêreld Sonder Grense tells of a leader of a special unit who goes off the rails and refuses to return to base after the invasion of a SWAPO camp. In a scene reminiscent of Apocalypse Now, his friend and comrade is sent to persuade this renegade soldier to return. When he declines to do so, this disillusioned and war-weary figure has his throat slit by his erstwhile friend.43 These are the actions of men subjected to enormous physical demands and psychological stress. (8) Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD): Whether called ‘shell shock’ during World War I or ‘battle fatigue’ during World War II, the checklist of symptoms identified in the discourse of medical health as arising from war is fairly consistent. The list includes repression, rage, apathy, guilt, intense anxiety and paranoia.44 These symptoms, as well as the abuse of alcohol and drugs, are frequently associated with Vietnam veterans whose portrayal as victims and outcasts has more to do with Hollywood representations than reality. But even dysfunctional veterans believed media portrayals that they were worse affected than the veterans of previous wars. Their self-perceptions were captured – albeit with a twist of irony – in the following lines of veteran Bill Shields’s poem ‘Peer Group’: Me & the boys got the highest rate Of alcoholism & drug use & divorce & mental illness & suicide Than any other group In America It’s good to see us win For a change.45

The medic Feinstein recounts his own ‘Red Nightmare’ and other symptoms of PTSD evident in the behaviour of other members of his unit following a battle

40

South Africa’s ‘Border War’

with SWAPO. He also tells of companions who sought numbness in substance abuse,46 while Andrew relates a second-hand account of a soldier being admitted to One Military Hospital for psychiatric evaluation.47 But most South African soldiers received no counselling or professional psychiatric treatment at all. The few that have written about their battle with PTSD have identified the nature of their problems as a result of self-diagnosis48 (see Chapter 4). (9) Sense of betrayal: The defeated soldiers in all 20th-century conflicts have regarded themselves as victims of political machinations, bearing little or no responsibility for losing their war. The upper echelons of the American armed forces believed that they had been forced to fight with their hands behind their backs, meaning that they were subject to political constraints and intervention in military tasks. Even the ordinary soldiers or ‘grunts’ shared this viewpoint. The US veteran, Bill Ehrhart opines, ‘Like they put our asses out there, and then tied one hand behind our backs and blindfolded us.’49 South African officers and troops in Namibia expressed similar sentiments about the politicians’ insistence that they wage a limited war. And like their American counterparts, SADF generals rejected charges that they did not understand the nature of unconventional warfare and were ill-prepared for counter-insurgency. Instead, they blamed the government, which hamstrung military operations by having the SADF fight a limited, strategic war subject to political pressures. It was easier to find scapegoats for the defeat of the SADF than to question its conduct of the war. However, unlike the Americans in the case of Vietnam, they could hardly blame the media for the defeat because there was an almost total news ‘black out’ pertaining to the war: neither the newly established SABC television channel nor the print media carried much coverage of the ‘Border War’. But the outcome was rather different: whereas the Americans simply withdrew ignominiously from Vietnam and the NVA-occupied Saigon, South Africa negotiated a settlement, which brought SWAPO to power in Namibia. This did not sit well with the soldiers, though. Novelist Damon Galgut has his protagonist state: ‘Namibia … [t]his curious western land, which I had lost myself in defending. It would go, almost certainly to SWAPO, my enemies of one year before.’50 South African soldiers were forced to accept that the enemy whom they had been fighting had wrested control of the state and that erstwhile ‘terrorists’ were to form the new ruling party. Many whites – in both Namibia and South Africa – were of the opinion that the government had betrayed its armed forces by negotiating a settlement with the enemy. In being forced to come to terms with defeat, soldier-authors appropriated the legend of the ‘stab in the back’, that the war was lost at home rather than on the battlefield.51

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(10) The futility of war: This is a well-worn theme in the literature of 20th-century warfare, from Wilfred Owen’s trench poetry of the Great War to Kevin Powers’ critically acclaimed novel about the Iraqi War, The Yellow Birds. The Vietnam and Border Wars are no exception. Some South African soldiers came to the conclusion that the sacrifice of life for an unwinnable and morally questionable cause was an exercise in futility. The narratives of soldier-authors reflect this sense of loss when describing the deaths of fellow soldiers. Disillusionment is evident in the description of a suicidal mission to recapture the peak of Matterhorn where the NVA are bunkered in. The protagonist in Marlantes’ novel, Lieutenant Mellas, reflects upon the needless loss of life. He asks: ‘For what? Where was the meaning?’52 As one commentator states, ‘[t]he brutal recognition that one could ‘die for nothing’ is echoed throughout the Vietnam narratives’.53 The recognition that soldiers were expendable in the larger scheme of things, that the sanctity of human life could be devalued, occasioned existential angst amongst soldier-authors who cared to reflect upon their reasons for fighting and killing. Many came to the conclusion that they fought for one another rather than the government or country; that their loyalty was to their comrades to whom they might owe their own lives and not to the authorities who asked that they pay the ultimate price.54

Common themes in Vietnam and Border War literature Tobey Herzog has identified a number of features of Vietnam narratives, which suggest that the conflict was different or distinctive.55 I have discovered that a number of these features occur in narratives of the ‘Border War’. In fact, I have identified at least ten tropes common to the literature of both wars. These include the following: (1) An invisible enemy: The elements of stealth and surprise counted more heavily than conventional indices of military (fire)power in guerrilla warfare. The enemy could often go undetected until the insurgency forces were engaged as it was difficult to distinguish them from civilians. The VC hid in plain sight. Lines from Ehrhart’s poem ‘Guerrilla War’ express the difficulty of fighting a faceless enemy in Vietnam: ‘It’s practically impossible/to tell civilians/from the Vietcong … Even their women fight;/and young boys,/and girls … .’56 Similarly, Feinstein relates how, as a medic, he accompanied SAP and SADF patrols in Owamboland in 1983, which were ‘unable to discern friend from foe’.57

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A  clearly defined enemy is conspicuously absent from most of the stories in two collections of short stories of the ‘Border War’.58 Like their counterparts in Vietnam, the South African armed forces had to fight against an enemy that did not necessarily wear uniforms, blended in with the local civilian population, armed women and children, used booby traps and other devices to kill and maim and so on. Given that these are obviously characteristics of guerrilla warfare, this might seem unremarkable. But even soldiers who were trained and prepared for unconventional warfare found it difficult to deal with the lack of a tangible enemy.59 (2) War waged against hostile elements: The marines in Karl Marlantes’ epic Matterhorn battle not only fatigue and hunger, but also the oppressive clamminess of the jungle, the hindrances caused by bamboo and elephant grass, the incessant rain, the invisibility caused by the low-lying clouds and mist, blood-sucking leeches and so on. Indeed, nature appeared to be an adversary when they were ‘humping the boonies’.60 When Caputo remarks ‘It was the land that resisted, the land, the jungle, and the sun’, he suggests that nature was neither neutral nor innocent.61 Herr speaks of the ‘malignant environment’; of trees that could kill and of ‘homicidal elephant grass’.62 As Lewis commented, ‘It often seemed as if all forces of man and nature had conspired to take the life of the GI in the bush’.63 In narratives set in Namibia, soldiers too are pitted against nature/ climate and the landscape. Karen Batley identifies the scorching heat of the sun and blinding white sand/dust of Namibia as contributing to the inhospitable nature of the terrain.64 Behr describes how the branches of trees claw and tear at Marnus Erasmus as he plunges headlong into the undergrowth in order to escape capture by the pursuing Cubans.65 But the terrain can be both friend and enemy. In ‘n Basis Oorkant die Grens, the narrator is aware of the uneven terrain over which he passes and the bushes and branches that catch him in the face as he tries to find a path through the undergrowth. But he is equally aware that the terrain affords him shelter and protection against the enemy, especially when his camouflage allows him to blend in with the environment.66 (3) The enemy ruled the night: No matter what objectives American and South Vietnamese forces achieved by daylight, the VC and NVA were able to retake them once darkness set in. This day/night dichotomy figures in many Vietnam narratives. Poet Bill Ehrhart calls night-time ‘Charlie’s time’.67 Frederick Downs held that ‘[a]nything that moved outside our perimeters at night was fair game because the night belonged to the enemy and both sides knew it’.68 Steve Earle’s short story ‘The Reunion’ relates how the Viet Cong deployed from the underground tunnels

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… the guerrillas waited out the sun while above them the Americans and their South Vietnamese counterparts went about the business of an army of occupation. Occasionally individual guerrillas or small teams would venture out into the light on one mission or another. But the night belonged to the National Liberation Front … They issued from their underground strongholds under cover of darkness, safe from the prying eyes of helicopter and O-2 pilots. Cu Chi was the one part of the South that the Americans could never ‘pacify’.69

A similar imagery is evident in the ‘Border War’. Feinstein recounts how the SAP retreated to its base by nightfall and did not venture out under the cover of darkness. He notes: We frequently did not know who the enemy was, let alone where he was hiding. If anything, the night belonged more to him and we, with our mighty military machine, were forced to take refuge in base. This night-time show of force was akin to a savage dog, tethered to a post and forced to bay in frustration and helplessness at his enemies.70

(4) Faith in superior technology/weaponry: The helicopter (or ‘chopper’) was the workhorse in both the Vietnam and Border wars. It transported troops so that they could be rapidly deployed in firefights or follow-up operations. Known by the colloquial term ‘bird’, the helicopter became a ubiquitous visual and literary image in Vietnam. In fact, it has become part of the iconography of that war. The Americans believed that control of the skies afforded them the means to bomb the Viet Cong (and North Vietnamese) into submission or, failing that, to provide ample cover for their ground troops to win the war. Their superior firepower gave them an advantage over the relatively ill-equipped enemy. A passage in Feinstein suggests a similar mindset amongst SADF brass: Major van der Merwe [ordered] us into the courtyard to see something that would show the kaffirs who was baas (boss). So we gathered under the clear blue skies and waited and waited and waited, in true military fashion, when suddenly there was an explosion of sound just above us and two impala jets flashed by, skimming the roof tops. They had come to put on a show. We spent the next few minutes gasping as the jets dived and climbed and spiralled in a display that was meant to impress and in truth succeeded. Having appeared out of nowhere to blast our senses the jets were just as suddenly gone. For a moment we stood stunned, looking up into empty skies, before the men broke into spontaneous, excited applause. SWAPO never stood a chance.71

The impressionable SADF troops were in for a rude awakening once they crossed the border into Angola and encountered a far more formidable enemy armed

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South Africa’s ‘Border War’

with sophisticated modern weaponry such as AK-47s, armoured vehicles, the Stalin organ and MiG fighters piloted by Russians and Cubans. The fetishization of weapons, with their firepower and their capacity for devastation, is a feature of Border and Vietnam War narratives. (5) The ineptitude/menace of the enemy: Some of the Vietnam literature repeats the myth that the fighting capacity of the Vietcong was limited and that it was only the support of the North Vietnam Army and the supplies from the Peoples’ Republic of China that enabled them to wage war effectively. Yet other works acknowledge the fighting spirit of the Vietcong and the NVA with a hint of admiration for their willingness to soldier on when seemingly outgunned. This was especially so of the soldiers who recognized the enemy as their equals. Ehrhart remarks that the VC fought like hell despite being poorly armed.72 The SADF denigrated the capabilities of the SWAPO forces. Sheila Roberts mentions ‘terrorists’ fighting with Russian weapons, which they are too stupid to use.73 Accounts of the ‘Border War’ often speak of enemy confusion, deficiency in the use of their weapons and a general lack of savvy and/or intelligence. The conventional military wisdom was that the ‘terrs’ would only engage with the SADF when the odds were stacked in their favour as when they had the element of surprise or outnumbered their opponents. Whilst PLAN guerrillas were considered second-rate soldiers because they were black, many SADF troops encountered blacks as equals for the first time when they were armed. Indeed, the SADF more than met its match when the Angolan (FAPLA) forces were supported by Cuban brigades. Van Heerden’s short story My Cuban exemplifies how the Cubans and Russians represented an unknown quantity that aroused the curiosity and dread of the SADF soldier.74 (6) Winning hearts and minds (WHAM): The unconventional nature of guerrilla warfare required not only a military but also a political strategy to win the war. WHAM was supposed to build goodwill among the civilian population by distributing food and medical treatment, and collecting intelligence so as to root out guerrillas and cadres. The novelist and veteran Tim O’Brien tells us that this policy was counter-productive in Vietnam: It is not a war fought for territory, nor for pieces of land that will be won and held. It is not a war fought to win the hearts of the Vietnamese nationals, not in the wake of contempt drawn on our faces and on theirs, not in the wake of a burning village, a trampled rice paddy, a battered detainee. If land is not won and if hearts and minds are at best left indifferent, the only obvious criterion of military success is the body count.75

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As with the American armed forces in Vietnam, the SADF made futile attempts to win the hearts and minds of the local population – dubbed ‘LPs’ or ‘PBs’ (plaaslike bevolking). The SADF introduced a Civic Action Programme in Namibia in 1974 as its mantra was that the war was only 20 per cent military and 80 per cent political. Andrew describes the rhetoric of a visiting officer to the Durban Light Infantry’ base at Oshikango, who exhorted the troops along these lines: you need to understand that you are here as diplomats, as ambassadors of South Africa – of civilisation. This war is not a full-scale conventional engagement. It’s a war of terror and persuasion. Insurgency and counter-insurgency. It’s a war of psychology. You have to win the hearts and minds of the people. This war will not be won by military action on the ground, but through influencing people towards non-communist ideas and Christian values.76

Faced with a ‘forced choice’ of resistance or collaboration, most of the local population in Namibia opted for the path of least resistance or the lesser of two evils.77 This passivity is captured in a poem cited by Batley written by a soldier that acknowledges that the SADF were made to feel unwelcome by the locals: This foreign land, where a white boy on white sand listens to the clicking tongue of a foreign people saying Bwana, go home … 78

And Andrew describes a proprietor of a cuca shop ‘who hated the white intruders’, which was evident from his sullen disposition and silent contempt.79 Feinstein notes the irony that South African propaganda services, ‘while hopelessly inept at influencing the opinion of the local Owambo population, had done a good job with the average South African policeman’.80 (7) Battlefield success was measured in terms of body counts and kill ratios: The body count is virtually synonymous with the Vietnam War. But the scholar Joanna Bourke takes the issue with the assumption that the emphasis on body counts is regarded as a phenomenon of the Vietnam War. She remarks that tallying victims (and collecting souvenirs and trophies such as body parts) was a real goal for many combatants during the two world wars as well.81 But this misses the crucial distinction that this was a private pursuit rather than a matter

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of military policy. Because ‘victory was a high body count, defeat a low killratio, war was a matter of arithmetic’. As a regimental casualty-reporting officer, Caputo kept score of various units’ kill ratios. He records … the measures of a unit’s performance in Vietnam were not the distances it had advanced or the number of victories it had won, but the number of enemy soldiers it had killed (the body count) and the proportion between that number and the number of its own dead (the kill ratio).82

In a short story published in the volume Forces Favourites, Matthew Blatchford tells the story of an officer who must kill in order to retain his reputation. He relates how the officer prided himself on this and claimed, ‘Over the last five years, as bodycounts show, the SADF in South-West Africa and Angola has maintained a kill ratio of eight to one – almost the highest in the world!’83 Feinstein describes an engagement between SADF troops and SWAPO after which there was a stock-taking or ‘doing the all-important body count. That was how success was measured in the Namibian war by the SWAPO body count’.84 Irrespective of whether this toll included those caught in the crossfire such as women and children, these figures had to be seen to exceed the casualties incurred by the SADF. This was little different from Vietnam where it was reckoned that the body count routinely included innocent civilians, or was inflated to impress or placate superior officers.85 (8) Survival strategies: Because of the lack of clear-cut policy in the Vietnam and Border Wars, American soldiers and their South African counterparts returned home before their military objectives were achieved. Whereas the average American draftee did a single tour of duty, his South African counterpart could be called up for a number of three-month border camps. Whether there was rotation of individuals in Vietnam or units in the ‘Border War’, survival became of paramount concern for all soldiers. Caputo recounts: What had begun as an adventurous expedition had turned into an exhausting, indecisive war of attrition in which we fought for no cause other than our own survival.86

Caputo reflects on the expediency of survival: ‘None of us was a hero … We had done nothing more than endure. We had survived, and that was our only victory.’87 American troops aimed to stay alive long enough to leave Vietnam physically intact (or, failing that, incur a minor injury so as to get sent back home prematurely). They wanted to avoid being ‘wasted’ (killed) or ‘hit’ (seriously wounded) at all costs. Some refused to participate in patrols or obey orders that exposed them to risk. Their disposition was encapsulated by the acronym naafi

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(which stands for ‘no ambition and fuck all interest’), which was common to the dialogue of both wars. Survival strategies often assumed priority amongst soldiers in the ‘Border War’. Feinstein confesses that his ‘priority in Owamboland had become a selfish one; to survive the tour of duty and get home to safety, family and friends’.88 The countdown of the remaining days of national service or a border camp was as commonplace as during the tour of duty in Vietnam. In the case of South African troops, the survival mentality was captured in the term vasbyt (literally, ‘grind one’s teeth and bare it’). Soldiers were exhorted to endure by biting the bullet or vasbyting. Those with few days (min dae) were known as ou manne (old timers). This obsession with survival meant that the ou manne enjoyed a status over and above their rank (or lack thereof). This ‘short-timers syndrome’ existed in Vietnam too. Short-timers were exempt from having to perform especially dangerous duties. (9) A lost cause: Americans were perplexed by their having to sacrifice their lives for a cause that was not shared by the very people they were supposedly trying to help. The lack of will and incompetence on the part of America’s South Vietnam ally, the ARVN, occasioned comments such as those of Ehrhart, ‘Most of the ARVN weren’t worth a flying fuck. Armed to the teeth, and still couldn’t – or wouldn’t – fight their way out of a paper sack’.89 This gave rise to the unbridled resentment expressed by Downs: This [training] camp represented what we were always bitching about. These dinks had been in that camp for many months supplied with American arms, clothes and food but they were never went out on any patrols. They never fought. We patrolled all the time, set ambushes, got into firefights. All the while those bastards sat upon their smug asses … We didn’t understand it.90

It is noteworthy that in this extract, as well as in other narratives, the Vietnamese allies were also labelled ‘dinks’ or ‘gooks’. These pejorative terms were not reserved for the enemy. Negative attitudes towards those the Americans were supposedly helping were based, according to several Vietnam portraits, on misunderstanding due to cultural difference. David Halberstam’s One Very Hot Day91 is a key novel in this regard, juxtaposing the perceptions of American and South Vietnamese officers.92 The SADF troops harboured contradictory attitudes towards their allies. Whereas the San (‘bushmen’) who served as trackers were held in awe on account of their ability to follow spoor, the SADF generally expressed contempt for the training and effectiveness of the SAP who were ‘playing at soldiers’.93 Such disdain was also reserved for the SWATF and SWAPOL. Descriptions of their Angolan proxy forces, known as UNITA,

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by SADF soldiers are invariably negative. These speak about their rag-tag appearance, lack of military training and their tendency to desert in the face of hostile enemy fire. A tone of demoralization and cynicism is apparent in many Border War narratives. It is evident in Johan Vlok Louw’s Eric the Brave, the ironically titled and minimalist novel about an anti-hero who kills his own men in Namibia in a mop-up operation following an ambush. (10) Readjustment of veterans to civilian life: Returning US Vietnam veterans were met with a mixture of gratitude, indifference and sometimes outright hostility. There are many accounts that portray them as psychotic or traumatized.94 The media, and particularly Hollywood films, represented the veteran as an outcast incapable of being reintegrated into American society.95 But more recently the veteran has been rehabilitated, a development exemplified by the redemption of Emmett Smith in Bobbie Ann Mason’s novel In Country. In the case of South Africa, returning soldiers were unable to share their experiences with civilians, including friends and family: In the short story ‘A Return’ by Peter Rule in Forces’ Favourites the protagonist returns home from a stint on the Border but finds he is unable to communicate his fears and inner turmoil even to his girlfriend or family.96 Veterans often relive their war experiences by seeking out the company of other troops with whom they can exchange war stories. Such therapy might provide a measure of healing but is unlikely to bring closure to those traumatized by violence and killing. The traumatization of South African troops has not received the same attention that Vietnam veterans in the United States have (belatedly) received but their plight has not gone altogether unnoticed.

Conclusion So why are South African soldier-authors inclined to reference representations of the Vietnam War when constructing narratives of the ‘Border War’? Why have connections with the American experience of the Vietnam War been reified in the cultural memory of the ‘Border War’? It is partly a consequence of globalization, which renders American cultural memory and historical discourse hegemonic. The South African public imagination has been suffused with images of Vietnam, which have been insinuated into representations of the ‘Border War’. Vietnam is a signifier, a set of symbols that reflect the formal codification of the American experience; it has become a touchstone rather than a place. The specificity of that experience has been decontextualized and deterritorialized. Levy and Sznaider hold that in the face of mass-mediated

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consumer culture, memories lose their previously collective/territorial moorings and transcend ethnic and national boundaries.97 Thus the cultural memory of the Vietnam War, part of a global memoryscape, has been codified by (white) South Africans. Consequently, stories of the Border War are often populated with themes and tropes derived from the Vietnam War. This might be described as cosmopolitanism or ‘internal globalization’, the process whereby local experiences become part of transnational memory, and local war writings are influenced by a transnational tradition of war literature.

3

Codes of Conduct in Captivity: Narratives of South African POWs in Angola, 1975–1978

This chapter seeks to reconstruct the stories of South African Defence Force (SADF) soldiers captured during the abortive invasion of Angola in December 1975 and held by Cubans until their release in September 1978. A total of eight South Africans were captured during and immediately after Operation Savannah (the codename for the invasion). These captivity narratives are based largely on the recollections of two prisoners of war (POWs),1 supplemented by documents, letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, scrapbooks and so on. I do not wish to create the impression that my interviewees told a singular story. They remembered certain things differently and disagreed on some of the finer points. And some of the details of their 33 months in captivity remains sketchy − which is to be expected as memory is selective and often unreliable. But what is beyond dispute is that the experience of captivity had a profound impact on the individuals involved, as well as on the consciousness of the South African public. The capture of South African soldiers was not without precedent.2 Although some stories were known,3 there was no lore of captivity amongst the NSG or the public at large. And unlike the US armed forces, which had developed a Code of Conduct for POWs following the Korean War,4 the SADF did not have a standardized set of rules to govern its members’ behaviour in captivity. Yet, POWs would have been expected to adhere to certain well-established military codes, including ‘fighting until the end’ and not revealing any information to captors other than name, rank and serial number. As was the case with Israeli POWs captured in the Yom Kippur War,5 there was an unwritten Cultural Code of Captivity (CCC) to which South African POWs would have been expected to conform. Apart from the above-mentioned imperatives, they would have been expected to conduct themselves in a manner befitting the traditions of the

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South African armed forces. Above all, they would have been expected to show national pride and solidarity notwithstanding their situation. The soldiers, in turn, would have had certain expectations of the SADF. It would have been drilled into them that the SADF did not desert men on the battlefield. They would have expected every effort to be made to secure their release in the event that they were captured. But the likelihood of being captured was clearly regarded as a remote possibility by the troops that participated in Operation Savannah. Indeed, the moot point is whether soldiers are ever prepared for such an eventuality.

Capture and exposure Robert Wilson was called up by the SADF for national service in 1975. He completed basic training with Voortrekker Technical Services in Bloemfontein where he trained as a motor mechanic. He volunteered for ‘border duty’ because he stood to earn ‘danger pay’, which would supplement his meagre national service allowance. Following more specialized technical training that simulated combat conditions in the bush, he was dispatched by his unit to join a convoy that set out from Pretoria for Grootfontein, the largest SADF base in Namibia. Wilson and other ‘tiffies’ were accompanied by infantry troops who escorted a large assortment of military hardware, including cannons and vehicles. He arrived at the SADF base in SWA/Namibia in November 1975 when Operation Savannah was already under way. Grootfontein was a hive of activity and abuzz with excitement. The influx of refugees from Angola had necessitated the erection of a makeshift camp on the outskirts of the town. Here hundreds of Portuguese who had fled the civil war were temporarily housed in army tents. Operation Savannah was still supposed to be a closely guarded secret. Rumours were rife and there was much speculation about whether the convoy might cross the border into Angola. When the troops were briefed, they were simply told that they were heading ‘north’. They might well have been told that they were not compelled to join the task force but if this was the case, nobody wanted to be seen to be missing an opportunity for some ‘real action’. Although those joining the group were supposed to be volunteers – at least that was the instruction given by the minister of defence – the pressure to be part of the ‘adventure’ was immense. The troops were made to sign a declaration that they agreed not to disclose any details about the nature of the operation in which they were involved. In terms of the Defence Act, the

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deployment of non-voluntary South African troops beyond national borders required parliamentary sanction. This oversight was to be rectified when the Act was amended in January 1976 to provide for the deployment of conscripts outside the borders of the Republic if there was a threat to the security of the country, and applied retroactively to August 1975.6 The clandestine nature of the operation was apparent from the great lengths to which the SADF went to disguise the identity of the troops and support personnel it sent into Angola. They swapped their R1 rifles for FNs, their SADF uniforms for Portuguese camouflage dress or nondescript green kit and were instructed to remove any markers that identified them as South Africans. They were ordered not to carry any form of rank and identification, including dog tags. And they were instructed to speak English and create the impression that they were from the United Kingdom – a tall order for those with pronounced Afrikaans accents. In other words, they were to masquerade as mercenaries. In so doing, the SADF troops effectively forfeited the right to be treated in terms of the Geneva Conventions that governed the laws of armed conflict. If they confessed to being mercenaries upon capture, SADF soldiers could have been summarily executed. The convoy that crossed the Namibian border on the night of 24 November 1975 was to supplement the South African forces already deployed in Angola. The contingent was bolstered by Portuguese mercenaries whose actions did nothing to inspire confidence among the conscripts. Nor did the first contact with unruly and unkempt UNITA forces instil further confidence in the combat capacity of their Angolan allies. The convoy travelled via Sa ‘da Bandeira and Cela, where they were able to expropriate a stash of Cuban rations and raid a cache of weapons. The troops helped themselves to Russian-made AK-47 rifles and World War II-vintage submachine guns. They behaved as if they were cowboys let loose in the ‘Wild West’ rather than part of a military operation. The convoy arrived at its destination between Santa Coimba and Quibala some 750 km within Angola. Here the mechanics were assigned to form part of a support group accompanying Battle Group Foxbat. The frontline between South African and Angolan/Cuban forces was fluid and, as it shifted, the mechanics and other support personnel were redeployed. The mechanics were under the overall command of a Sergeant Maree but tended to operate in shifts comprising teams of four. On the afternoon of 13 December 1975, Maree instructed Corporal Hannes Terblanche to take a team to recover a vehicle that had broken down close to the front line. The party consisted of Terblanche, Wilson, Graham Danney and Robert Wiehahn.

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Terblanche apparently misunderstood the instructions and the four men drove straight through the South African lines and blundered into the FAPLA/ Cuban forces without realizing it. They initially thought that the enemies were their own men because they did not have distinctive uniforms and so might have passed for South Africans (or mercenaries). But their mistake became readily apparent when they were fired upon. Wiehahn stopped the truck abruptly and all four men disembarked rapidly and sought cover in the undergrowth along the side of the road. They were kept pinned down by sustained rifle and 60mm mortar fire. When it became obvious that it would be impossible to fight their way out of their situation, they realized that surrender would be the better part of valour.7 The four South Africans were disarmed, tied up and bundled into a truck and driven to a makeshift Cuban base where they were subjected to interrogation one by one. They were threatened with violence if they did not divulge the whereabouts of the South African forces, their strength, objectives and so on. They only revealed their names, ranks and serial numbers, and pleaded ignorance as to Operation Savannah’s objectives. The interrogation was conducted by Cubans although my informers insist that there were Russians and/or East Germans present.8 Later that same night, the four soldiers were transported by truck to Luanda where they were locked in single cells in a temporary Cuban military base. Then they were handed over to the Angolans for the purpose of being paraded before the media. The press conference on 16 December 1975 brought some relief for the captives and their families as it suggested that they were not about to be executed.9 On the other hand, it proved to be a propaganda coup for the MPLA and a humiliating experience for the captives. A photograph of the four dejected young white South Africans was given worldwide exposure. Their body language suggests shame, even disgrace and embodied the political embarrassment of the apartheid state. And a photograph of Robert Wilson taken after the four had faced the cameras suggests a certain degree of bewilderment (Figure 3.1). The following day, Terblanche and Wiehahn were interviewed for a Radio Luanda broadcast. Under cross-examination by a Commander Juju, they feigned ignorance about the objectives of the operation in which they were involved. They admitted that they were not wearing regular SADF uniforms when they were captured.10 This shot their cover story and exposed the SADF li(n)e that the POWs had strayed across the Angolan border.11 Their capture deep in the Angolan territory meant that they were living proof of an invasion.

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Figure 3.1 POW Robert Wilson paraded before the media, Luanda, 16 December 1975

Terblanche and Wiehahn were subsequently flown to Lagos where they were paraded in a press briefing on 18 December 1975. Images of two handcuffed white SADF soldiers were syndicated widely and published in newspapers around the world. This photograph and details of interviews with the captives were prominently reported in the South African press, which served to expose the sham of Pretoria’s previous denials that its forces were involved in Angola.12 The photograph appeared on the front page of the Rand Daily Mail on 19 December 1975, accompanied by the following comment: A single photograph … brought home, perhaps more than anything else so far, the implications of the country’s involvement in the Angolan conflict … . Here were the first South African soldiers in a quarter of a century to be taken prisoner of war – two bewildered youngsters enduring public humiliation paraded before an international audience by their MPLA captors … . Somehow nothing that has gone before – not even any of the tragic deaths in unidentified ‘operational areas’  – has conveyed to the same degree the direct human consequences of becoming embroiled with antagonists in southern Africa.13

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Similarly, the historian Bernard Magubane opined that‘ … the un-nerving picture of young white recruits manacled together as POWs in African hands [reversed] the traditional image of the whites as supermen and captors and blacks as Lilliputians and prisoners …’ .14 These images exposed the deficiencies of the SADF as well as the vulnerability of its soldiers. And it also exposed the futility of the government’s attempt to impose a blanket ban on local media reporting that SADF troops were in Angola when the international press provided extensive coverage of the matter. Then, on 6 January 1976, three more South African soldiers were captured near Calucinga, about 400 km southeast of Luanda. These members of the 5th South African Infantry Battalion (5 SAI), who comprised part of Battle Group Orange, were captured in separate incidents in circumstances that were not clear to Military Intelligence.15 The whereabouts of the missing soldiers remained unknown until they were presented to the press in Luanda on 8 January 1976. Then they were transported to Addis Ababa where they were paraded before the international media at the OAU summit held in the Ethiopian capital from 9 January.16 Once again, images of the captured SADF conscripts were syndicated throughout the world. From Addis Ababa the three men were flown to Khartoum where they were held up as exemplars of South African aggression by their MPLA escorts. Footage was screened by the newly established SABC television, which depicted the three young national servicemen being made to spell out their names.17 They were identified as Riflemen Andries Hendrik Potgieter, Lodewyk Johannes Christiaan Kitshoff and Petrus Jacobus Groenewald. On 16 February 1976, the SADF issued a directive to the press in which the Minister of Defence requested that no further photographs of South African soldiers being held captive by the MPLA be published. An explanatory note added: ‘Defence HQ say they and the Minister [are] being flooded by objections from relatives to publication of such pictures’.18 The directive was sent to all newspapers via the South African Press Association (SAPA) announcing that a ban on reports about the POWs would take effect from 27 February.19 But this belated attempt at damage control could not offset the personal humiliation of the POWs nor the diplomatic setback suffered by the South African government. Indeed, the revelation of South Africa’s aggression in Angola turned the opinion of wavering African states against the apartheid regime. The little support that the Vorster government had mustered for its backing of the pro-Western factions in the Angolan civil war as a result of its policy of détente evaporated. On 11 February 1976, the OAU formally recognized the MPLA as the legitimate government of the People’s Republic of Angola (PRA).20

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Following their return from Khartoum, the three 5 SAI captives joined Wilson and Danney in Luanda where they were being detained. After Terblanche and Wiehahn returned to Luanda from their stint in a Nigerian prison, all seven captives were transferred to Luanda’s Sao Paulo prison.

Conditions of captivity The South Africans initially shared a communal cell and were treated on a par with common criminals and other captives including FNLA members, Zaireans, MPLA dissidents and Portuguese nationals. They had to become accustomed to living in close quarters with black cell mates in conditions that were overcrowded and unhygienic. Then they were separated from the other inmates and placed in a first-storey cell where they were accorded rather better treatment. The cell beneath them housed a group of 13 mercenaries.21 Although they were confined to their cell for a period of some months, they had some communication with the mercenaries who were transported daily to attend the proceedings of the People’s Revolutionary Tribunal. Four mercenaries were executed and nine given lengthy jail terms.22 During the course of the trial, Dr Luis de Almeida, the MPLA DirectorGeneral of Information, announced that the South African prisoners would be put on trial by the People’s Revolutionary Tribunal. He stated that the South African captives were ‘not considered to be either mercenaries or prisoners of war’ because ‘there was no state of war between South Africa and Angola’. He discounted reports of their being exchanged for Cubans held by South Africa.23 When asked to explain the difference between mercenary and Cuban involvement in Angola, Dr Almeida replied: ‘The mercenaries violated the sovereignty of this state. A regular army invaded this country. No analogy can be drawn with the Cubans who were fighting at the invitation of the Angolan people’.24 His response would have been cold comfort to the seven during the time they anxiously waited to learn of their fate. Fortunately for them, Angolan president Agostinho Neto announced that the South African captives would not be tried in court.25 They were obviously relieved when this news was conveyed to them but were still aggrieved that the SADF had instructed them to pass themselves off as mercenaries. In an undeclared war, this was tantamount to a death sentence. In late 1976, the South African POWs were transferred to an ex-Portuguese military base being utilized by the Cubans. It was situated south of Luanda in

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close proximity to the coast. Here they were joined by another South African captive, who had previously been held in solitary confinement. Rifleman Eugene de Lange had apparently been captured by a FAPLA/Cuban patrol after his vehicle had crossed the Angolan border on 28 August 1976.26 The eight South Africans shared a cramped cell but had access to separate toilets and showers. At the new base the conditions of captivity improved considerably as the South Africans were fed the same rations as the Cuban soldiers. Their diet consisted primarily of beans and rice, but occasionally they were served fish, fruit and fresh produce. Later it was supplemented with strong Cuban coffee. There were periods in which they had to make do with near-starvation rations but this was not a deliberate ploy to increase the discomfort of the prisoners. Rather, it reflected the existence of food shortages in the country. They were also issued with Cuban cigarettes, which non-smokers either developed a taste for or used to barter for other items. Once in Cuban care, the POWs’ treatment improved considerably. Wilson was given a pair of spectacles to replace those damaged during a scuffle when he was captured. Others were afforded dental treatment. There appeared to be some sort of reciprocity between the Cubans and South Africans once mutual understanding was reached that both sides would treat their captives as POWs in line with the Geneva Conventions. The International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) acted as an intermediary between the South African and Angolan authorities.27 But the latter were suspicious of the ICRC, which was not allowed to monitor whether the conditions under which the South African POWs were detained were in accordance with the Conventions. The first time a representative of the ICRC was granted access to them was immediately prior to their release.28 On the other hand, ICRC delegates were granted frequent access to the three Cubans held by the Pretoria government. For the sake of public appearances, Kelsey Stuart, national president of the South African Red Cross Society, stated that both the South African and Angolan governments had adhered scrupulously to the Geneva Convention on the treatment of POWs. Indeed, he insisted that ‘conditions were better than those laid down in the Conventions’.29 Although the South Africans saw no ICRC representatives, they were paid a courtesy visit by the Cuban minister of defence, Raul Castro. They were not subjected to any form of indoctrination. And they were granted the services of an interpreter with whom they established friendly relations. Terblanche later expressed typical white South African racist fears when he claimed that the Cubans were better disposed towards them than the black Angolans who bore them obvious malice.30 This perspective was not shared by all the captives, as

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Wilson stated that he could not recall ‘any situation where we were threatened because of racial animosity’.31 The POWs were given writing materials by the Cubans and encouraged to correspond with their families after the ICRC opened up channels of communication. In his first letter to his parents dated 15 October 1976 (and delivered in January 1977), Wilson commented that he was being ‘well treated’ and that prison conditions had improved since their relocation a few days earlier. He makes special mention of being provided with a decent bathroom. Restrictions were relaxed under the new regime and the POWs established regular routines comprising two hours of exercise before and after lunch. Their activities included jogging, volleyball and table tennis when equipment was made available to them. Leisure activities included reading, playing cards, learning to play the guitar and developing a vocabulary of Spanish words and phrases. They also were permitted to repair a fishpond and use it for bathing. Still, the boredom and tedium of spending years in captivity awaiting news of their release proved frustrating for the POWs. The establishment of communications with family and friends in South Africa had its pros and cons. For instance, Terblanche became exceedingly despondent, even suicidal, when he heard news about his wife’s intention to divorce him. There were frequent delays in the delivery of letters and parcels. Indeed, it seems that some mail did not reach its destination at all. Families were instructed to write in English so that the letters could be scrutinized by the Angolan authorities and censored if necessary. They were also instructed not to divulge any information about negotiations even though they were hardly in a position to do so. Thus the content of the correspondence was confined to personal matters such as news about and the health of various family members and relatives. Mr David Wilson, father of Robert, stated that the family had received letters regularly every four to six weeks in which his son informed them about the conditions of their captivity.32 He reckoned that it was obvious the letters had not been censored.33 Similarly, there is no evidence that any attempt had been made to censor the correspondence that Wilson received while in Angolan prisons. His cache of correspondence includes many letters from family members, friends and acquaintances. They make for bland reading as they consist mostly of convivial greetings, birthday wishes and other pleasantries. But, at the time, they must have been enormously important for boosting his morale. And the occasional parcel with ‘luxuries’ such as biltong and chocolate not only supplemented the POWs diets, but also served as a welcome reminder that families were thinking of them in their absence. The collection of familiar and personal items made for

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the domestication of the prison environment that aided the POWs to imagine they were at home. Contact with the outside world improved when the POWs were given access to a transistor radio and, later, a television set. With the former they could tune into programmes broadcast by Springbok Radio and Radio SA.34 They made a point of listening to Forces’ Favourites, a programme then presented by Esme Euvrard, which broadcast messages to national servicemen. They were exhorted to ‘keep their (collective) chin up’ or to vasbyt. Euvrard and other radio announcers later came in for special praise from the POWs. According to Potgieter, ‘[t]hey made us feel that we were not forgotten. The messages they sent kept up our spirits’. His sister, Maria Pala, revealed that the POW’s families had a special connection in the SABC who gave their messages priority. The messages were codified. Thus the Wilson family sent a request to play a song for ‘Robert and his seven companions far up north’. Potgieter noted that, ‘[a]lthough the place where we were being kept was never mentioned, whenever we heard messages for the boys who were “far up north”, we knew it was for us’.35 Such contact with ‘home’ helped to keep their spirits up. According to later press reports, Terblanche was regarded as leader by the group. He is said to have made the decisions.36 This was obviously not the case in spite of the fact that he was the only one of the eight that carried rank. Privately the others regarded Terblanche as a nonentity. Potgieter described Terblanche as a ‘ghost’, presumably meaning that he lacked much of a physical presence. It would appear that the others were more resilient and coped better with confinement than Terblanche who moped and became withdrawn. In fact, the leadership vacuum resulted in personality clashes and the occasional fight as individuals sought to assume dominance. Wiehahn, for instance, was given to bullying tactics in order to assert himself over the weaker characters in the group. But the internal dynamics of the group of captives was affected by other factors too. Divisions on the line of language played a part although the English-speaking but bilingual Wiehahn tended to prefer the company of the Afrikaans-speakers. There were also differences of opinion when it came to matters of politics and religion. For the most part, they agreed to disagree. But once in the glare of publicity, the POWs projected a semblance of solidarity and camaraderie. One incident that highlighted the existence of tensions within the group was the foiled attempt to escape. Four of the POWs who had reached the end of their patience awaiting news that they would be released, planned to escape from their cell by sawing the bars on their window with a stolen hacksaw blade. The

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POWs had no idea what they would have done if they had escaped because they were uncertain about their whereabouts and realized they would be conspicuous if they made it outside of the walls of the base.37 But they imagined winning their freedom by commandeering a yacht in Luanda or hiking across the Zaire border. This escapade was discovered by the guards when the two camps argued about whether such a bid to escape was advisable or feasible. After the plan was discovered, Danney, Potgieter, Wilson and de Lange, the four that had hatched the plan, were punished by being placed in isolation cells for a week. The prison bars were reinforced with steel plates and this put paid to any further thoughts of escape. Although only half of the group participated in the planning of the escape, the story belonged to them all. It also was to be accorded prominence in press releases after their repatriation. This can be ascribed to the fact that (white) South Africans had no wish to imagine that their soldiers might have accepted their fate or ‘turned traitor’. It was important for public morale that the POWs were seen to have shown resourcefulness in attempting to free themselves from their captors and, if unable to do so, to have borne their incarceration with fortitude. And it was equally important to show that the POWs remained loyal to their country throughout their ordeal.

POW politicking on the home front The ruling National Party sought to defuse mounting criticism of the Angolan incursion occasioned, in part, by revelations of the capture of SADF troops. On 26 February 1976, Minister of Defence P. W. Botha made a speech in the House of Assembly in which he finally admitted South Africa’s involvement in Angola but still remained evasive about the details of Operation Savannah and its objectives.38 He assured the public that the government was committed to securing the release of the POWs as expeditiously as possible. Subsequently, the POWs next of kin were sent copies of the relevant pages of Hansard that included Botha’s speech. However, parents were not necessarily satisfied by the impersonal and vague assurances given by Botha. For instance, Groenewald’s parents addressed queries to Botha to ascertain what exactly was being done by the government to ensure the safe return of their son. In response to this and other representations, Botha’s office sent letters to the next of kin of all POWs to assure them that no effort was being spared to secure the early release of the SADF soldiers. But the failure to mention specific strategies that were being pursued did not give the POWs’ next of kin much reason for optimism.

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The (white) public were shocked to learn that SADF soldiers were being held captive by the Angolans, and government attempts to cover up the debacle were slated in the press. The liberal press tended to criticize the government for failing to take the electorate into confidence about its clandestine operations but registered their full support for the captive soldiers as victims of the state’s deceitfulness. The main opposition, the United Party, had supported the 1976 amendment to the Defence Act and the government’s efforts to coopt newspaper editors of the mainstream press into agreeing to a moratorium on the reporting of items on the POWs.39 The leader of the small opposition Progressive Reform Party, Colin Eglin, offered his services to intercede in any negotiations between the South African and Angolan governments to secure the release of the POWs. If the liberal opposition were reluctant to exploit the situation for the sake of political advantage, the right-wing harboured no such scruples. The small, splinter Herstigde Nasional Party (HNP) led by Jaap Marais, used its mouthpiece, Die Afrikaner newspaper, to charge the government, and MOD P. W. Botha in particular, with ‘weakness’ in its handling of the POW issue. In the course of its campaign, it attacked the government for its ‘betrayal’ of ‘captive young Afrikaners in Angola’ and alleged abandonment of the POWs at the hands of their black captors.40 Its racialization of the incident played to the prejudices of their conservative constituency. Numerous offers were made by ordinary citizens to intervene on behalf of the POWs, including those who proposed to mount operations to free them despite a singular lack of intelligence about their circumstances. Some of these harebrained schemes seem to prefigure the plots of Rambo’s rescue missions to free American POWs/MIAs in Vietnam. Strident voices called for the government to act without thought for the consequences. Such uninformed opinion took no account of the escalation of Cuban troops in Angola nor the sensitivity required in the handling of delicate matters by the apartheid state, especially as Pretoria had no formal diplomatic relations with the MPLA government in Luanda.41 When De Lange’s capture became public knowledge, it added to the consternation of the public and the POWs’ families alike. By now the latter had become sufficiently disillusioned with the Defence Ministry’s inability or reluctance to give straight answers to their queries about whether their sons would be released or not. Consequently, they decided to go over Botha’s head. In October 1976 they petitioned the government for a meeting with Prime Minister B. J. Vorster. They were granted an audience with Vorster at the Union Buildings on 4 November 1976. Vorster assured the next of kin that their sons and husbands would not be treated as mercenaries but

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as POWs by the Angolans. Vorster then proceeded to explain that the Red Cross was involved in delicate negotiations with the Angolan government to secure the release of their loved ones. He appealed to the next of kin not to divulge any information to the press about the meeting and confided that the press had consented not to report on the matter in the best interests of the POWs. Vorster attributed the lack of information about the treatment of POWs to the difficulties in dealing with an ‘uncivilised’ nation, likening it to the situation that the United States had encountered in Vietnam.42 When a parent commented that she did not know that her son was on the border let alone deployed in Angola, the point was dismissed as having no bearing on the discussion of the matters at hand. In response to a written question as to whether the POWs had agreed to render service outside of the country and whether the government had acted legally in sending troops into Angola, both Vorster and Botha avoided giving a direct answer and replied that the matter had been dealt with in Parliament and that copies of the minister of defence’s speech would be forwarded to all those present.43 Far from sympathizing with the families of the POWs, Botha dismissed their disquiet with an intolerance which bordered on contempt. This was both tragic and ironic given that the captured SADF soldiers had been involved in operations on foreign soil at the behest of his government. A follow-up meeting was held in the minister of defence’s Pretoria office on 18 November 1976. Botha used the opportunity to announce that monthly visits by SADF chaplains would be arranged and that such visits would allow POW’s families to be kept abreast of the progress of negotiations being conducted by the ICRC. He invited family members to communicate with his office if there was a need to do so. Botha also stressed the necessity of communicating with the POWs when the opportunity arose, and to do so in such a way as to maintain their spirits and morale. He took the strongest exception to a query by an unnamed parent who had the temerity to ask whether the POWs were expendable to the SADF. He insisted that this was not the case and would never be so while he was Minister of Defence. Botha did, however, concede that it was a sensitive situation and that he did not hold all the aces. He also stressed that ‘publicity, of whatever nature, in this matter will certainly jeopardize, if not wreck, our efforts to secure the release of your son and his comrades’.44 A split occurred between parents who reckoned that the military authorities were bereft of ideas as to how they might proceed and those who believed the government was doing ‘everything possible’ to secure the release of the POWs. Mr C. J. Wiehahn believed that parents were not happy with the ‘low-key

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approach’, which meant the press keeping the matter out of the headlines. In his view, ‘[t]he more publicity given to the matter, the more pressure there will be on the Government to return our sons’. He added that his son ‘was sent over the border illegally and thereby I was robbed of my parenthood’. Mr D. Wilson disagreed with Mr Wiehahn. He was satisfied that his son was ‘very well’ and that photographs he had received showed him to be in good health. Mrs Maria Pala, sister of Potgieter, said that the SADF was ‘doing everything possible’ in delicate negotiations.45 Whatever the statements made in public, there is no doubt that the families felt frustrated by the combination of their own powerlessness in the situation and the perception that the government seemed equally unable to provide assurances that the POWs would return safe and sound. Another meeting was arranged by the government with the next of kin of the POWs in Cape Town on 2 June 1977. P. W. Botha had invited Foreign Minister ‘Pik’ Botha to address the families as he was better positioned to update the next of kin on developments. The MFA delivered letters from the eight POWs to their next of kin and explained that these had been obtained via diplomatic channels. Botha instructed the next of kin to reply to these letters (in English) in tones that were positive but did not raise the expectations of their next of kin for release as they might be disappointed. He reported that the POWs were in good health and were being adequately provided for. Family members raised questions about whether they were regarded as political detainees or POWs. The MFA sidestepped the question and responded that the main issue was that they were being treated well and that their status was a secondary matter. He added that his own contact with the Angolans was more likely to yield results than the representations of the ICRC, but that all avenues would be explored, and that one or the other channel would yield the desired result. ‘Pik’ Botha gave repeated assurances that the government was ‘leaving no stone unturned’ in its efforts to obtain the release of the POWs and that he was taking a personal interest in the issue; indeed, treating it as if the POWs were his own sons.46 Botha might have come across as sincere but there is no doubt that his bluster was part of a charm offensive to ensure that the POWs next of kin forsake any idea of exploring alternative diplomatic and legal options to secure their release. Pik’s style was certainly a departure from P. W. Botha’s rather brusque manner in dealing with the POWs’ relatives. In the minister of defence’s subsequent written communication with the POWs’ next of kin, they were assured once again that everything possible was being done to secure the release of their loved ones. But the letter included a veiled warning when it noted that such efforts should not be allowed to threaten the security of the state or disclose the identities of well-respected figures that

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were acting in the interests of the country. P. W. Botha admitted that he was unable to give guarantees that their release was imminent.47 This was little consolation for the POWs’ next of kin who were expected to be satisfied with the Defence Department’s arrangement of monthly visits by welfare officers from local Commando units in the absence of concrete information about the progress of negotiations in respect of their release. It is apparent from the records that the parents and loved ones suffered emotional distress as a result of the incarceration of their child, sibling or partner in an Angolan prison. Such distress was frequently exacerbated by their financial straits. Terblanche’s wife lost a child and then proceeded to file for divorce and promptly fell pregnant again. The parents expended considerable energy to ensure that their son’s erstwhile spouse did not continue to receive his salary. In another case, the elderly parents of a POW became ill and ran up huge medical bills, which they requested the SADF to assist them to pay. These seemingly mundane details of the travails of the POWs’ next of kin reveal that this story has a tragic human dimension, that the families felt the absence of their sons and loved ones keenly. Even though the SADF’s assistance to the POWs’ families was negligible, they received considerable public support. Following the publication of their names and addresses in the national press, the families received letters and cards of sympathy and expressions of support from private citizens, as well as representatives of various groups and organizations such as the Southern Cross Fund. These messages invariably suggested that the family might derive strength from the prayers being offered on their behalf and from the platitudes of biblical verses. While well intentioned, they provided little comfort for families that had to place their faith in human intervention rather than divine intervention. Fortunately, the secret negotiations succeeded and the POWs were released.

Release and homecoming The POWs were visited by a high-ranking Angolan official, who informed them that they would be released in exchange for three Cuban POWs. This was followed by a visit by an ICRC representative who confirmed the deal but did not know exactly when the exchange would happen. The POWs were subjected to a battery of medical tests and then treated to a tour of Luanda and a ride on a speed boat in the harbour. They were paraded in front of the media where they presented a rather different picture from the disconsolate figures that had previously been in the spotlight. However, their excitement at the prospect of

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being released was leavened by the knowledge that their hopes had been raised and then dashed on previous occasions.48 The POWs left Luanda aboard a Russian aircraft with Red Cross markings on Saturday 1 September 1978. The exchange ceremony was scheduled for noon at Ndjiva (formerly Pereira D’Eca) in southern Angola. Meanwhile, the Cuban POWs were flown from Waterkloof Air Force base in Pretoria. Whilst officials conferred about the procedures to follow and signed repatriation papers provided by the presiding ICRC representative, the two groups of POWs had to wait patiently aboard their respective carriers. After what seemed an excruciating delay, the two groups disembarked and crossed over lines, which symbolized returning to home soil. Witnessed by media contingents from both countries, the exchange occurred with military precision and little fanfare.49 It was dubbed an exercise in ‘simultaneous repatriation’. The South Africans were then flown to Ondangwa Air Force base where they were debriefed. The eight men underwent a string of tests at Ondangwa by a team of specialists consisting of a medical doctor, a psychiatrist, psychologist, a welfare officer and a chaplain. Brigadier Lets Kok, Director of Welfare Services, pronounced that the ‘South African soldiers were well treated by the Cubans and there were no incidents of cruelty’. He added: All eight appear to have suffered minimal psychological injury while held by the Cubans in Angola … their problems are typical of those experienced by people who have been isolated from the customary environment. We did not know what to expect from their prison experience and I feel most relieved at their general disposition after having examined them.50

Having been given a clean bill of health following a cursory examination, the men were treated to a braai (barbecue) and beers. After a few hours of sleep, they were wakened early to prepare for the last leg of their homeward journey. Prior to their departure for Waterkloof, the eight exchanged their Cuban-tailored suits for new military uniforms decorated with Pro Patria medals. This symbolized their transition from POWs to soldiers, and from victims to warriors or grensvegters. The public were primed for the release of the POWs by pre-publicity orchestrated by the government. Reporters and photographers had accompanied the SADF party that had witnessed the exchange, and even more were on hand to provide coverage of the homecoming at Waterkloof on Saturday 2nd September. The ceremony was staged by the SADF for maximum effect. The former POWs were welcomed home by MOD P. W. Botha, who was accompanied by Chief of the SADF, General Magnus Malan, Chief of the Air Force, Lt-Gen Bob Rogers,

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and Major-General G. J. J. Boshoff, representing the army. The eight men posed with the top brass for official photographs. A military band played rousing tunes such as ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again’. During this ceremony, the anxious but excited families were restrained behind locked glass doors in the airport building from whence they strained to get a glimpse of their son/sibling. When the doors were opened, family members rushed across the tarmac to be reunited with their sons/brothers/uncles. Military decorum gave way to emotional scenes of uninhibited joy and tears. Intimate moments were captured by the posse of photographers on hand. A selection of photographs graced the front pages of the Sunday newspapers and also appeared in the Monday editions of most dailies. One of these images captioned Vreugdetrane [tears of joy], showing Mr David Wilson embracing his son Robert, won an award of Press Photographer of the Year, 1978 for Jan Hamman of Die Beeld newspaper (Figure 3.2).51 The lavish coverage of the homecoming was in complete contrast to previous efforts by the government to muzzle press coverage of the POWs. The occasion was described as a homecoming for ‘heroes’. But at least one former POW was honest enough to admit that they were nothing of the sort.52

Figure 3.2 Family reunion, Waterkloof Air Base, 2 September 1978 (Jan Hamman)

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Copies of photographs showing the POWs enjoying special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas that had been sent home to parents to assure them of their good treatment were published upon their release to provide public assurances that they had been well treated. Shots of them braaing, playing volleyball, wallowing in a shallow pool and posing on a speed boat in Luanda harbour and reproduced in the press comprised a ‘national album’.53 The publication of these images was obviously intended to offset the damage done by the earlier ones showing some of the POWs in handcuffs. But the ploy proved counter-productive. Rather than being seen as victims, the images created the impression that the POWs had enjoyed relative comfort while in Cuban custody and were thus undeserving of sympathy. Obviously, the men took the strongest exception to this public misperception that they had not suffered. In interviews soon after their release and subsequently they stressed the loneliness and the anxiety of an enforced separation from their families for such a prolonged period. Most of the men spent their 21st birthdays in captivity and were thus denied the opportunity to celebrate an important milestone with their families. Wilson might have claimed to have felt no bitterness at the time of his release,54 but he undoubtedly bares resentment towards the military authorities (rather than his captors) that robbed him of part of his youth. The government, though, sought to capitalize politically on the favourable turn of events. The Star’s military correspondent divulged that each of the men was given a letter from General Malan, which commended them for having withstood such ‘an examination of character’ and for exhibiting ‘moral courage and love of fatherland’. They were promised that the SADF would do everything in its power to support them during their ‘period of readjustment’.55 These sanctimonious words proved to be hollow promises as the SADF did little, if anything, to render long-term emotional and psychological support for the POWs. Nor did Botha, who retained the defence portfolio after becoming prime minister in late September 1978, show any inclination to accept any responsibility for the pain and suffering that the POWs and their families had to endure on account of the SADF’s ill-conceived Operation Savannah.

Readjusting to civilian life Upon his release, Robert Wilson is reported to have said: ‘What happened to us is past and I wish to forget it as soon as possible’.56 He added that ‘[i]n life one tends to forget the horrible things and only remember the happier occasions. This is

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how I want to look at my Angolan episode’.57 Other POWs expressed similar sentiments: that they wanted to put their experience of captivity behind them and get on with their lives. But they also supported the idea that counselling and other forms of support should be provided for national servicemen. Thus they endorsed the suggestion of establishing ‘adjustment committees’, where qualified social workers and counsellors could provide professional service to those who needed it.58 With the benefit of hindsight, we know that the POWs themselves might have benefitted from support as at least one POW harmed those with whom he subsequently formed relationships.59 Professor M. B. Feldman of the Department of Psychiatry at the University of the Witwatersrand offered the observation that despite their shared experience, the former POWs would discover different challenges in re-adapting to civilian life. He stated that … despite the aspects in common – their military service, imprisonment, return – each fought a separate war and underwent a separate sort of imprisonment. Although they shared in common deprivation, isolation, discomfort, diet restrictions – and pervading uncertainty as to what was happening and was going to happen – each responded in quite a different way.60

There can be no doubt that personal predispositions and character affected the manner in which individuals handled their experience of captivity. But there is nothing predictable about an individual’s coping mechanisms. Andre Potgieter’s captivity placed added strain on an already dysfunctional family. His elder, married sister had to assume the role of the public face of the family because their father was deceased and their sick mother became reclusive. Such unsocial and eccentric behaviour might suggest an inability to cope with the pain of her loss. Although Andre put on a brave face and spoke of his ‘adventure’, the experience scarred him for life. By comparison, Gwyn Danney believed that her son ‘fortunately fitted in very well and has no after-effects of his experiences in Angola’.61 I am in no position to second guess her on this score. Part of the process of readjustment involved having to cope with all the public attention. Upon his return, Robert Wilson was treated as a celebrity in his home town of Welkom. He was guest of honour at a civic reception hosted by the mayor.62 His picture and ‘welcome home’ messages were inserted in advertisements placed by businesses in the local Afrikaans-medium tabloid Vista. He and his family were hounded by the press and had cameras shoved in their faces wherever they went. This invasion of Wilson’s privacy had its upside: he was treated to drinks wherever he went and was given a ‘get out of jail

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free’ card after committing some minor traffic offences. Wilson welcomed the attention initially but found it overwhelming – even tiresome – after the novelty had worn off. Thus he sought refuge in anonymity by taking a holiday in Cape Town. Vacations were soon replaced by regular routines and work. All the former POWs indicated that they had been ‘looking forward to returning to the normalcy of a job and a steady income’. Fortunately, all of them were able to return to apprenticeships or jobs that their employers had held open for them or, in the case of Groenewald, to farming with his father. In certain instances, they were paid during their enforced absence and collected lump sums upon their return to the workplace. They also received lump sum payments from the SADF for their extended service periods, most of which had been spent in captivity. But neither these windfalls nor the resilience presumably learned from the experience of captivity were necessarily guarantees of success in civilian life. A bidding war for the stories of the ex-POWs commenced almost immediately. Barely a week after their repatriation, it was reported that the POWs had sold their collective stories to Perskor magazine for an amount that would have made it ‘the highest single fortune in cheque-book journalism paid in South Africa’. In an interview with The Friend, Wilson denied knowledge of any such deal. However, he was not prepared to say whether the possibility of selling their story had been discussed, nor did he deny that the eight had appointed a lawyer to represent their interests.63 However, any prospect of a lucrative collective deal was soon scuppered. When Republican Press64 approached Wiehahn and made him an offer for exclusive rights to the stories of all eight POWs, he rejected it after consultation with them. Wiehahn then offered to sell his story and that of Terblanche but learned that the latter had, in the meantime, sold his story to the Sunday Afrikaans-medium newspaper, Rapport. Wiehahn accepted the Republican Press offer, while Kitshoff sold his story to the owners of Huisgenoot, the Afrikaans-medium magazine that often ran troepie stories for its readership of housewives and mothers.65 Then the national president of the SA Red Cross, Kelsey Stuart, announced that four of the eight POWs, as well as their parents, had decided to tell their story in book form for more altruistic reasons. It was stated that they were ‘planning to pool their experiences to piece together the full picture of what the two years of negotiating and waiting [had] taught them’. As such, it would serve as a guide for any others who found themselves in a similar predicament. Stuart added that the four former POWs ‘feel that in this way they can help the SA Red Cross in its efforts on behalf of Sapper Van der Mescht who is still being

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held as a POW’.66 It was intimated that Potgieter, Wilson, de Lange and Danney would contribute stories of their personal experience. The mother of the last mentioned, Gwyn Danney, said that the story would be supplemented with documents and letters she had collected during the course of her son’s captivity. However, the publication never materialized.

Conclusion Initially the reluctance of POWs to tell their stories to the press was on account of the deals that granted exclusive rights to prospective publishers. Interest in their stories soon waned when the book did not appear in print. There was some press coverage on the occasion of a first-year reunion when de Lange, Danney, Potgieter and Wilson got together to reminisce about their time in captivity.67 Contacts between the former POWs and their families dwindled as the years passed by and it became apparent that the eight men were only brought together by force of circumstances. Friendships created by shared experience did not endure as the ex-POWs reconstructed their lives and renewed relationships, and went their separate ways. Danney, Potgieter and Wilson did organize another reunion to celebrate the tenth anniversary of their release68 but they have not seen one another since then. There can be little doubt that Wilson’s story and the captivity narrative that includes all eight ex-POWs is very much part of his (and their) identity. And like their Israeli counterparts from the Yom Kippur War,69 their stories have been relegated to the margins of public consciousness. But their recollection 35 years later assumes different forms that do not comply with (white) South Africa’s cultural code of captivity. Their sense of shame and guilt has waned over the years. They also find a far more receptive audience in which the legacies of the Border War are currently being reassessed. While the ex-POWs still live with conflicting emotions stemming from their experience of captivity, they have not remained prisoners of their pasts.

4

Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and Victimhood: A South African War Veteran’s Story

It has become something of a truism that war is a life-altering or transforming experience. Certainly, it can be a catalyst of inner change. Samuel Hynes holds that ‘no man goes through a war without being changed by it, and in fundamental ways’. He adds that ‘though the process will not be explicit in every narrative – not all men are self-conscious or reflective enough for that – it will be there’.1 Yet, change is seldom a straightforward incremental process, nor is the recounting thereof necessarily linear. In fact, personal war narratives are often replete with disturbing events and unsettling episodes, features that signal to the reader the likelihood that the protagonist may have been traumatized. According to Y. N. Harari, the main task of the 20th-century military memoirist has been to restore continuity and integrity to the life of the narrator disrupted by war; to weave the story of the soldier’s life together again.2 But only adaptive veterans are capable of shaping their narratives into coherent stories or writing books. They have the cognitive skills to write about their experiences and find an appropriate audience for their stories. Thus the scholar tends to engage with texts produced by reasonably articulate and well-adjusted veterans who seek to make sense of their war experiences. Psychologist Nigel Hunt propounds a model of narrative analysis developed in conjunction with colleagues working with British war veterans.3 Hunt’s model is an adaptation of grounded narrative analysis and assumes that we order our lives into a story to make meaning of experiences. This model analyses both the form and content of soldier’s stories in order to investigate how veterans reconcile their war experiences with their overall life stories through the development of narrative coherence and social support networks. Here reconciliation implies ‘harmony between past, present, and future’.4 Hunt argues that such an approach holds good for oral testimony and the written word. He suggests that readings of literature (including works of fiction) offer insights into how soldiers’ cope with

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their wartime experiences and veterans pursue post-traumatic growth. Somewhat surprisingly, though, Hunt does not have much to say about the value of published autobiographical texts or memoirs in providing a form of narrative therapy. Hunt’s work exemplifies the ‘narrative turn’ in psychology. This growing body of research has demonstrated that the experience of trauma disrupts the creation of the life story because it challenges or shatters our long-held assumptions about ourselves and the world. Essentially, traumatic experiences challenge the integrity of the life story; they create an incoherent, disorganized, fragmented narrative. Clinically speaking, the presence of a fragmented narrative existing simultaneously with vivid and emotionally threatening nightmares and/or flashbacks is defined as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Thus treatment should entail the integration of traumatic events into the overall life story thereby increasing coherence, and diminishing the disruptive or threatening nature of traumatic memories. Psychologists tend to agree that constructing a coherent story about a traumatic event is essential to recovery. However, Hunt overstates his case when he insists that the development of an effective narrative more or less guarantees that a person will experience post-traumatic growth.5 I would only be prepared to go so far as to say that the narrative approach can contribute to the well-being of the subject. But it is not a panacea. The narrative approach challenges assumptions concerning the idea that trauma is unspeakable; that it cannot be narrated or represented by language. Following Chris van der Merwe and Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela,6 I would argue that trauma can indeed be remembered and communicated. Trauma is defined by these authors as shattered or lost – literally, wounded − life narratives that are often avoided, repressed or drowned in the din of daily life. Thus they must be addressed via the spoken or written word, although this does not necessarily mean that sufferers can be cured. Literary or personal narrative responses to trauma may not be therapeutic in all cases but at least it affords a means of integrating narratives into a coherent chapter of the life story. And even in instances where they achieve a measure of healing, such narratives do not need to have happy or even resolved endings in order to enable post-traumatic growth. This is borne out by the story of a South African war veteran who is the subject of this chapter.

At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A war memoir Clive Holt’s At Thy Call We Did Not Falter7 has the byline ‘a frontline account of the 1988 Angolan War, as seen through the eyes of a conscripted soldier’. The

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author fought in southern Angola between November 1987 and June 1988 in what were some of the fiercest battles of the 23-year-long conflict. The blurb on the back cover proclaims it ‘a classic account of war, as well as a window into the world of post-traumatic stress disorder’. It fails to live up to the first part of this claim for it is no literary masterpiece. But that is not my concern. Instead, I wish to examine what Holt’s story reveals about how its author developed combatrelated trauma, and whether his story reveals the efficacy of narrative therapy. Then, I wish to ascertain whether PTSD and victimhood have been invoked by SADF veterans as an alibi for avoiding accountability for their actions during the conflict. At Thy Call is partly based on a diary that Holt kept during the time that he was involved in the fighting in Angola. Occasional entries punctuate the early part of the narrative and provide the reader with a sense of proximity to the events described in greater detail in the text written some 15 years later. The diary material was supplemented by information gleaned from the extant military histories and communications from fellow veterans of the campaign. Thus the book combines first-hand recollections, personal memories and a synthesis of secondary sources. It is by no means a seamless story but is more than a battlefield biography for it does not end with the war. It is not simply a bildungsroman or coming of age story. As with most soldier-authors, Holt reflects on how what he did and witnessed as a soldier affected him. And it is Holt’s frank disclosures of how repressed memories have come to haunt him that interests me here. As a 19-year-old conscript, Holt underwent training at Bloemfontein and was then assigned to 61 Mechanised Infantry Battalion. His unit was involved in the pitched battle of Cuito Cuanavale between the SADF and its surrogate force UNITA on the one hand, and the Angolan army (FAPLA) and its Cuban ally on the other. Holt remains convinced that he was fighting a serious communist threat although he acknowledges at one point that the SADF was ‘an aggressor in a foreign country’.8 He clearly still has pride in the performance of his unit and shows an undying loyalty to his fellow soldiers. However, this is offset by a pervasive sense of the futility of war and an indictment of the SADF’s treatment of those who put their lives on the line for their country.9 For the sake of providing sufficient contextualization to appreciate Holt’s disclosures about how the fighting affected him, I will provide a brief synopsis of battle of Cuito Cuanavale – which he (somewhat inappropriately) calls ‘the rumble in the jungle’. The first phase of the operation that went by the codename Modular was planned to stop the FAPLA advance on UNITA’s stronghold of Mavinga and subsequently its Jamba headquarters. The SADF dealt a crushing

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blow to the FAPLA forces at the Lomba River where it halted the advance in its tracks. FAPLA retreated headlong to the Cuito River where they were reinforced by a contingent of Cubans. Operation Modular segued into Hooper as the SADF launched repeated assaults on well-fortified enemy and mined positions on the Cuito bridgehead. Holt reckons that the SADF’s objective was to drive the enemy forces across the Cuito River, destroy the bridge and thus secure the southeastern Cuanda-Cubango province of Angola for UNITA.10 His description of the assaults suggests that the hard-pressed forces suffered a number of setbacks before attaining their objective and withdrawing. I will address the issue of who won the battle in Chapter 7. For now it is worth noting that Holt’s own version of events in At Thy Call corresponds closely to the official SADF one. He cites statistics gleaned from SADF sources and then asks the reader to deduce which side won the engagement.11 Holt’s unit, 61 Mechanised Battalion, joined the fray in November 1987 and was involved in much of the protracted campaign that included intense largescale conventional engagements involving tanks and exchanges of artillery fire, as well as being subjected to aerial bombing attacks by MiG fighter planes. During the standoff, the FAPLA-Cuban forces withstood six frontal assaults by 61 Mech, 32 Battalion and UNITA troops.12 Most commentators reckon that, in strictly military terms, Cuito Cuanavale was a ‘stalemate’. Holt insists that he is not in a position to assess the political ramifications of the operations in which he was involved but is able to comment on the outcome of the battle because ‘he was there’.13 As with most military memoirists, he regards his experiential knowledge as authoritative. 61 Mechanised Battalion was involved in the thick of the battle. They spearheaded the third assault on the Cuito bridgehead on 25 February 1988, which included some of the fiercest fights of the campaign. Holt recounts that columns of tanks and infantry assault vehicles (or Ratels) advanced through dense bush and undergrowth on well-fortified and heavily mined enemy positions in the Tumpo triangle. They were subjected to artillery barrages and constant bombardment by MiGs. In the heat of the battle, Holt experienced and witnessed some gruesome incidents, one of which unnerved him enough to mark the beginning of ‘his nightmare’. The driver of the command Ratel, ‘Langes’ Geldenhuys, collapsed as a consequence of heat exhaustion and dehydration. This was followed by hysteria in which he cried for his brother whom Holt later learned had been recently killed in a motor vehicle accident. He had reached breaking point.14 Adrenalin stimulated by fear kept most of the soldiers functioning but the casualties mounted as they pursued an unrealistic objective

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of clearing the Tumpo area and destroying the bridge across the Cuito River. The attritional nature of the fighting took a heavy toll on the SADF forces, especially its morale. Confidence was shaken by the enemy’s tenacity and some of the troops had reached the end of their tether. Faced with intense life-threatening situations for an extended period, individual soldiers became susceptible to frayed nerves, fitful sleep and frequent bouts of nervous exhaustion – a sure-fire recipe for the development of psychological disorders. The failure of the third assault on the bridgehead proved a turning point in the battle for Cuito Cuanavale.15 61 Mech was withdrawn and replaced by fresh troops after four months. The unit regrouped at a demobilization camp where they were given a pep talk by General Geldenhuys and Operation Hooper souvenir t-shirts.16 This was followed by group debriefing sessions in which psychologists were tasked to gauge whether the troops were fit for leave. These debriefings were supposedly designed to detect early warning signals of trauma so as identify and treat those likely to develop PTSD.17 The sessions were actually a farce as they lasted less than half an hour and Holt recollects, ‘I felt that I had not even begun to get in touch with the emotional and traumatic impact of what I had been through’.18 However, at the time he was relieved that the psychologist had not bothered to provide more than a perfunctory interview. Neither he nor his comrades were interested in counselling by psychologists of whom they were suspicious. They were much more interested in going home. Holt believed that he would cope with the trauma and return to his life in civvy street without any need of therapy.19 In retrospect, he has come to realize that he was sorely mistaken. Holt goes to considerable lengths to make the point that the approach of the psychologist was a far cry from the procedure set out in the SADF’s debriefing model specifically designed for Angolan war veterans. He cites extensive passages from the notes of a clinical psychologist who headed the Operation Hooper debriefing team to illustrate the gap between theory and practice.20 Holt calls the chapter in which he describes the process ‘Thirty Minutes to Clear the Minefield’. This is clearly an ironic take on the short-circuited process, which amounted to going through the motions of the debriefing and evaluation session that he and his fellow soldiers were obliged to attend. And the analogy of the minefield suggests that the charges were not defused, that the primed mines might lie dormant beneath the soil only to be detonated sometime in the future. Holt was duly granted leave and during his three-week pass he became aware of his jitteriness and hyper-sensitivity or ‘arousal’ to aural stimuli. Conversely,

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he displayed a lack of emotion in relating to death, including that of his own father who had died prior to his leave. His inability to relate to his mother and younger brother brought home to him his alienation from his family. This extended to friends and acquaintances as well. Holt was not keen to tell his war stories to people he now regarded as ‘outsiders’ inasmuch as they had not shared his experiences. He was affronted by people who asked whether he had killed anyone.21 Nor did he wish to have people think he was embellishing stories so as to impress listeners. On the rare occasions that he did relate something about his experiences, he admits to feeling a sense of guilt.22 Otherwise he chose to remain silent. This was partly due to the fact that the South African public was purposefully misinformed about the course of the undeclared war on foreign soil. Government disinformation and censorship bred demoralization and suspicion. Holt likens himself to a used and discarded prostitute.23 Following 61 Mech’s redeployment near the Calueque Dam in June 1989, an engagement with Cuban and FAPLA columns resulted in the death of a respected friend Lieutenant Muller Meiring. Although this incident was not witnessed first-hand, it still caused Holt to reflect anew on his ability to cope with traumatic events. He notes that the standard way of dealing with such doubts was to ‘shut up, keep your feelings inside, and carry on with life’.24 In short, to vasbyt (persevere). This was in keeping with a military training that stressed that quitting was a sign of weakness and that soldiers never showed emotions. So he ‘put on the proverbial brave face, even though he felt sick to the core’.25 Illequipped to deal with such situations, Holt feared above all that he might ‘crack’ under the strain and go bossies. He defines bossies as a ‘colloquial term for ‘bush madness’, a condition associated with strange/abnormal behaviour as a result of spending prolonged periods of time in the bush under combat conditions’.26 Bossies is a shortened form of bosbefok (literally ‘bush-fucked’), which suggests that the subject is out of touch with reality. It might also be associated with the notion of liminality, of the permeable borderline between madness and sanity that has precedents in the experience of earlier wars.27 Anecdotal evidence suggests that soldiers that exhibited symptoms of such behaviour were stigmatized and ostracized and that they invariably became loners and outsiders. For its part, the SADF often turned a blind eye to the problem but on occasions sent the afflicted troop for psychological evaluation and treatment. This was not so much out of concern for their well-being but rather because they were deemed to be unfit for combat. As Holt has it, ‘[m]ental health was not high on the agenda, and as long as you could perform your assigned function and not succumb to any physical illness or injury, it was assumed that you were

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okay and fighting fit’.28 In other words, the SADF had little regard for the mental health of its soldiers. If the SADF hierarchy did not take the mental health of its troops seriously, the troops themselves were equally inclined to be blasé about the need for professional intervention. It was common to use disparaging names such as koptiffies (head or mental mechanics) to describe psychologists.29 The term implied that the psychologists would mess with one’s mind. When Holt notes, after his survival of the strike by Cuban MiGs on the Calueque Dam in late June 1989, that he was ‘starting to show classic warning signs of something [PTSD] I would not recognize for several more years’,30 he does so with the benefit of hindsight. When he returned home three months later, he experienced nightmares consisting of battle scenes that were repeatedly replayed in his mind. He identifies sleep disorders and drinking problems as tell-tale signs of his condition. After naming his condition and having acquired a working knowledge of the discourse of PTSD, he is able to recognize that his inability to process his traumatic experiences amounted to a ‘state of cognitive dissonance’.31 Holt also admits that he resorted to blocking out the memories of those events he was unable to process. He reckons that he even contemplated joining the permanent force as he felt totally alienated from civilian life.32 But he decided against such a course of action and klaared out (demobilized) of the army in December 1989 soon after his twentieth birthday. Holt’s penultimate chapter ‘Cowboys Do Cry’ deals with his readjustment to civilian life. He describes himself as anxious, aggressive and ill-tempered, looking for fights and indulging in binge drinking. He also admits to embracing a ‘victim mentality’ in order to attract the attention and sympathy of his peers.33 Following an incident on New Year’s Eve 1989 when he ‘snapped’, he rejected the suggestion of seeking psychiatric help and, instead, sought solitude in order to reflect on his course of life. Holt subsequently learned martial arts in order to channel his aggression creatively, and personal motivation so as to regain control of his life by setting himself manageable goals. But his inability to hold down a steady job resulted in his blaming everyone but himself for his (re)lapses; even wallowing in self-pity. But when his then girlfriend lost her brother in a car accident, he was forced once again to confront his inability to deal with loss and pain. However, with his marriage to Alison, Holt found a companion with whom he could share the reliving of his traumas. The birth of a son and the family’s migration to Australia are recorded as life-transforming events. Holt reckons that emigration was like ‘leaving a haunted house, along with all its ghosts’.34 However, he has since discovered that his ghosts tend to accompany him because they live in his subconscious.

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Memoir writing as narrative therapy In 2002 Holt commenced researching and writing At Thy Call. The text attests to the fact that he read literature in the field of PTSD and incorporated certain insights in trying to understand what he had been through. In other words, the project had a therapeutic effect in that it afforded him an opportunity to revisit and engage with his memories, as well as thoughts recorded in his diary. Holt would undoubtedly endorse the statement that ‘narration itself becomes therapy and plays its part in reconciling the past with the present and in pacifying the feelings of guilt, pain, disassociation that arise when the unspeakable is confronted’.35 At Thy Call seems to fit into the category of confessional or cathartic literature. Holt, however, sees the book as serving another purpose: to impart his knowledge to others suffering from PTSD. He wishes to illuminate their darkness and to project a path to follow in order to obtain healing. With the enthusiasm of a neophyte, Holt offers veterans suffering from PTSD a chance of a new beginning.36 It is, at least, preferable to promising closure when there can be no guarantee of complete psychosocial healing. Holt’s acute problem of readjustment to civilian life frames his story to a large degree. Because vestiges of the trauma still remain, he cannot seem to escape his nightmares altogether although he has ‘learned to live with his memories and understand and control the symptoms’.37 He has obviously improved his capacity to cope with his war trauma and developed a degree of resilience as a result of social support from caring family and friends, as well as a sympathetic professional counsellor. Significantly, for Holt the communication of his story seems to have enabled him to find his voice and an appreciative audience.38 Thus the writing of his memoir has served as a form of narrative therapy. A personal narrative represents one of the ways in which we (re)structure and (re)configure our lives. According to Dan McAdams, traumatizing events have the capacity to produce ‘narrative wreckage’ in the life story and … therapy [is able] to repair such rifts in order to create a greater sense of coherence, continuity and meaning for the individual.39

Similarly, Michele Crossley speaks of trauma as producing a breach or fragmentation in the life story but holds that individuals are constantly engaged in the process of creating themselves through telling and writing their narratives.40 And Suzette Henke has coined the term ‘scriptotherapy’, by which she means ‘the process of writing out and writing through traumatic experience in the mode of therapeutic re-enactment’, to describe this process.

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Henke champions the ameliorative power of life-writing, which she believes ‘has always offered the tantalizing possibility of reinventing the self and reconstructing the subject’.41 In view of these observations by specialists in the field, Holt’s memoir At Thy Call would seem to point to the possibilities of narrative therapy as providing a measure of healing for traumatized war veterans and others suffering from PTSD.

PTSD as an alibi among SADF veterans During South Africa’s political transition, there was acknowledgment by mental health practitioners and clinicians of the existence of stress and trauma among ex-combatants from both the statutory and the non-statutory forces. During the TRC proceedings, clinicians and therapists invoked PTSD in mitigation of the reprehensible deeds of apartheid’s security forces, while others justified gross human rights abuses committed in the name of the liberation struggle. In both cases, the language of psychological trauma was appropriated by the perpetrators of violence. Trauma discourse was employed to minimize individual agency and abdicate responsibility for acts committed in the name of a ‘political cause’. And because the discourse of trauma insists that victims, perpetrators and witnesses alike have been traumatized, it collapses the distinction between these categories. Gillian Eagle has noted that the ‘[o]pening [of] the door to the employment of PTSD as a diagnostic justification for the enactment of violence conceivably provides the basis for blurring the boundaries between victims and victimisers’.42 Thus I propose to ask whether PTSD can amount to an alibi for perpetrators of gross human rights violations amongst SADF veterans. With only isolated cases being documented, the incidence of PTSD amongst military veterans is difficult to gauge.43 Moreover, it is difficult to generalize about the impact of stress on soldiers. Traumatization may stem from the brutalization and dehumanization of basic training or from participation in combat and the perpetration of acts of violence and killing. It varies from one soldier to the next for it depends partly on their predisposition to stress and whether they have developed the necessary coping mechanisms to ensure a degree of resilience. However, only a relatively small proportion of veterans become completely dysfunctional as a result of stress and trauma. There is a common belief that PTSD only becomes a major problem for soldiers involved in unjust or unsuccessful wars. As the ‘Border War’ can be – and has been – construed as such, it is tempting to view SADF veterans’ trauma

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symptoms as a consequence of being on the wrong side of history. However, this viewpoint cannot be sustained in the light of evidence from other wars of the 20th century.44 A related but slightly different argument suggests that the manifestation of PTSD cases was a direct consequence of the political changes that the country has undergone since 1990. A psychologist involved in therapy with former army conscripts testified before the TRC that it had been very difficult for those directly involved in the security forces to reconcile themselves with the decriminalization of their former enemies. She noted: Central to most of these testimonies [by ex-conscripts] is the notion that the present has destroyed the foundations of ‘meaning’ these conscripts adopted to cope with their traumatic experiences. It is easier to cope with having killed someone you believe to be the sub-human agent of forces that wish to destroy everything you hold dear than it is to cope with having killed a normal man, woman or child … . This crisis is greatly intensified when it is revealed to you that the person you have killed is a ‘hero’ or ‘freedom fighter’ or ‘innocent civilian.’ For some, the contradictions of their experience might prove intolerable.45

The collapse of the scaffolding of the apartheid system was accompanied by an identity crisis that saw them being transformed from ‘heroes’ to ‘perpetrators’ overnight. Although not many conscripts owned up to their part in preserving and benefitting from white power, some did grapple with the extent of their individual responsibility within society at large for the acts committed by perpetrators of human rights abuses. Others found it more comforting to appropriate victimhood. Thus questions remain as to ‘what constitutes … a suitable trauma history, and what sentiments can be expressed in the national public sphere’.46 In other words, there is still an unresolved tension between society’s need to know and its wish to deny or ignore what exactly was done in its name. There is a tendency in the literature of trauma to take for granted the universal definitions of PTSD that have been developed in the context of Western societies. But those working in this field in post-colonial and/or postconflict societies have begun to take issue with some of these assumptions. For one thing, reservations have been expressed as to the appropriateness of PTSD as a diagnostic category for combat-related stress. These include the emphasis on the ‘post’ traumatic when exposure to stress might be continuous, and the extent to which current socioeconomic hardships complicate the identification of and responses to conflict-related traumatic stress,47 as well as its focus on the individual rather than the part played by the community in healing processes.48 There is also the issue of whether patterns of domestic/sexual violence can

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be adequately explained as the product of particular forms of militarized masculinities.49 Gwinyayi Dzinesa has concluded that ‘ex-combatants possess certain qualities that predispose them to various forms of violence … if they are unsuccessfully reintegrated [into society]’.50 However, she adduces no incontrovertible evidence that military veterans are necessarily more prone to (gender) violence than males in other sectors of society. In addition, the extreme levels of violence that often characterize post-conflict societies have led to calls for re-conceptualizing ‘the notion of trauma [as] itself in transition. [This] is … crucial to developing a victim empowerment strategy that can accommodate complex trauma, “new” victims and a context of consistent but changing patterns of violence in post-conflict societies such as South Africa’.51 While PTSD is a problematic category, SADF veterans have themselves appropriated it on account of its utility. One veteran, John Deegan, related in a documentary programme entitled ‘The War Within’ how his life became a litany of ills after his tour of duty on the border. His experiences included admission to psychiatric hospitals, the abuse of drugs, run-ins with the law and broken marriages. He reckoned that he could only begin to deal with his demons once he became aware that others suffered from similar symptoms and that his condition had a name – PTSD.52 His story resonates with those of some other SADF veterans posted on the internet. Via such sites, these veterans have become aware that PTSD had been declared a diagnostic category by the US medical/psychiatric fraternity in 1980 and their Vietnam counterparts received therapy and counselling. In the absence of a similar state-funded programme in South Africa, a few veterans established their own self-help groups. There are also other sites established for the express purpose of allowing those seeking advice or searching for (cyber)space to tell their stories to do so. For instance, the South African Veterans’ Association (SAVA) set up a website that dubs itself ‘A Non-Governmental, Non-Profitmaking Veteran Service for Survivors of the 1970s–1990s conflicts’. The website touts the byline ‘The victims of war are not just those that die, but also those that kill’.53 SAVA’s coordinator is a former SADF paratrooper, Marius van Niekerk, who relates his story in Behind the Lines of the Mind.54 He appears to have taken upon himself a mission to facilitate atonement and healing for veterans and has launched a few projects towards this end. These include the co-production of two films: Nomansland (1995) and My Heart of Darkness (2007). The first is a docudrama that depicts his attempts to come to terms with PTSD and is shot entirely in the confined space of a room in Stockholm. The second documents Van Niekerk’s journey to Angola, which he undertakes in order to reclaim his life and lost innocence. The voice-over

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narration invokes ‘the horror’ a la Marlon Brando in an atmosphere that owes as much to Apocalypse Now as it does to the Angolan landscape. Van Niekerk engages with his erstwhile enemies whose forgiveness he seeks and obtains by way of a cleansing ceremony. But in his quest for redemption, he presumes to speak on behalf of all SADF soldiers. This has angered certain veterans who reckon that they owe no one apologies as they, too, were victims of the war.55

SADF veterans as victims The depiction of soldiers/veterans as victims is an apparent contradiction in terms. After all, the male soldier is the epitome of normative heterosexuality; hardly to be associated with vulnerability, weakness and passivity. Certainly, the social and cultural expectations traditionally associated with soldiering do not lend themselves easily to the connotations of victimization.56 Yet, the evidence confounds common sense. Writing about the experience of war veterans, Theodore Nadelson reflects that Most of us have the potential for attachment to victimhood. Victim identification enables people to have the emotional support and strength that accompanies belonging to and identifying with a group of sufferers.57

Is there any reason to regard SADF veterans as victims? Do they qualify as such because they were compelled to perform military service by the state? Should they be regarded as victims of an authoritarian masculinized militaristic society because they acted under duress or because they exhibit symptoms of PTSD? Is the case of conscripts special? Is their responsibility for their actions limited by virtue of their lowly place in the hierarchical military system where they were expected to obey orders without question? Does a loss of agency amount to victimization? The nature of recruitment into the military provides a starting point for considering veterans as victims. Whilst the practice of conscription per se might not qualify as a form of victimization, it can be argued that national service instituted by the apartheid state was unjust. Such a conceptualization of conscripts as ‘victims’ squares with the UN definition that incorporates those subjected to the ‘immoral abuse of power’ where ‘action or laws should be criminal but because of the immoral nature of the government, they are not’.58 Although South Africa’s apartheid laws were aimed primarily at disempowering and regulating the lives of black South Africans, racially based conscription discriminated against white males as they alone were liable for national service.

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As such, it was the product of the ‘crime against humanity’ that was apartheid.59 It was the illegitimacy of the apartheid regime in the eyes of the international community that rendered conscription illegal and the war waged by the South African state ‘unjust’. SADF veterans may also have fears (of future victimization) about tainted knowledge they carry from their military experiences, and which others have interests in keeping hidden.60 Even close family and friends remain in the dark about what veterans have experienced. Their sense of alienation and betrayal has been compounded by a perception that they were left in the lurch by their former leaders who left them to fend for themselves during the transition. Veterans have repeatedly expressed resentment that their sacrifices have not been appreciated by the public. If victimization of the weak is commonplace in armed formations, so too is victimization of nonconformists and deviants. The military environment is one in which hyper-masculinity and patriarchy are seldom challenged. Any deviance from the heterosexual norms is not tolerated. On occasions it is deliberately countered. Thus the SADF authorized bizarre psychosexual medical experiments known as ‘aversion therapy’ on gay conscripts.61 Many conscripts committed suicide in a desperate bid to deal with the pressure of being compelled to conform to a system of militarized masculinity that seldom tolerated, let alone encouraged, individuality. Survival often meant fitting in with die manne (the men). The projection of a macho bravado in soldiers’ bearing and banter was cultivated. Military service was widely regarded as a rite of passage whereby boys became men. But not all became warriors or grensvegters and the weak were often victimized by koptoe corporals and bullies. But what if conscripts commit war crimes or human rights abuses? Become offenders or perpetrators? Can they still be victims? Kali Tal has highlighted the tendency to collapse the distinction between victims and perpetrators amongst American Vietnam veterans. She notes that they were … exposed to combat or other life-threatening events, and … exposed to the carnage resulting from combat were traumatized. But combat soldiers, though subordinate to their military superiors and frequently at the mercy of their enemies, still possess a life-or-death power over other people … These soldiers carry guns, they point them at people and shoot to kill … Much recent literature – popular, clinical and academic – places the combat soldier simply in the victim’s role, helpless in the face of war, and then helpless to readjust from the war experience upon his return home … The soldier in combat is both victim and victimizer; dealing death as well as risking it.62

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Following the inclusion of PTSD in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), the rehabilitation of Vietnam veterans was tied to their victim status. Since the Vietnam War, the idea of the soldier-as-victim has become clichéd.63 Yet Joanna Bourke has drawn attention in her Intimate History of Killing to the fact that men, once trained as soldiers, come to relish killing inasmuch as it serves as a trigger to release psychological tension. Drawing upon an extensive archive of American, British and Commonwealth sources, Bourke demonstrates that soldiers from World War I to the Vietnam War continued to see themselves as killers rather than victims.64 Therefore, she reckons that the depiction of soldiers as victims is problematic. But it has become a trend as victim culture is ubiquitous. This pattern is illustrated in the case of French veterans who fought in Algeria. Following the end of that war, the forsaken colonial troops comprising mainly conscripts (and their harkis collaborators) returned home and their war was all but forgotten. But their marginalized status in French society and in relation to the state has been overturned since the 1990s. As a result of their lobbying, a decree recognized the syndrome of PTSD for soldiers who had served in Algeria. Officially, then, they could be considered as victims. Consequently, their ambiguous status became part of their social identity. They used it to gain confidence and speak up. They produced autobiographies wherein the soldier-authors were revealed as being torn between their convictions and their duties, their patriotism and their loyalty to comrades. These texts insist on their author’s specificity: their war had to be told as if the general narrative was not satisfactory, whether emanating from former officers, the veterans’ associations or officials. These authors condemn violence, but always present this violence as perpetrated by someone other than themselves, and they generally avoid the issue of personal involvement in violence. In short, these texts frequently trade on narratives of victimization. French conscripts are portrayed as victims both of the pointless Algerian war and of post-war neglect.65 More recently, representations of British soldiers in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq in the media have twinned narratives of heroism with those of victimization.66 This further complicates what Richard Holmes has termed the ‘essential paradox of soldiering’: the soldier/veteran as both victim and executioner/perpetrator.67 None of these categories − hero, perpetrator, victim − is necessarily mutually exclusive. In fact, they are mutable and permeable: soldiers can be different things at different times under different circumstances. But there can be no denying that the examples presented in this chapter, cumulatively, confirm the cultural enshrinement of ‘military victimhood’ in contemporary society.68

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The notion of victimhood as a public voicing of pain and outrage concerning the nature of the war has gained currency in the public domain. This tendency has been valourized by the academy with the nascent (sub-)discipline of victimology’s framing of veterans as victims.69 Consequently, when veterans come to tell their stories, they frequently tend to adopt the role of victims. Thus many of the current crop of conscript memoirs about the Border War are confessional texts and fashioned as narratives of victimization. Holt’s story exemplifies this trend.

Conclusion Peter Novick’s work on the Holocaust has suggested that the appropriation of ‘vicarious victimhood’ to reinforce moral capital reflects a wider cultural shift in the late 20th century.70 And Ashplant, Dawson and Roper have noted that ‘[s]ince the mid-1970s, and more rapidly since 1989, there has emerged a transnational discourse of trauma, victimhood and human rights’, and that ‘social groups which have been denied recognition for their claims within the arena of the nation-state have begun to construct narratives drawing on this discourse’.71 Indeed, there is an unseemly competition for victimhood amongst ethnic, gender, religious and other self-identified social interest groups reckoned to be marginalized.72 Post-apartheid South Africa has seen the development of an undifferentiated ‘victim culture’. But victims are not all equal. Even if we are all victims to some degree, such a formulation serves to disguise the unequal distribution of human rights abuses across population groups and communities. Writing in relation to the Northern Ireland conflict, Marie Smyth rejects the assertion that ‘we are all victims,’ on empirical, moral, political and practical grounds. Empirically, not all victims are the same because not every individual (nor all communities for that matter) suffers equally from human rights abuses. Morally, according to Smyth, it is wrong to lay claim to victimhood if one is in any position of power or privilege. She asserts that the moral onus is on those who are in a position of privilege to forego any claim to victimhood even if they may have suffered in any way, in order to reserve attention and resources for those who have suffered most. ‘Claiming victimhood,’ Smyth says, ‘should not be institutionalized as a way of escaping feelings of guilt, shame or responsibility.’73 Smyth’s observations could be applied to white South Africans who were generally beneficiaries of the apartheid system, as well as to SADF veterans specifically.

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Although the vast majority of SADF conscripts were not perpetrators of gross human rights violations, the TRC made it too easy to claim victimhood and abdicate responsibility for complicity in apartheid’s violence. War (albeit undeclared) waived the legal strictures but did not remove the moral injunctions against killing. So the appropriation of victimhood served as a salve for veterans whose consciences were troubled by the wrongness of their actions. But rather than exculpation, conscripts should be prepared to acknowledge their agency and accept that they made choices even if it was under compulsion or duress. Even though conscripts were subjected to a military system that projected a macho masculinity and reinforced white supremacist attitudes, they did not make ‘choiceless choices’. For if one has the room to manoeuvre, react or resist then one cannot claim (complete) innocence or (absolute) victimization. And the claim made by and on behalf of veterans that they deserve special treatment because they were victims should also be treated with caution because noncombatants were equally likely to have been victims of southern Africa’s conflicts. Civilians are invariably casualties or victims in situations of civil, insurgency or ‘total’ war. Thus we should guard against regarding military veterans as a special category of victims.

5

The Battle for Cassinga: Competing Narratives and Complicating Histories

The name Cassinga (or Kassinga) came to the attention of the world a little more than 35 years ago. At the time it evoked a range of responses, from outrage to grief to the celebration of military bravado. The name still provokes strong reactions among those who have a stake in a particular version of the Cassinga story. According to the South African Defence Force (SADF), it launched a cross-border strike against the nerve centre of South West Africa People’s Organisation (SWAPO) operations in Angola. The strike targeted ‘terrorists’ and the success of the mission was to be measured in terms of its achieving strategic military goals. Any civilian casualties were a regrettable but unavoidable consequence of the mission. SWAPO’s account is altogether different. The liberation movement’s version has it that those killed were innocent women and children; that Cassinga was a ‘massacre’ on a par with atrocities such as Guernica, Nanking and My Lai. Rather than detail the events that transpired in the Angolan town of Cassinga on 4 May 1978, I wish to understand how the subsequent controversy has played itself out in the public arena. I employ the preposition ‘for’ rather than ‘of ’ in the title of the chapter in order to suggest the contestation over the meanings ascribed to the events by the warring parties rather than to suggest a military engagement. I juxtapose conflicting versions of the Cassinga story via the reconstruction of narratives of the SADF and SWAPO and seek to explain how it is that these competing narratives become established in the public domain. My point of departure is that the past is contested and that memories of conflict give rise to conflicting memories. It follows, then, that power is the key to understanding why certain (collective) memories are encapsulated in narratives that are shaped by specific contexts. In other words, it needs to be explained why it is that a specific version of the past takes hold within the public discourse

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of certain mnemonic communities – especially elites − who have the power to influence the perceptions of the population at large.1 This chapter will examine the versions of the Cassinga story narrated by the SADF and SWAPO, respectively. Narratives use not only words but also frequently employ images (or visual language) to convey their meanings. They are generated in order to explain, rationalize and frame events. The SADF soldiers who participated in the operation have a vested interest in preserving the story that it was a daring exploit without parallel in the annals of South African military history whereas survivors of the ‘massacre’ have adopted SWAPO’s narrative that holds that the deaths of those in the camp were a necessary sacrifice for the making of the new nation of Namibia. Members of these opposing interest or warring groups have attempted to appropriate Cassinga for their own purposes. The struggle to fix the meaning of Cassinga extends into the (overlapping) spheres of political polemics, public discourse and scholarly debate. In this struggle, the name Cassinga serves as a floating signifier (in the Barthesian sense) that attaches itself to a chain of meanings. Meanings are partly determined by other words with which it is associated. So when Cassinga is used in conjunction with ‘battle’ as in the ‘battle of Cassinga’, it suggests an engagement between two (roughly equal) armed forces. This phrase is usually employed by SADF apologists. Other military terms that are frequently used in conjunction with Cassinga include ‘assault’, ‘attack’ and ‘raid’. Such terms imply that the operation was a strike on an enemy base and, as such, a legitimate act of warfare. The use of these terms implies no moral judgment of SADF actions because (so the argument goes) in a war situation it is not always possible to distinguish between civilians and combatants, and civilian casualties are regarded as an unfortunate but unavoidable by-product of military operations – what the Americans euphemistically call ‘collateral damage’.2 Conversely, Cassinga is invariably coupled with the emotive term ‘massacre’ by SWAPO and its sympathizers. This term implies the purposeful killing of innocent civilians, especially unarmed women and children. It also implies moral condemnation.

The SADF story The SADF version of events goes something like this. On 4 May 1978, it launched Operation Reindeer, a three-pronged attack on targets in southern Angola from Namibia. The town of Cassinga, situated 250 km north of the Namibian border, was the primary target as it was the main operational base

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of SWAPO in the region.3 SADF aerial reconnaissance photographs suggested that it was a well-fortified regional HQ (known as ‘Moscow’) from which PLAN (People’s Liberation Army of Namibia, SWAPO’s armed wing) cadres infiltrated Namibia. The objective was to destroy this base and capture PLAN commander Dimo Hamaambo, as well as to disrupt SWAPO’s supply lines to the Namibian border. Cassinga was strafed by Alpha anti-personnel bombs and 30mm cannons. This was followed by an airborne assault that resembled a standard vertical envelopment operation without armoured support.4 Transport planes dropped 370 paratroopers in the vicinity of the target. The drop went slightly awry with some troops landing in the SWAPO camp and others landing in and across the Cubango river to the west of the town and then having to regroup for the attack on the base. The main assault group encountered fierce resistance from SWAPO cadres who employed an anti-aircraft (AA) gun not incapacitated by the initial SAAF bombing of the camp, as well as machine guns and small arms to ward off the attack. Following a protracted firefight the objective was secured, documents seized, munitions destroyed and some PLAN cadres and civilians rounded up. But before evacuation could proceed, a Cuban force comprising armoured cars and tanks from the nearby base of Techumatete approached. Fighter jets were recalled to blunt the counter-attack and their timely intervention enabled the helicopters to evacuate the remaining paratroopers on the ground with little time to spare. Casualties amounted to approximately 600 dead and many more wounded among the inhabitants of Cassinga, 18 Cuban soldiers killed and 63 wounded, and four of their own paratroopers killed and 11 wounded.5 The SADF claimed its pre-emptive strike against ‘terrorists’ was justified on account of SWAPO’s increased border violations and the assassination of Herero chief Clemens Kapuuo.6 It had dealt SWAPO’s operational capacity a mortal blow. There is no official history of Cassinga but an account by Willem Steenkamp amounts to a semi-official or SADF-sanctioned chronicle of the event.7 A former military correspondent, sometimes national serviceman and citizen force reservist, Steenkamp can be regarded as an embedded journalist. He glamourizes the Cassinga story as an exceptional military endeavour by citizen force soldiers and reservists. He is effusive in his praise for the paratroopers’ contingent planning after the chaotic drop, which meant that they had to change their axis of attack. Steenkamp’s account is peppered with descriptions of acts of heroism befitting the conduct of the paratroopers, as well as gallantry of the pilots of fighter planes and helicopters. His triumphalist narrative is essentially a tribute to South Africa’s military capabilities. Steenkamp does not ask hard

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questions about the timing of Operation Reindeer nor of the motives of Minister of Defence P. W. Botha and the SADF leadership in scuttling the negotiations sponsored by the Western Five to secure an internationally acceptable solution of the Namibian issue. He is content to repeat Pretoria’s official explanations for the Cassinga attack. Many accounts of Cassinga on the internet have been written by former SADF personnel who offer little or no contextualization of their stories. A good example is an anonymous and fairly detailed entry in Wikipedia, which displays insider knowledge of SADF planning and obvious familiarity with Operation Reindeer. Indeed, it can be safely deduced that this piece is the work of a former SADF paratrooper.8 It proclaims the result of the Battle of Cassinga a ‘decisive victory for South Africa.’ The outcome is measured by means of a body count ratio of 4:600. These casualty figures suggest a one-sided or unequal engagement notwithstanding the acknowledgment of the bravery of the SWAPO and Cuban soldiers. Such accounts emphasize that Cassinga was a battle that was waged by two armed forces, and do not entertain the idea that the SADF might have killed civilians, let alone committed war crimes. Many veterans continue to believe that the SADF was somehow above politics and beyond reproach for its conduct, and that they were fully entitled to launch pre-emptive cross-border strikes in order to defend the country against communism. Colonel Jan Breytenbach, who commanded the troops on the ground during Operation Reindeer, insists that most of the SWAPO dead were killed during trench-clearing.9 He points to SADF photographic evidence to back up his claim that the number of dead on the parade ground killed by the SAAF bombing was relatively small.10 But photographs often conceal more than they reveal. In other words, the image provides only a limited perspective, one confined to the scene framed by the camera shot. And no SADF photographs have surfaced in the public domain that show scenes of trenches filled with bodies killed by the SADF. Nor are there any incriminating images that show paratroopers indiscriminately shooting civilians. Indeed, most of the SADF Cassinga photographs focus on the destruction of buildings and hardware. This is testimony to the selectivity exercised either by the photographer(s)11 or by the authorities who ensured that only sanitized images were printed and distributed. Breytenbach asserts that combatants outnumbered civilians at Cassinga and that they put up a spirited resistance against his men. In his detailed published account, though, PLAN cadres are simultaneously applauded for their bravery and maligned as cowards for using civilians as human shields to protect

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themselves. Breytenbach believes that the civilians (including schoolchildren) were abductees rather than refugees, having been force-marched or transported against their will from Namibia to the SWAPO base in southern Angola. He observes sarcastically that the ‘refugees’ were well armed with a variety of weapons, including 14.5mm AA guns, 12.7mm heavy machine guns, 82mm mortars, RPG-7s and AK-47s. He also notes that Cassinga housed an arsenal of weapons of almost every calibre that he instructed should be blown up. The cumulative weight of such claims lends credence to the argument that Cassinga was an operational military base and not a camp for refugees. This implies that the inhabitants of Cassinga were neither unarmed nor defenceless. In fact, Breytenbach has no qualms about his participation in the operation and his exhaustive account savages his detractors and dismisses as unashamed propaganda SWAPO’s depiction of Cassinga as a ‘massacre’.12 Retired SADF generals have acknowledged that civilians may have been killed at Cassinga but reject with contempt SWAPO allegations of a ‘gross massacre of innocents.’13 They declined to cooperate with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in its efforts to document this and other operations in which the SADF were involved. In the event, the only soldier who testified about Cassinga was Sergeant ‘Rig’ Verster, an ex-SADF Special Forces officer who participated in the assault. His testimony was undoubtedly solipsistic as it was designed to elicit sympathy from the commissioners by depicting himself as a victim of circumstances: I don’t know if I must apply for amnesty for Kassinga. It was probably the most bloody exercise that we ever launched … It was a terrible thing. I saw many things that happened there but I don’t want to talk about it now because I always start crying about it. It’s damaged my life.14

If it was remorse, it was self-serving. For as Leigh Payne has pointed out, ‘remorse provides a narrative device … that suggests that the confessor has severed ties to his commanders and the ideology that guided them’.15 Verster declined to elaborate on what he had witnessed or participated in on that fateful day, nor did he incriminate himself or implicate his fellow troops in atrocities. But previously he had confessed to executing wounded survivors at the behest of his superiors.16 His statement is as close as any of the paratroopers have come to an admission of culpability for the wanton murder of civilians (or prisoners) at Cassinga,17 but it has not been independently verified. Indeed, Breytenbach is at pains to point out that his troops captured cadres and civilians, and again offers photographic evidence to back his claim. His book has images

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that show group of prisoners rounded up by the SADF wearing both civilian clothes and combat fatigues. Again, we must be wary about treating this photograph as incontrovertible evidence that the paratroopers observed the rules of war to the letter. Yet, testimony corroborates the fact that they did not systematically execute all inhabitants of the camp who survived the attack.18 So we cannot dismiss outright Breytenbach’s claim that he regretted not having been able to airlift children who had requested him to take them home; a task rendered impossible by the hasty evacuation of his own troops in the face of the counter-attack.19 Whereas Breytenbach is held in high regard by most of those who served under him,20 Verster’s subsequent record casts doubt on his reliability as a witness. Verster was known to have participated in ‘third force’ and criminal activities such as political assassinations, extortion and drug smuggling, and to have been convicted for murder. His erstwhile comrades are unanimous in denouncing Verster (rather than his testimony). While they have clearly closed ranks against a ‘renegade’, this does not necessarily prove that a code of silence prevails among them.21 Apologists for the SADF are also to be found among conservative positivist historians. The late Leo Barnard of the History Department at the University of the Free State published a number of articles on Cassinga.22 Barnard is sceptical of SWAPO accounts because they make no mention of military installations, and the presence of PLAN combatants notwithstanding evidence to the contrary. He is equally suspicious of Cuban accounts that ignore their engagement with SADF forces at Cassinga and disclaim knowledge of any losses. He is more inclined to believe SADF accounts that tally with the documents he has consulted and the stories of participants whom he has interviewed. But Barnard’s faith in his sources rests on his naïve invocation of ‘scientific objectivity’. When he argues that articles such as his own are ‘based on highly academic reasoning with full reference to the sources used’ by a professional historian who has conducted years of research on the subject, then the reader is supposed to accept that expertise qualifies him to provide a definitive account of events. And when Barnard asks readers to accept that the ‘personal experience of people who were involved in the war effort’ provides such accounts with the credibility accorded to witnesses then they are supposed to accept this formulation at face value. Although history might make authoritative claims, it is always provisional. There is now widespread recognition in the profession that historical knowledge is constructed and that neither expertise nor closeness to the events necessarily guarantees a conclusive version of the past. The veracity of the SADF’s version of events can be no more vouchsafed than that of SWAPO or Cuban narrators by appealing to objectivity.

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McGill Alexander’s dissertation on Cassinga has caused a considerable furore in the ranks of retired SADF paratroopers. As a former paratrooper himself, his opinions have been more closely studied than pronouncements by SWAPO spokespersons. While wishing to focus on the strategic and tactical aspects of the military operation, he found it impossible to disengage from the controversy that followed the events of 4 May 1978. He notes numerous inconsistencies in the standard SWAPO version that was disseminated by the international media. However, his effort to achieve balance is compromised by a failure to locate and interview survivors, as well as an inability to secure the cooperation of SWAPO military personnel to answer his queries.23 On the other hand, Alexander had access to declassified SADF documents that accord him privileged insight into the SADF’s logistical planning of the operation. Yet, he points out certain anomalies in the SADF story and is occasionally critical of the conduct of the paratroopers. Consequently, he has been taken to task by self-styled ‘Cassinga veterans’. Retired SADF captain, Tommie Lamprecht, accused Alexander of betraying his fellow parabats,24 and members of the Legion of Associated Airborne R.S.A. (LAARSA) condemned his dissertation ‘as it cast aspersions on the good name and character of the South African paratrooper’.25 While LAARSA could hardly claim to speak on behalf of the country’s elite fighting force, the mere fact that its members declared a former commanding officer persona non grata is an indicator of how much they had vested in their reputation as soldiers and the integrity of their Cassinga story. Alexander differs from Breytenbach in contending that most casualties were caused by the bombing and strafing of Cassinga rather than the ground fighting. The air strike was apparently timed to coincide with the early morning parade when inhabitants of the camp assembled in order to be assigned their daily tasks. The death toll caused by the air strike is a matter of dispute. Alexander (presumably drawing inferences from published eyewitness accounts) suggests that a considerable number of schoolchildren and cadres were killed. He seeks to explain this indiscriminate killing by arguing that the SADF grossly underestimated the number of women and children in the camp and that they had no intention of killing them.26 Alexander concedes that the technology of mass destruction is likely to cause unavoidable casualties among civilians but he is not prepared to call the act a ‘massacre’ – especially as the scale of the killing was unintended. In fact, Alexander studiously avoids using the term ‘massacre’ (except when directly quoting SWAPO sources) and prefers to speak of the ‘raid.’ However, this is still not acceptable to LAARSA members who complain that they have been effectively portrayed as ‘mass murderers.’ Paratroopers involved in Operation Reindeer certainly do not regard it as an atrocity.27 This means either

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that they concocted a story that has remained intact for more than 35 years or that they are telling the truth. However, their version has not gone unchallenged.

The SWAPO story The SWAPO version of events is premised upon the claim that Cassinga housed refugees who had fled Namibia to escape an illegal and repressive military occupation. However, the evidence is not all that clear-cut. Relatively impartial sources suggest that it served a dual rather than an exclusive purpose; that it was a refugee camp-cum-military base.28 A report of the United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) published in The Namibian newspaper before the SADF raid stated that ‘Although it [Cassinga] housed a considerable number of combatants, including senior officers, it also housed considerable numbers of civilians.’29 Even partial sources attest to this. SWAPO reported the presence of a 300-strong camp defence unit that manned two AA guns.30 Elsewhere they conceded that a small number of PLAN soldiers might have been in the camp at any one time but that it was essentially a temporary shelter for those in transit to military bases. To acknowledge the presence of PLAN soldiers at Cassinga rendered it a site of battle rather than massacre.31 Accordingly, the focus of attention was placed squarely on the defenceless children, women and the elderly who were victims of the SADF attack. By constructing a tale of sacrifice, SWAPO turned its story of Cassinga into a moral – as opposed to a military – one. A narrative coalesced around tropes of the innocence of the Cassinga casualties who became martyrs of the Namibian nation in the making. Inconsistencies abound in the SWAPO story. The organization’s earliest statements claimed to have successfully repulsed the SADF attack and inflicted heavy casualties on the invaders.32 Shortly thereafter, SWAPO changed its tune and dismissed South African claims that the dastardly deed was not a reprisal for alleged attacks on Namibian targets but was, instead, aimed at scuppering an imminent political settlement. Subsequent statements issued by SWAPO spokespersons accused the SADF of the ‘cold-blooded murder of innocent and unarmed refugees’, and ‘of massacring the terror stricken population in cold blood’. SWAPO sources stressed that the enormity of the death toll showed that the SADF acted with excessive force and unrestrained brutality against ‘soft’ targets. Claims were made that SAAF planes dispensed poisonous gas and biological weapons prior to the ground attack by the paratroopers, and that once on the ground they shot and bayoneted non-combatants. There were also

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claims that the paratroopers raped some of their victims.33 Furthermore, it was suggested that the SADF soldiers systematically rounded up and killed all those who had not managed to flee the camp before their arrival34 and, somewhat contradictorily, it was also said that they took prisoners.35 The visit of international journalists to Cassinga seemed to confirm the massacre and give credence to SWAPO’s version of events. A few days following the incident,36 they were shown two mass graves – one an uncovered trench with 582 victims and the other covered up and apparently containing the bodies of 122 children.37 The party of journalists included Gaetano Pagano who photographed the open mass grave. The images of corpses, some of whom are women, some young, and some wearing civilian clothing are evident to viewers. The most widely disseminated photograph [Figure 5.1] is a black-and-white print showing the body of a woman in a dress prominently visible in the foreground and lying on top of a pile of bodies.38

Figure 5.1 Mass grave, Cassinga (Gaetano Pagano)

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It was widely syndicated and published by newspapers throughout the world.39 In June 1978, SWAPO issued a bulletin with the Pagano image on the cover with the byline ‘Massacre at Kassinga: climax of Pretoria’s all-out campaign against the Namibian resistance’.40 The picture was also included in the Kassinga File, a collection of images compiled by Pagano and Swedish filmmaker Sven Asberg.41 The file was distributed to the network of agencies and organizations affiliated to the international anti-apartheid movement. These organizations distributed and displayed the images of the mass grave at public exhibitions and included it in publications. The shot became emblematic of the Cassinga massacre. The Pagano image was also reproduced on a number of posters commemorating Kassinga Day produced by solidarity organizations such as the International University Exchange Fund (IUEF) and SWAPO’s own Department of Information and Publicity. Figure 5.2, entitled ‘Massacre at Kassinga’,

Figure 5.2 Massacre at Kassinga (Pagano/Asberg)

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comprises a montage that foregrounds three colour images presumably of survivors and victims of the massacre.42 These include the photograph of the mass grave, overlaid on black-and-white images reproduced from the SADF magazine Paratus. The superimposition of the colour images of Cassinga victims and survivors over the black-and-white images of text and South African soldiers seeks to focus the viewer’s attention on the tragic loss of lives. The poster also seems to suggest that the victims were deemed expendable by the South African state intent on imposing the apartheid system on Namibians irrespective of the (human) costs. Based on his reading of the imagery of Cassinga in the public domain, as well as what he has been able to access in archives, Alexander argues that the available visual evidence does not seem to support the contention that ‘photographs and videos of the mass graves at Cassinga show almost exclusively corpses of women and children’.43 This might be so, but it is hardly the point. In propaganda, it is perception rather than reality that matters, and public perceptions of Cassinga were shaped not by the referential but the symbolic value of the mass graves imagery. The graphic nature of the subject matter meant that it resonated with the imagery of mass killing such as the Nazi genocide (or Holocaust). The horrendous sight of a pit piled high with grotesquely twisted bodies in a state of rigor mortis is reminiscent of the images of death camps such as Belsen and Dachau after their liberation by the Allies in 1945. Images of piles of corpses – whether or not women and children were visible – conjured up atrocities or war crimes in the public mind. It was arguably this ‘icon of outrage’44 that ‘had a marked effect on public opinion in Western countries’ and turned Cassinga into a propaganda coup for SWAPO. And its widespread dissemination demonstrated that Cassinga became synonymous with the murder of innocent victims. Recollections of survivors have been instrumental in reconstructing the SWAPO story of Cassinga. One such survivor is Ellen Namhila, who in 1978 was a 14-year-old trainee nurse who happened to be visiting Cassinga at the time of the assault. She describes how she fled the camp during the bombardment and (mysteriously) fell asleep. She gives no indication that she personally witnessed the paratrooper’s actions and is altogether vague on the details of the episode except to say that she was helped across the (Cubango) river by Captain Kanhana.45 The mention of the man’s rank would seem to suggest that he was a PLAN officer who helped civilians escape during the confusion caused by the SADF assault at Cassinga. He was presumably one of the ‘unsung rescuers’.46 But the story attests to the presence of military personnel in the camp. Yet, in

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a letter to The Sunday Independent, Namhila categorically denies that Cassinga was a military base or that camp personnel carried weapons.47 Like many of the Cassinga survivors, Namhila became a political activist who owes her education and training as an archivist to SWAPO’s sponsorship. Survivors’ stories have been appropriated by the ruling party in the construction of the nationalist narrative of martyrdom. Survivors themselves have a reciprocal interest in perpetuating SWAPO’s version of the Cassinga story. And yet SWAPO’s Cassinga story fosters an ideology of sacrifice that restricts commemoration to the dead and forecloses the possibility of a dialogue with the living.48 A study published in 1994 under the auspices of the Namibian National Archives uses the ostensibly neutral term ‘event’ rather than ‘massacre’ in relation to Cassinga.49 Annemarie Heywood’s language is more restrained in its treatment of the topic than most previous publications by SWAPO apologists.50 She wishes to avoid being regarded as biased or partial by virtue of her commitment to tried and tested methods of primary research. But her interrogation of extant evidence seeks to confirm that SWAPO’s story is, for the most part, incontrovertible. What Heywood’s work really lacks, though, is an appreciation of what Cassinga has come to mean for Namibia’s narrative of nationhood; an appreciation that for SWAPO is its corroboration of their story – albeit in measured, scholarly language – outweighs the organization’s endorsement of her historical project committed to establishing the ‘full and sober truth’. As far as SWAPO is concerned, political expediency trumps truth for what actually happened is often of less significance than how it is remembered. After independence, SWAPO proclaimed 4 May a public holiday and Namibians were prevailed upon to ‘Remember Kassinga’. Along with Independence Day (21 March) and Heroes’ Day (26 August), Cassinga Day is part of a ritualized political re-enactment of the post-colonial Namibian liturgical year.51 Cassinga Day is staged to commemorate the victims who have come to epitomize martyrs of the liberation struggle who made the sacrifices necessary to build a new nation. Indeed, Cassinga has become part of the founding myth of the Namibian nation. Its officially designated founding father, President Sam Nujoma, repeatedly reinforced the idea that those that gave their lives for the national liberation struggle embodied the supreme sacrifice for the nation in public speeches given on Cassinga Day and other occasions. Nujoma’s rhetorical flourishes and (error-prone) descriptions of events set the tone by according due deference to those killed by ‘the Boers’ (read ‘racist white Afrikaners’).52 Given that SWAPO exercizes extensive control of the media and there are no other groups competing for ownership of the Cassinga story – unlike the

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detainees’ death in detention camps issue – there is not much space to challenge its hegemonic version that prevails in Namibian public discourse. However, the ruling party still deems it necessary to counter what Nujoma described as the enemy’s ‘disinformation campaign aimed at convincing world public opinion that Cassinga served as PLAN’s military headquarters and that the victims were armed combatants’.53 This statement appeared in a foreword to a booklet with a cover portrait that shows Nujoma holding a child, purportedly an orphan and one of the survivors of the massacre. Nujoma does not actually identify ‘the enemy’ but indicts the racist South African colonial army for its indiscriminate killing of women and children. The body of the text was coauthored by a Namibian journalist and a Swedish political scientist, the latter having served on the UNHCR/WHO delegation that had visited the Cassinga site shortly after the attack. The ‘untold story’ of the subtitle presumably refers to the voices of the survivors – the testimonies of 16 victims of the massacre. Although the booklet’s blurb makes much of the fact that the stories are firsthand accounts of the survivors’ experiences, they give the impression of being well-rehearsed stories that reiterate certain themes such as the brutality of the SADF soldiers who bayoneted and shot wounded refugees at close quarters. Some of the stories repeat Nujoma’s (unsubstantiated) claim that the SAAF planes emitted poisonous gas or chemical agents prior to the airborne assault. The repetition of such themes in survivors’ stories might suggest a desire to embrace SWAPO’s version of events. On the other hand, their contradictions and inaccuracies might be attributed to their experience of a traumatic lifethreatening situation. Survivors will undoubtedly remember the events of 4 May 1978 differently from perpetrators. Memory is, after all, selective and fashioned by personal and political agendas.

Complicating the Cassinga controversy I have highlighted certain inconsistencies in the SADF and SWAPO stories (with much the commentary relegated to the notes). But is this as far as my intervention in the Cassinga controversy should go? Should historians be expected to render a verdict on the past? Determine which account would stand up in a court of trial? In his introduction to The Massacre in History, Mark Levene asked (rhetorically?) whether it is the historian’s role to adjudicate between competing versions of the truth. He further asked whether the historian is capable of cutting

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through the mythic accretions that attach themselves to massacres and provide a thorough and comprehensive investigation of the event itself.54 The public undoubtedly expects as much from historians who they believe are capable of attaining objectivity and establishing ‘the truth’.55 But the general public is familiar with neither the implications of the ‘linguistic turn’ nor the impact of deconstruction on the writing of history. Indeed, many historians are equally uncomfortable with some of the directions suggested by post-modernism. Some critics regard these developments as the death knell of history as the profession has practised it for more than a century.56 I do not subscribe to this opinion. Rather, I think that post-modernism – in its many guises – provides a challenge to the discipline as we know it; a challenge to write a more reflexive history that is aware of the artifice we historians create to give the past a voice and an imagination.57 Accordingly, I think that rather than attempt to establish the veracity of historical facts, it is more productive to interrogate competing narratives about past events in order to understand how history is used (and abused). The past, especially when it comes to controversial episodes such as massacres, is highly contested. So it is incumbent upon the historian to try to understand how history and memory are used or manipulated by stakeholders, opposing groups and even enemies when they seek to construct their versions of the past and to discredit the stories of others. My approach runs the risk of my being regarded as ‘relativistic’ because it avoids taking sides or endorsing the quest for objectivity and truth. It may well be seen by some as a failure of commitment − even the resort of a coward − because a stand is not made.58 However, it is not simply a matter of adopting a non-partisan stance. Historians are not arbiters in the court of history who are by virtue of their training and professional status qualified to pass judgments on the actions or conduct of the protagonists in their stories. Their own subjectivities shape their standpoints and the most self-reflective practitioners tend, if anything, to complicate rather than simplify matters. For as Edward Linenthal remarked about the role of historians in the United States of America’s ‘cultural wars’ of the 1990s, they frequently ‘find themselves in the uncomfortable position of being blamed for creating the very problems whose complexities they set out to explore’.59 With these caveats, I propose to complicate the Cassinga controversy still further. Alexander believes that (apartheid) South Africa won the military engagement at Cassinga but lost the propaganda war to the ANC and SWAPO.60 He laments the way in which the liberation movements have come to exercise a monopoly over the Cassinga story. He holds that

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The victors of the liberation struggle, whose refrain is now the official voice, appear to have triumphed in their version of events. Those who espouse the SADF version are largely seen as discredited adherents of a regime based on lies.61

Alexander’s assertion is presumably based on the adage that winners write the history. In fact, the struggle over who gets to rewrite history is far more complicated, as we will see in the next chapter. The story of Cassinga as related by combat veterans, retired SADF generals or military aficionados still appear in local bookstores and on internet sites where they find willing buyers and audiences. And so long as the SADF story is able to compete with the official Namibian narrative of the war of liberation, the battle for Cassinga will continue. While SWAPO may have successfully prevented Cassinga counternarratives challenging its version of events in Namibia, it has been unable to do so outside of the country. For instance, South African paratroopers have comemmorated Cassinga even though the ANC government attempted to put paid to that practice in 1996.62 Although the ANC felt obliged to apologize to Namibia for the conduct of its former soldiers, the ruling party has not managed to prevent organizations such as LAARSA from celebrating ‘Cassinga Day’. Nor does it have quite the same vested interest as SWAPO in establishing a master narrative of the Namibian war of liberation. The solidarity between the (former) liberation movements does not necessarily extend to constructing a shared version of the past. This much is evident from the work of TRC. Overall, the report paid relatively little attention to the apartheid regime’s war of destabilization against the frontline states. Nonetheless, it singled out Cassinga as the most controversial external military operation undertaken by the SADF during the period covered by its brief.63 The report condemned Operation Reindeer as a violation of Angolan territorial integrity launched from illegally occupied Namibia and a gross violation of human rights. It added that the raid ‘violated international humanitarian law on other counts, one of which was the failure to take adequate steps to protect the lives of civilians’. It asserted that the SADF took no heed of the doctrine of noncombatant immunity and by its actions on this and other occasions breached its own protocols. However, former generals insist that they observed the rules of engagement despite not officially being at war with SWAPO and that the SADF’s code of conduct was strictly enforced in the ranks. Although members of the SADF occasionally abused and tortured those described as ‘terrorists’, there was only a solitary dubious admission of culpability for wrongdoing by an SADF paratrooper at Cassinga.

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Conclusion Cassinga will continue to elicit varied responses as long as participants and survivors are alive and the events remain part of living memory. It is abundantly clear from a report headlined ‘Battle of Cassinga still rages’ published on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of the events that they are still mired in controversy.64 The battle for Cassinga has been complicated by the intersections and intricacies of the political transitions in South Africa and its neighbouring states (especially in Namibia and Angola). How is it likely to play out in the forseeable future? Will the outcome of this battle shape the rhetoric of the dominant culture? Kali Tel holds that if the dominant culture manages to appropriate the story and can codify it in its own terms, the status quo will remain unchanged.65 But this begs the question, what is the dominant culture in post-colonial southern Africa? If this were apparent, would we be in a better position to determine whether Cassinga will be remembered as a massacre or a military operation?

6

The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale: Successful Stalemate and Vicarious Victory

The ‘battle-centric’ view of history holds that key military engagements have had a significant impact on broader socio-political, economic and cultural developments. Its rationale is that history turns on a series of pivotal moments on the battlefield that impact on all spheres of society. This well-established tradition of military history has left an indelible mark on the writing about wars and their consequences.1 The approach is still fashionable amongst military historians (and their, mainly lay, readers) and is exemplified by texts such as Greg Mills and David Williams’ Seven Battles that Shaped South Africa (2006).2 Included in their selection is Cuito Cuanavale (1987–1988), a battle that has attracted considerable attention and controversy. Why is this so? For one thing, commentators do not necessarily agree that there was a battle of Cuito Cuanavale. Indeed, some reckon that it is a misnomer to speak of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale as there was no battle for the remote town in Angola’s Cuanda-Cubango province.3 Nor would they regard their preference for terms such as the siege of Cuito Cuanavale as mere semantics. On the other hand, there are those who stress that Cuito was the biggest conventional operation on African soil since World War II, and have dubbed it ‘the war for Africa’.4 Fidel Castro, with his flair for rhetorical bombast and self-promotion, boasted that the history of Africa would be written ‘before and after Cuito Cuanavale’5 (BCC/ ACC?). Then there are those who regard it as a turning point in the fight against racist imperialists and have likened it to the battle of Stalingrad,6 and those who have hailed Cuito as ‘the battle which put an end to apartheid’.7 No matter the perspective, there appears to be consensus that the battle of Cuito Cuanavale was a watershed event. This is because commentators of all perspectives have embraced the ‘battle-centric’ view of history with its tendency to emphasize the significance of a military engagement that was arguably a sideshow to the

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political drama that was being played out in South Africa.8 Equally remarkable is that all parties are intent on asserting that they were victors at Cuito Cuanavale thereby claiming ownership of the (hi)story. For the purposes of this chapter, the battle of Cuito Cuanavale serves as shorthand for all the military engagements between the SADF-UNITA and the FAPLA-Cuban forces in Angola in the 12 or so months from August 1987. This period is what Helmoed-Römer Heitman has termed South Africa’s final phase of the Angolan War.9 Employing these parameters, I will seek to debunk three myths relating to the battle of Cuito Cuanavale: first, that there were clear-cut winners and losers; second, that the ANC’s armed wing, Umkhonto weSizwe (MK), participated in the battle; and, third, that the outcome of the battle determined the trajectory of the transition in South Africa. Space constraints preclude detailed discussion of the Angolan, Cuban and Soviet perspectives on Cuito Cuanavale. My focus will be primarily on those articulating the views of the South African Defence Force (SADF) and the African National Congress (ANC). It is my argument that apologists for the SADF proclaim themselves ‘winners’ in a military stalemate, while the ANC claims a vicarious victory in a battle in which they did not participate. And, for very different reasons, both parties believe that Cuito shaped the settlement in South Africa in their favour. I will also extrapolate from the case study of Cuito Cuanavale to ask whether victors in battles and wars necessarily write history.

A war without victors or vanquished In August 1987 the SADF became involved in a protracted campaign in southeast Angola following its attempt to prevent FAPLA’s advance on UNITA’s stronghold, Mavinga (and, thence, Jamba). The fighting occurred in three phases for which the SADF employed the code names Operation Moduler, Hooper and Packer.10 The SADF won a crushing victory at the Lomba River and FAPLA retreated in disarray while being subjected to ground and air attacks. FAPLA regrouped at the confluence of the Lomba and Cuito Rivers. They were reinforced by a small Cuban contingent. The forsaking of mobile warfare in favour of attrition, rotation of frontline troops, adverse weather conditions and outbreaks of diseases such as hepatitis contributed to the failure of the SADF to press home its advantage and allowed the FAPLA/Cuban forces to establish well-fortified and heavily mined bridgehead east of the Cuito River. The defences were shored up by the arrival of further Cuban reinforcements, including some of its best

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trained, best equipped troops. Despite their positions being ‘softened up’ and the airstrip rendered inoperative by artillery fire, the Angolans/Cubans repulsed six frontal assaults and consolidated a smaller defensive perimeter in the Tumpo triangle. Following the stalemate at Cuito Cuanavale, the SADF began a ‘tactical disengagement under operational conditions’ in March 1988, six or so weeks after announcing its intention to do so. In the interim it implemented Operation Displace, which entailed laying a minefield cordon east of the Cuito River.11 Wishing to seize the initiative, Castro abandoned the inflexible battle plans that Soviet advisers had devised for the FAPLA offensive called Operation Saluté October and launched the bolder Operation XXXI Anniversary. From his war room in Havana, Castro instructed his commanders in the field to advance south from their defensive positions along the Namibe–Lubango–Menongue line.12 The Cubans’ gradual southward occupation of Cunene province was indicative of the shifting balance of power in the region. The SADF then sought to blunt the Cuban thrust and inflicted heavy casualties on the combined Cuban/FAPLA/ SWAPO forces near Techipa on 27 June 1988 in what was arguably the last major encounter of the war.13 Meanwhile, the Cubans had repaired and extended the airstrips at Cahama and Xangongo, and installed a radar network that covered southern Angola.14 This meant that the Ruacana–Calueque hydroelectric schemes on the River Kunene were within a striking distance. The loss of South Africa’s air superiority was confirmed when Cuban-piloted MiGs bombed the Calueque dam and killed 11 national servicemen.15 The cost of mounting casualties was becoming politically unsustainable for the apartheid government. Castro’s brinkmanship was a risky gambit.16 The Cuban build-up in southwest Angola created an unpredictable military situation. The South Africans did not know how to interpret Castro’s moves, whether he was merely posturing or trying to provoke confrontation. They were not altogether prepared to call Castro’s bluff, so they took the precaution of deploying active units and calling up citizen force reservists to defend the Namibian border. But General Jannie Geldenhuys, former Chief of the SADF, reckons that Cuban bluster was inversely proportional to the threat they posed to South African security.17 Piero Gleijeses, however, reckons that the threat of a Cuban invasion of Namibia gave impetus to arriving at an agreement on Namibian independence.18 And Edward George characterizes it as Castro’s ‘war and talks’ strategy.19 The Cubans seemed to think that by ratcheting up the tensions, they would be taken more seriously as role players in the conflict and its resolution. Castro succeeded in having Cuba included in the negotiations and thereby being able to influence the terms of the settlement.20

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Pragmatism prevailed amongst the SADF leadership that realized that a military showdown would result in a no-win situation for all and that the changing geopolitical context favoured diplomatic solutions. In Sue Onslow’s opinion, ‘[t]he dominance of the securocrats in Pretoria was severely shaken by military events in Southern Angola, leading to a re-assertion of the Department of Foreign Affairs line of a negotiated settlement’.21 Pretoria accepted that an ‘honourable exit’ for both themselves and the Cubans was possible once the latter accepted ‘linkage’22 as a precondition for the implementation of UN Resolution 435.23 What had begun as a unilateral withdrawal from Angola by the SADF was completed in terms of a ceasefire agreement signed between South Africa, Angola and Cuba on 22 August 1988.24 A joint border monitoring commission (JMMC) established under US supervision was able to report that all SADF soldiers had departed Angola before the end-of-the-month deadline – and before a timetable for Cuban withdrawal was agreed to by the parties. The last SADF troops to cross the border into Namibia on 30 August 1988 did so in a convoy that passed under a banner inscribed with a message that read: ‘Welcome Winners/Welkom Wenners’. There was a small media contingent to witness the occasion. One member of this party was photographer John Liebenberg who captured the scene below (Figure 6.1).

Figure 6.1 SADF convoy entering Namibia, 30 August 1988 (John Liebenberg)

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According to Geldenhuys, fewer than 1,000 troops crossed the border into Namibia and this did not amount to the kind of impressive display that could be made into a media spectacle.25 Although retrospectively described by one participant as a ‘momentous day’,26 at the time it was a relatively low-key affair. Neither Liebenberg’s image nor publicity shots appeared in the press.27 So it would seem that the SADF’s proclamation of victory made little impression in the ‘battle of words and images’. For the MPLA government in Luanda, claiming a victory might have been as vital as actual military prowess in sustaining external support and solidarity.28 But this did not hold good for the isolated apartheid state that had to maintain the pretence that it was UNITA’s war. Sue Onslow has shown that South Africa lost the propaganda war in the international press with respect to the battle of Cuito Cuanvale.29 And US Assistant Secretary for African Affairs, Chester Crocker, holds that the South Africans might have had the edge on the battlefield but they were no match for the cunning of Castro who won the battle of perceptions.30 In fact, the battle for Cuito Cuanavale is still being fought. Employing boxing parlance, Castro declared that the Cubans had parried the SADF at Cuito Cuanavale with a left jab, and then countered with a right-hand thrust towards the Namibian border. He held that the SADF’s teeth had been broken in the process.31 Sticking with the boxing analogy, Geldenhuys countered that the FAPLA-Cuban forces had been battered on the ropes and the SADF won on points rather than delivering a knockout blow.32 However, there was no referee in the ring to call the fight so the two major antagonists have continued to proclaim themselves winners in contravention of the Queensberry rules. Those in Castro’s corner have hailed Cuba as the indefatigable fighter for international working class solidarity, the champion of ‘the underdog’. Castro proclaimed Cuito a ‘glorious victory’ before the final bell. Those in Geldenhuys’ corner sprang to the SADF’s defence and intoned that the Cuban victory was a myth.33 They, in turn, reaffirmed the SADF’s invincibility. Geldenhuys has always insisted that the SADF were the ‘winners’ of the conflict in Angola/Namibia. This much was implied by the title of the original Afrikaans version of his biography Dié Wat Wen, which translates as ‘the winners’ or ‘those who are victorious’.34 After playing a key role in the negotiations that brokered a peace, he felt that he owed it to his commanders and troops to debunk the myth of Cuban victory at Cuito Cuanavale and publicize their victories.35 One rebuttal of the claims of a Cuban victory at Cuito Cuanavale by retired generals and military correspondents has been to insist that the SADF objective was limited to driving the FAPLA-Cuban forces west of the Cuito River.36 This was

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meant to ensure that UNITA would survive and so continue to conduct guerrilla war against the Angolan forces from Cuanda-Cubango province. They argue that this objective was successfully achieved (although it actually only postponed UNITA’s eventual demise). They have dismissed claims that the SADF sought to capture Cuito Cuanavale.37 SADF apologists also tend to cite statistics to ‘prove’ that its enemies at Cuito sustained far greater losses in personnel and material than it did.38 This was undoubtedly the case but it does not amount to a clinching argument. The outcome of a battle cannot be measured by such statistics alone. In any case these figures never mention the UNITA fatalities, which ensured that the losses sustained by SADF regular units, particularly among white conscripts, were kept to a minimum. The SADF was too stretched and could not capture Cuito Cuanavale and simultaneously fight the Cuban forces in Cunene province without an unacceptable loss of life and high costs.39 Whether it was a victory for the Cubans as certain commentators have insisted,40 or whether ‘Cuban military intervention brought about equilibrium on the battlefield’,41 there can be no doubt the South Africans lost the most psychologically. As American journalist Karl Maier expressed it, For the first time in the history of southern Africa armies of mostly black soldiers proved that the champions of apartheid were vulnerable, that the time of South Africa’s military domination was running out.42

While the ‘hawks’ in P. W. Botha’s government had no wish to concede failure and some of the SADF chiefs privately insisted that they could have defeated the Angolan/Cuban forces, the price of such a military victory would have been prohibitively high. In this sense, it was a defeat for the ‘hardliners’ in Pretoria.43 Geldenhuys traded his military uniform for collar and tie and adopted the role of a diplomat. The SADF leadership finally heeded Clausewitz’s dictum that ‘war is a continuation of policy by other means’. While it did not renounce war as an instrument of policy, it fell into line with US and Soviet thinking that a military solution was not feasible in Angola. Consequently, the ‘securocrats’ agreed to the New York Accords of December 1988, which changed the political landscape in southern Africa irrevocably. Pretoria claimed it had won since it had secured a Cuban withdrawal from Angola, obliged the ANC to close it bases in that country, and so countered the communist threat successfully.44 Yet it had already withdrawn from Angola, was compelled to curtail its support of UNITA and accept the implementation of UNSC Resolution 435, which made provision for a democratic election that swept SWAPO to power in Namibia − something it had fought so long to avert.

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In my opinion, the most insightful and pithy summation of the outcome of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale (and the ‘Border War’) is offered by Elaine Windrich, who dubs it a war without victors or vanquished.45 This is because both sides accepted negotiations with an enemy that had not yet surrendered. Windrich notes that for Cuba and the Soviet Union, on the one hand, and South Africa, on the other: … the proclamation of victory did offer an exit strategy which enabled the external forces to cut their losses while maintaining their prestige.46

In other words, all three parties withdrew from Angola on terms that enabled them to save face. And, as far as the Angolan forces were concerned, Windrich states: UNITA … claimed victory in retreat, despite sustaining thousands of casualties … because Savimbi had survived annihilation to fight another day. … the MPLA could also claim victory, in halting the assault on Cuito Cuanavale and in seeing off the SADF occupation of Angolan territory … 47

Thus they snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Windrich adds, for good measure, that ‘[t]he US also proclaimed victory, for helping to create a stalemate by arming UNITA, thereby ensuring that all contestants would accept peace negotiations as the only alternative to an unwinnable war.48

The appearance of a situation in which there were no losers, only winners, made the negotiations possible.49 Actually, the only losers were the Angolan people because the civil war was to continue for more than another decade. In the final analysis, the Cuban and South African withdrawals from Angola did not bring peace to that country or the region.

Mythicizing and commemorating Cuito Cuanavale The battle for the memory of the ‘Border War’ has continued long after the dust has settled on Cuito Cuanavale. Indeed, the battle has been (re)joined repeatedly as protagonists from both sides of the erstwhile conflict have pressed their claims as victors. The ANC quickly seized upon the turn of events in Angola to articulate what has been called a ‘battle-centric’ view of the liberation struggle in which a special place is accorded to Cuito Cuanavale as the turning point at which apartheid

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was defeated.50 At its 1989 National Executive Committee meeting, the ANC hailed ‘the crushing defeat suffered by the apartheid war machine at Cuito Cuanavale’. Stephen Ellis attributes this statement to the organization’s desperate bid for a propaganda victory following the ANC’s humiliating expulsion from Angola as part of the settlement.51 The rhetoric was further fuelled by the ANC’s propagation of the myth that MK combatants were involved in the battle. Although this was not the case,52 the ANC has repeated this claim on public platforms so that it has become part of the lore of Cuito Cuanavale.53 According to some critics (or cynics), Cuito Cuanavale is upheld as a victory by the ANC because there were no successful conventional MK operations against the SADF. As such, it was MK’s attempt to compensate by claiming a military victory to bolster its credentials as a fighting force that explains the importance of Cuito in ANC mythology.54 ANC spokespersons have regularly declared that the triumph of the Angolan and Cuban forces at Cuito Cuanavale over the ‘apartheid army’ strengthened the liberation movement’s hand in negotiating a settlement in South Africa. Former president Nelson Mandela reiterated that the battle was ‘a turning point for the liberation of our continent and my people – and of my people – from the scourge of apartheid’.55 In an address in Havana in 1991, he stated that The defeat of the racist army at Cuito Cuanavale has made it possible for me to be here today! Cuito Cuanavale is a milestone in the history for the struggle for Southern African liberation.56

He championed the Cubans as heroes who sacrificed their lives in solidarity with their African brothers. Subsequently, the names of 2,016 Cubans killed in Angola were added to the Wall of Names at Freedom Park, the ANC’s premier heritage site in Tshwane/ Pretoria.57 This occasioned considerable adverse reaction from certain SADF veterans who believed that the Cubans were stooges of Soviet communism rather than ‘internationalists’. (See Chapter 9). At its December 2007 National Conference held at Polokwane, the ANC resolved to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale, which it described as ‘a decisive defeat of South African racist forces and their UNITA surrogates’. The delegates further resolved that in consultation with Angola, Namibia, Cuba and Russia, countrywide celebrations were to be organized in order to cultivate public awareness of the ‘sacrifices of the revolutionary forces’ in winning a crucial battle in South Africa’s liberation struggle.58 This sentiment was endorsed by the ANC’s National Executive Committee at its March 2008 meeting although its statement toned down

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the rhetoric of the original resolution. It ‘paid tribute to many thousands of Angolans, Cubans, Namibians and South Africans for their sacrifices in the fight against the forces of apartheid and imperialism in the protracted Angolan war’.59 This was followed by a media briefing where a programme to commemorate the battle of Cuito Cuanavale was announced. Opposition parties called for a parliamentary debate that generated heated exchanges. The commemorative activities were sponsored by Parliament’s Millennium Project (PMP), the legislature’s primary nation-building and heritage agency. The PMP’s mission was to ensure that the younger generation be made aware of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. According to Mr Themba Wakashe, the then Director-General of the Department of Arts and Culture, ‘[t]he commemoration should deal with issues of memory and legacy of this liberation struggle. And it is important to invest in the minds of the younger generation a sense of history, heritage and identity’.60 ANC MP, Ms Zoliswa Kota, added that it was imperative to ensure that this famed battle is not relegated to the obsolete depths of history [and stressed the need] to bring Cuito Cuanavale into our school history and to the public consciousness … it’s events like these that can act as catalysts to the rewriting of our history.61

Such ‘revisionism’ was regarded by critics as a government ploy to foist the ANC’s version of events on the public. Acrimonious exchanges followed in the columns of the national press and in numerous blogs in cyberspace.62 The flagship PMP-sponsored event was a Heritage Journey that involved a party of ‘stakeholders’ undertaking a trip from Freedom Park in Pretoria to Cuito Cuanavale in March 1988.63 The party included military veterans, as well as representatives from government and civil society. At the battle site, the party was joined by newly elected ANC leader and president Jacob Zuma, representatives of the Angolan government and other dignitaries. A commemorative ceremony to honour those that died during the battle was held. Wreaths were laid at the monument although it was reported that they were placed on the graves of MK veterans who had purportedly died during the battle of Cuito Cuanavale.64 The South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) threw its weight behind the project when it commissioned and screened a documentary film called The End of the World about the journey on its Special Assignment programme. The broadcast occasioned a storm of controversy. Most of the objections were to the reiteration of the ANC’s narrative of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale as an SADF defeat and catalyst of transformation in South Africa.65

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Zuma, as a Umkhonto weSizwe (MK) veteran, made a number of undertakings to his former comrades in arms. One of these was the erection of a monument in honour of fallen MK members who died in the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. He vowed to reinter the remains of fallen MK soldiers and place memorials on their graves. Notwithstanding an absence of any corroboration of the story that MK members had participated in the battle of Cuito Cuanavale, Zuma was convinced that ‘there had to be existing evidence that there were South Africans buried there’.66 Furthermore, the president stated that a(nother?) monument would be erected at the Cuito Cuanavale site in order to educate tourists about the significance of the battle. However, it appears that those visiting Cuito Cuanavale are, typically, MK and SADF veterans rather than tourists. These veterans go back to the front for a variety of personal reasons relating to their war experiences. Although the remote site is off the beaten track in a landscape littered with mines, it attracts those wishing to visit a site with the mystique of Cuito Cuanavale. It has a macabre fascination even for those who have never set foot there. One SADF veteran referred to Cuito Cuanavale as ‘an almost mythological place’ in his war. When he visited 25 years after being involved in the battle, he did so as part of a spiritual journey to slay his demons.67 Another SADF veteran of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale who visited the site recounted his recollections in a book titled Anderkant Cuito.68 This can be translated literally as ‘The Other Side of Cuito’, meaning a physical place beyond the Angolan town, but a better rendition would be a space where veterans get to reflect upon the meaning of their war experience, which is encapsulated by Cuito Cuanavale. In this sense, Cuito has become a metonym for the ‘Border War’ (as Auschwitz has come to stand for all the Nazi death camps in which genocide was perpetrated). Zuma has persisted in making the unsubstantiated claim that MK soldiers had died as heroes and heroines at Cuito Cuanavale. In a speech delivered in 2010, he reiterated this theme.69 MK combatants based in camps in Angola were actually involved in assisting FAPLA to destroy UNITA because Savimbi was allied with the apartheid regime. But they were deployed mostly on the eastern and northeastern fronts and not in the southeast of the country. MK acted according to the principle that ‘a friend’s enemy is our enemy’. So Zuma has desperately attempted to lay claim to a share of Cuba’s victory so that it would redound to MK’s glory. But he has neglected to remind his supporters of the disconcerting fact that Cuba consented, and the MPLA agreed, to the expulsion of MK from Angola as part of the agreement negotiated with the apartheid regime in 1988.70 This was a considerable setback to the ANC after it joined the chorus in proclaiming Cuba’s triumph against the much vaunted SADF military machine.

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Winning the war, losing the memory battle (or vice versa) A group of SADF veterans fired another salvo in the battle for the rights to the Cuito Cuanavale story with the publication of the volume We Were There, with its subtitle ‘Winning the War for Southern Africa’.71 Although there are contributions by former soldiers of all ranks, the preponderance of chapters by high-ranking SADF officers reflects the hierarchical military structure of the SADF. According to its compiler Geldenhuys, they were ‘written by those who were in positions of responsibility’ who could provide insight into the bigger picture of the Cold War in Southern Africa.72 But the preoccupation with Cuito Cuanavale is also a reflection of the predominant mode of writing about the ‘Border War’, namely, the ‘battle set-piece’. Above all, Geldenhuys and his collaborators have thrown down the gauntlet to armchair critics and detractors who question that the SADF were the victors. Indeed, Geldenhuys has become increasingly combative in rejecting the ANC’s latter-day declaration of victory at Cuito Cuanavale.73 The book was promoted by Afriforum, the minority rights (read: white Afrikaner) lobby group, as part of a campaign using social media to correct what it argued was the one-sided rewriting of the history of the Border War.74 The campaign was launched with the uploading of a video, described as an ‘open letter’ to President Zuma, on Afriforum’s YouTube website.75 The video commences with a snippet from a speech made by Zuma on the occasion of the ANC’s celebration of its centenary on 8 January 2012 in which he referred to Cuban solidarity in the victory over the apartheid forces at Cuito Cuanavale, which had changed the political landscape of southern Africa. The video then has a number of white Afrikaans-speakers – including artists and celebrities – delivering a sequence of scripted statements that reiterate that the so-called Cuban victory was a myth perpetuated by ‘Zuma’s people’ (the ANC? Zulus? Blacks?) to discredit the history of ‘our people’ (SADF veterans? Afrikaners? whites?) and promote his own as ‘untarnished heroes’. There is no hint of irony in an Afrikaner declaring that ‘history is not a weapon, nor an instrument to serve political ends’. Nor is there any suggestion of hubris in the pointed statement that ‘history is written by those who rule’.76 The campaign availed itself of Facebook and Twitter applications in its bid to garner the support of at least 300,000 people who identified with the sentiments expressed in the video. Those who pledged support for the campaign would not be required to participate in the planned actions but rather follow it via social media. A small, representative group was to march on the president’s office in the

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Union Buildings on 28 February 2012 to deliver a memorandum to apprise Zuma of their sense of injustice at being wronged by the misrepresentation of white Afrikaner history. They would serve as the public face of the virtual community comprising those that shared a sense of grievance. These representatives would deliver memoranda and copies of We Were There to the embassies of Angola, Cuba, Namibia, Russia and the United States with a plea for politicians to provide a more balanced account of events. As far as I have been able to ascertain, the march proved to be a non-event as it did not attract any news coverage or publicity. It would appear that Afriforum was unable to muster sufficient numbers to make much of a showing. Nor can it compete with the ANC’s promotion of its narrative of Cuito Cuanavale as the ruling party has the resources of the state at its disposal. Still, the attempted mobilization of SADF veterans and sympathizers in order to contest the ANC’s account of the climax of the ‘Border War’ would seem to suggest that sectors of the white (Afrikaner) population have vested their sense of collective self-worth in their own narrative of this conflict. By vindicating their role in the ‘Border War’, SADF soldiers have challenged the master narrative that perpetuates the ruling party’s version of events, which regards the ANC and its allies in the liberation struggle as ‘the winners’. Their case is not that much different from that of US Vietnam War ‘vindicationists’. The term coined by Robert McMahon describes those Americans that attribute their defeat in Vietnam to poor leadership, ill-conceived plans, the traitorous disloyalty of the anti-war movement, the media or Congress.77 McMahon reckons that these ‘vindicationists’ betray a deep-seated unease about the prevailing state of the nation’s collective memory; that they advocate a redeemed Vietnam War narrative that quite consciously seeks to alter memories shaped by widespread feelings of anguish, revulsion and opprobrium towards the Vietnam experience.78 He notes that the ultimate ‘vindicationist’ position holds that the United States actually won the larger struggle in Southeast Asia since the intervention bought crucial time for the non-communist states of the region to establish political cohesion and economic vitality, and thus to withstand the communist threat.79 So while they lost the battle, the war was not a ‘lost cause’. SADF generals have made similar claims in respect of the conflict in Southern Africa: that they bought sufficient time to ensure that the transfer of power to the ANC occurred only once the outcome of the Cold War was a foregone conclusion and the Soviet Union was on the verge of collapse.80 This meant that the ANC and SWAPO’s chief sponsor was no longer a key player in regional and world politics. This triumphalism suggests that the generals

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foresaw the collapse of the Soviet Union even before the writing appeared on the wall.81 Such apparent prescience on the part of the SADF generals was actually a post hoc rationalization of their circumscribed policy choices.

The victors write history – or do they? The derivation of the adage that history is written by the victors is uncertain.82 The underlying assumption seems to be that the victors (re)construct the past from the vantage point of being vindicated by history. The vanquished, conversely, are thought to have been disavowed by history. In other words, the winners secure the rights to the (hi)story, whereas the losers forfeit their claim thereto. However, the issue of who gets to (re)write history is rather more complicated than the adage would suggest.83 I wish to examine this adage and make a number of points so as to complicate the issue. First, social struggle and war do not always end with obvious victors. In certain instances, a conflict ends in a stalemate and is followed by a negotiated settlement and (relatively) peaceful transfer of power from the old to the new order, as was the case in Namibia and South Africa. The settlement hammered out in the capitals of the world between the governments of South Africa, Angola and Cuba under American tutelage signified that all parties had foresworn the military option in favour of diplomatic one for Namibia. Likewise, when the SADF and MK entered into a military pact behind the scenes during the course of the Convention for a Democratic South Africa (CODESA) negotiations, these organizations committed themselves to a peaceful resolution of the country’s civil war.84 There were no obvious winners and losers. Indeed, the evidence would seem to suggest that most contemporary transitions to democracy do not have clear winners and losers.85 Second, it is not true to say that only victors write history. As we have seen, both winners and losers do so. The adage assumes that the victors of a social struggle or conflict use their political dominance to suppress a defeated adversary’s version of historical events in favour of their own; that the vanquished are entirely without a voice. But is this so? How are the new rulers of a post-conflict society able to impose their version of events on the citizens? With the reduction of centralized powers in modern democracies, including the privatization of the educational system and mass media, how is the state able to propagate a master narrative or produce an ‘official history’ that goes unchallenged? Is the suppression of alternative histories possible outside of totalitarian societies

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that control and censor information consumed by the public? Our case study has shown that narratives of Cuito Cuanavale propagated by apparent victors and vanquished compete for public attention, and that those defeated on the battlefield also lay claim to having been vindicated by history. Third, wars do not produce only winners and losers but victims as well. Indeed, nowadays there is an unseemly rivalry to attain victim status in postconflict societies.86 Post-apartheid South Africa has been no exception (for reasons that we will explore in Chapter 10). The TRC promoted victimhood in what proved to be a landmark experiment in transitional justice. Victimhood has political capital in a world in which the discourse of human rights has almost become an article of faith. It opens avenues to apologies and reparations for perceived historical wrongs.87 Fourth, the adage takes no account of the distribution of resources, especially access to the media, in modern (post-)literate societies. Erik Christiansen’s study of the politicizing of history in post-war America provides instructive case studies of the interplay between history and power relations.88 He holds that history is constantly remade to suit the objectives of those with the resources to do so. In the remote past, victors or conquerors might have destroyed libraries and repositories of knowledge but this is no longer likely to happen nor is it likely to guarantee the suppression of alternative versions of the past. Social media archive and transmit revisionist versions of the past; they are carriers of counter-memories.89 Elite communities are able through the (old and new) media to effectively disseminate their interpretations of the past to a relatively large audience. SADF veterans certainly use the internet to publicize their version of the Cuito Cuanavale story.90 Thus victors do not necessarily create and monopolize the collective memory of past events. Nor are they able to prevent counter-memories from gaining a hold in public consciousness. Fifth, history in the sense of being a record of the past is not an impartial arbiter of human conduct. It is historians rather than history that make value judgments. And historians are a product of their times. They have served as handmaidens of nationalism, proponents of political ideologies and parties or apologists for particular causes. Historians have displayed partisanship and have been known to take ‘sides’. While the public might like to think that historians are capable of objectivity, it remains a chimera. If post-modernism is the death knell of history for positivists or a challenge to constructivists, for a public largely ignorant of the developments in the discipline of history the absence of certainty is confusing. Traditionally, societies have hierarchies of knowledge according to which the perspectives of the literate held sway over those of the unlettered, and

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those of academic historians trump their amateur counterparts. However, these hierarchies are being unsettled in the post-modern world in which virtually every person can become his or her own historian. With the ‘democratisation of history’, the authority of the historian is being challenged by all comers. And in the public sphere, history is used and abused by pundits, polemicists and political elites.91 Historical narratives have provided ammunition for parties involved in the ‘war of words’ for Cuito Cuanavale. Such history wars or memory battles suggest that protagonists often have a vested interest in their versions of the past that they are prepared to defend vigorously.

Conclusion The literature on Cuito Cuanavale shares a deficiency of most military history, namely, that it fixates on the battle set piece; that it is ‘battle centric’.92 By assigning the labels ‘victor’ and ‘vanquished’ to the warring parties, it reduces a complex situation to a simple, coherent narrative. This mode of thinking seems to be so compelling for SADF vindicationists that they make battles the focal point in a conflict that does not readily lend itself to such an interpretation of the history. And by concentrating on Angola’s southeastern front, they deflect attention away from the more critical developments in the southwest of the country. Conversely, ANC apologists reckon that the momentum provided by the defeat of the SADF at Cuito, and MK’s contribution to that defeat, set in motion a chain of events that culminated in the dismantling of South Africa’s system of white power and privilege. For diametrically opposite reasons, both overstate the significance of Cuito Cuanavale, and attach too much rhetorical weight thereto.93 Although accepted as a truism, the adage that history is written by victors happens to be misplaced, obsolete or, at the very least, a gross simplification. It is far from inevitable that victors will have the last word in how South Africa’s past is remembered partly because it is not exactly clear who they were or who has the power and resources to prevail in the dissemination of narratives and counter-narratives. ‘Official’ histories might become hegemonic but they are always contested. The revision of history happens at the interface of memory politics and historiography. The memory battles in respect of the ‘Border War’ involve victors, vanquished and vindicationists in ongoing contestation. These role players are competing for high stakes: whose version of the past is going to be commemorated and institutionalized?94

7

Digging Up the Past: Revisiting the 1989 Namibian Ceasefire Violation

The discovery of several mass graves in northern Namibia in late 2005 served as an unwanted reminder that the landscape still bore the scars of war. Located in the vicinity of the former South African military base at Eenhana,1 immediate suspicions were that the bones that had been unearthed were connected to the nefarious activities of the security forces. It was soon confirmed that the graves contained in excess of 200 skeletal remains of SWAPO guerrillas who had been killed in April 1989 after the collapse of the Namibian ceasefire. This knowledge did nothing to lay the ghosts of the deceased to rest. In fact, the discovery of the graves reignited debate about another contested episode in the ‘Border War’. Accusations were traded between SWAPO and SADF apologists as to who bore responsibility for the killing and burial of the bodies. There were also unanswered questions about why the burials had been shrouded in secrecy with the implication being that there had been some sort of (literal and figurative) cover-up of events by one or the other party. As it turned out, not all of these suspicions were well founded. But the propensity for both sides to make partial disclosures, trade in half-truths and outright lies suggested that they had something to hide. It certainly did not allay suspicions that both sides had committed atrocities during the conflict. This chapter will trace the connections between the collapse of the ceasefire, the mass killings and the burials.2 I will examine the rationalizations proffered for the parts played by both the South African security forces and SWAPO in the killings, by their respective apologists. Then I will scrutinize the conduct of these adversaries in order to ascertain whether their actions during April 1989 were consistent with or contradicted their overall human rights records. I will argue that the South African security forces and SWAPO were ‘enemies of a kind’; that both sides resorted to ‘dirty tricks’ and must bare a measure of

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responsibility for the unnecessary loss of life. Finally, I will make reference to how those buried in the mass graves have come to be commemorated.

Skeletons in the closet: The (Re)discovery of mass graves The SWAPO guerrillas killed during the last days of the ‘Border War’ were hastily buried in at least six mass graves in the Oukwanyama district of Namibia. Their accidental discovery in late 2005 resulted in charges that the burials had been conducted in secret so that the South African security forces could cover their tracks. In fact, the mass burials received a good degree of publicity at the time; they were certainly not a well-kept secret as SWAPO leader Sam Nujoma alleged.3 According to Helmoed-Römer Heitman,4 a former correspondent of Jane’s Defence Weekly, the security forces resorted to burying the dead in pits dug by front-end loaders. An anonymous ex-SADF soldier claimed that he witnessed PLAN (People’s Liberation Army of Namibia) fighters being blindfolded, executed and then dumped into a mass grave near Eenhana.5 The military historian, Peter Stiff, holds that bodies that were exhumed revealed no evidence that the victims had been ‘killed execution-style’.6 But Cedric Thornberry, chief aide to the UN Special Representative in Namibia, mentions the exhumation of 18 bodies of PLAN soldiers with wounds consistent with their having been executed rather than killed in combat. He asserts that the story was quashed by the UN Secretariat and died with remarkable speed. It briefly resurfaced in the late 1990s when Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) researchers were conducting their investigations.7 But the TRC was unable to verify allegations that some of the victims had bullets lodged in the back of their necks. Nonetheless, suspicions of summary executions and other forms of foul play were not easily laid to rest. Prior to 2005, SWAPO chose to ignore the victims killed after the collapse of the ceasefire because they were an unwelcome reminder of an episode it preferred to forget. In fact, SWAPO spurned the TRC’s request that it be allowed to gather testimony and other evidence in the country on the grounds that ‘any investigation would contradict the policy of national reconciliation’.8 Justine Hunter regards the dismissal of a TRC-type inquiry as a failure of the Namibian authorities and enumerates a number of missed opportunities to challenge that country’s ‘wall of silence’, its barrier to full disclosure about the past. One of these was SWAPO’s failure to ‘come clean’ about its complicity in the deaths of SWAPO cadres in detention camps during exile. Another was its dubious role in the events of April 1989. Such conscious and convenient acts of forgetting were in keeping

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with the ruling party’s efforts to perpetuate amnesia in post-conflict Namibia.9 However, the ghosts of April 1989 would come back to haunt Namibians and South Africans upon the discovery of the mass graves in late 2005. It is somewhat surprising that the mass burials had been virtually forgotten in the intervening years given that contemporary visual imagery was vivid enough to evoke visceral reactions. These graphic images, which were disseminated in the print media, captured the stark horror of the aftermath of the killings. Examples are to be found in Willem Steenkamp’s illustrated history of the conflict published in 1990. The volume includes a grim shot of SWAPOL members digging a mass grave.10 Equally horrific are the photographs that show mortuary workers dumping the bodies of 133 PLAN combatants into a trench. The combatants had been killed during a firefight with South African security forces at Oshimbimbi and then left to rot in piles in the open before being buried at Uupindi, west of Oshakati on 8 April 1989. Figure 7.1 shows a stiff corpse with

Figure 7.1 Mass grave near Oshakati (John Liebenberg)

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outstretched limbs being lowered from a truck into a large pit. Its depiction of a lack of respect for the black body has evoked the image of the suffering and martyrdom of Christ and led to its being dubbed ‘The Crucifixion’. This image confirms that the South African security forces treated those captured and killed without a shred of dignity and in contravention of the rules of war. It was shot surreptitiously by John Liebenberg who then worked as a photojournalist for The Namibian. But it was the publication of the photograph in the Weekly Mail that caught the attention of the South African public at the time and caused readers of the liberal newspaper to recoil in horror. This and many more of Liebenberg’s photographs from his Namibian assignment have been recently reproduced in a large-format volume.11 Notwithstanding the passage of time, certain of these images are still capable of provoking an emotive response. This much was evident from the reaction to the reconstruction of some of Liebenberg’s images created by means of photographs of miniature tableaus or models manufactured by Christo Doherty and displayed as part of the exhibit called ‘Bos’.12 The breaking of the story about the (re)discovery of the mass graves occasioned a flurry of interest in South African print and social media. Participants in the events were tracked down by journalists and forced to field queries. When pressed on the matter, General Jannie Geldenhuys sprang to the defence of the defunct SADF and its good reputation. He ‘praised the discipline of the SADF and said that they [sic] would not have buried soldiers in mass graves’ as it was contrary to its code of conduct.13 He claimed that the SADF handed all SWAPO captives and bodies over to the police who were responsible for the disposal of corpses.14 Thus in defending the conduct of the SADF in the aftermath of the mass killings, Geldenhuys deflected attention elsewhere. Similarly, General Magnus Malan referred journalists who inquired about the mass graves to Martti Ahtisaari, the UN Secretary’s Special Representative in Namibia at the time, because he held that United Nations Transitional Assistance Group (UNTAG) was in charge of monitoring the ceasefire and the Namibian electoral process. Ahtisaari was equally keen to pass the buck and blame the South African security forces that he claimed were effectively in charge of the situation at the time. He denied that UNTAG had colluded in mass killings or been involved in the burial of combatants in mass graves under his watch.15 Nonetheless, contemporary reports reveal that the corpses of PLAN combatants were unceremoniously buried by SWAPOL personnel under the watchful eye of UNTAG.16 The apparent condonation of their actions by Ahtisaari provided sufficient justification of their conduct in their own eyes. However, this viewpoint was not shared by many others for the apartheid army, and its surrogates were

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usually regarded as the primary perpetrators of war crimes in Namibia. Indeed, spokespersons for the South African government insisted that the conduct of its security forces was judged by a different set of standards to that of SWAPO. The media coverage of the mass graves story in the Namibian media was, if anything, more low-key than in South Africa. As we have noted, SWAPO preferred to downplay the episode for fear of drawing unwanted attention to skeletons in its own closet.17 Still, SWAPO’s response to the discovery of the mass graves suggests that it was confident that it had far less to answer for in the court of public opinion than the South African security forces, and that the ruling party reserved the right to act as sole custodians of the country’s history. Initially, SWAPO had done nothing to honour those killed during the tragic events of April 1989. Thus no attempt was made to identify the bodies at the time. When asked whether the discovery of the mass graves warranted reopening inquiries about such grisly episodes from the past, SWAPO immediately ruled out the appointment of a truth commission on the grounds that it ‘would usher in a flood of compensation claims and lead to finger pointing’. It restated its default position, namely, commitment to national reconciliation implied not digging up the past.18 While treating the families of the victims of the killings with indifference, even callousness, SWAPO was not prepared to ignore an opportunity to score political points from the discovery of the mass graves. The organization sought to make amends for the postponement of public mourning for the dead by authorizing the reburial of the remains of PLAN soldiers at the site of the first grave. A national memorial or ‘shrine’ was erected to honour the ‘women and men who sacrificed their lives for the freedom of the country; who died while liberating Namibia from colonialism’.19 It was unveiled on 26 August 2007 to coincide with Heroes Day, an important date on the Namibian public calendar. The centrepiece of the memorial is a two-metres-high bronze statue of a female combatant holding aloft a Namibian flag. On either side of this figure are two plaques in the wall: one shows three armed combatants and the other three civilians taking ammunition and food to the combatants (see Figure 7.2). Thus the Eenhana Shrine acknowledges the contributions of civilians to the liberation struggle. According to Heike Becker, ‘[t]he visual recognition of the agency of civilians is a notable shift in the official Namibian memory culture, particularly as the creation of this site reinterprets the received [i.e. triumphalist] narrative by anchoring memory in the landscape’.20 This would seem to suggest that SWAPO’s narrative of liberation through ‘the barrel of a gun’ has been downplayed in public statuary. It also expressly recognizes ‘the heterogeneity of war-time experiences in the war zone’.21

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Figure 7.2 Eenhana Shrine showing female PLAN combatant (John Liebenberg)

Previously, SWAPO’s political leadership had focused on honouring exiles in rituals enacted on Heroes’ Day at the Heroes’ Acre Memorial on the outskirts of Windhoek.22 Such occasions were also used to remind Namibians of the Cassinga ‘massacre’ and the killing of innocents by the SADF.23 (see Chapter 5). SWAPO had invariably relied on the invocation of the trope of the freedom fighters ‘whose blood waters our freedom’ to rally political support.24 But now anonymous PLAN combatants were not placed on a pedestal in the pantheon of the liberation struggle; rather they were seen to have been dependent on the support of the local population in the northern regions. However, the commemoration of those who died in questionable circumstances served to deflect attention from blemishes on SWAPO’s human rights record and, more specifically, its dubious conduct during the April 1989 ceasefire. It also served to deflect attention away from troubling questions about the needless loss of life.

Flouting the rules: SWAPO’s violation of the 1989 ceasefire The United Nations became the de jure but not the de facto government of Namibia when the General Assembly revoked South Africa’s mandate in 1966. Subsequently, the UN declared South Africa’s occupation illegal and later, in 1973,

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declared SWAPO ‘the sole and authentic representative of the Namibian people’. This accorded SWAPO legitimacy and effectively recognized the liberation movement as the government-in-waiting. The UN was regarded with suspicion and hostility by the South African authorities on account of its perceived bias in favour of SWAPO. The apartheid state made its mission to create a viable opposition to SWAPO; a coalition that might thwart the liberation movement’s likely monopolization of power after independence. Thus it obstructed the implementation of United Nations Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 435 of 1978, which provided for UN-supervised elections in Namibia. Meanwhile, the war between the South African security forces and SWAPO dragged on for another decade. An American-brokered deal that linked the withdrawal of Cuban and South African forces from Angola, facilitated a ceasefire in Namibia.25 The Geneva Protocol of 5 August 1988 stipulated that UNSCR 435 be implemented to enable a cessation of hostilities between the warring parties (including SWAPO). It also provided for the stationing of SWAPO combatants north of the 16th parallel in Angola until such time as UNTAG personnel were in a position to supervise elections. This was followed by the New York Accords of 22 December 1988, which confirmed provisions for the deployment of SWAPO guerrillas to designated assembly points in Angola and South African security forces to bases in Oshivelo and Grootfontein. Although SWAPO was not a signatory to these agreements, Sam Nujoma agreed to abide by the ceasefire in correspondence to the UN Secretary General.26 However, UNSCR 435, which made provision for the ‘restriction of South African and SWAPO armed forces to base’, was subject to conflicting interpretations. In 1979 the UN Secretary General had stated that ‘Any SWAPO armed forces in Namibia at the time of the ceasefire will … be restricted to base at designated locations inside Namibia to be specified by the Special Representative after necessary consultation’.27 But the rider that ‘no party to a conflict may expect to gain, after a ceasefire, a military advantage which it was unable to gain prior to it’,28 amounted to a justification for the South African’s stance that PLAN bases in Namibia were ‘non-negotiable’. And Pretoria was adamant that it would not concede to SWAPO what it had not secured on the battlefield.29 A Joint Military Monitoring Commission (JMMC) was established to oversee the confinement of SADF units and its Namibian auxiliary, the South West African Territorial Force (SWATF) to bases, as well to ensure that SWAPO retired to positions 150 km north of the border. Certain COIN (counter-insurgency) units of the South West African Police (SWAPOL) were tasked to patrol the border.

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The date 1 April 1989 was fixed for the commencement of the ceasefire. Its terms stipulated that there should be no movement of armed forces across the Angolan-Namibian border until the next phase of the plan could be implemented. However, UNTAG’s delayed deployment meant that it did not have the means to provide surveillance of the border area nor to properly monitor the situation elsewhere in the country. UNTAG was reliant on the South Africans for information pertaining to SWAPO’s compliance with the ceasefire. But given that South African intelligence agencies were renowned for misrepresenting SWAPO’s intentions, the JMMC ignored SADF reports that PLAN guerrillas had approached the Namibian border before the end of March and were sceptical of charges that well-armed guerrillas had crossed the border in large groups after the 4 am deadline on 1 April. The reports stated that SWAPO had taken advantage of the ceasefire to ‘invade’ the northernmost parts of the country, instigate violence, intimidate the local population and establish a visible presence in the region. The South Africans insisted that SADF and SWATF troops confined to bases should be deployed to bolster SWAPOL units and repulse the ‘invasion’. The UN Special Representative, Martti Ahtisaari, was placed in an invidious position between having to choose between mobilizing security forces or risk the collapse of the ceasefire agreement altogether. Ahtisaari informed the Secretariat in New York that the guerrillas had technically breached the agreement but had entered Namibia ‘without hostile intent’ with the objective of establishing assembly points under the authority of UNTAG. The UN Secretary General then submitted a report to the Security Council in which he stated that the combatants were instructed to assemble in Namibia while avoiding engagement with South African security forces. Yet, Ahtisaari reckoned that a stand-off was not the solution. He believed that New York was out of touch with the situation on the ground in Namibia and that the emergency required immediate steps to resolve the crisis. Hence Ahtisaari took a decisive step, without prior approval of the UN Secretariat. He agreed to allow SADF and SWATF forces to support SWAPOL against the PLAN combatants who had violated the ceasefire agreement. UN Secretary General Perez de Cuellar later claimed to have authorized the decision to deploy South African security forces who were instructed to act with ‘utmost restraint’.30 A series of skirmishes that were amongst the most intense fighting in the history of the Namibian conflict raged along a 300 km frontier for nine days. In these vicious engagements, the South African security forces inflicted a heavy toll on the PLAN soldiers who had entered northern Namibia. One

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commentator reckoned that it was not so much a fight but a ‘turkey shoot’.31 According to SWAPO, its combatants were under strict orders to abide by the ceasefire and not to initiate any hostilities and they ‘fired only in self-defence after being hunted down and attacked’.32 Casualty figures confirm that it was a one-sided contest. It is estimated that more than 300 PLAN cadres and 26 from the ranks of the South African security forces died, with a considerable number of wounded on both sides.33 Few PLAN cadres were taken alive by the South African security forces. In fact, the security forces had no compunction about killing the ‘insurgents’; they seemed to relish the opportunity provided by a ‘last hurrah’. The settlement came perilously close to being scuppered until the Mount Etjo Declaration was signed on April 9 by South Africa, Angola and Cuba. It reinstated the ceasefire, confined the South African security forces to base and facilitated the PLAN guerrillas’ return to Angola through safe passages to UNTAG assembly points.34 SWAPO sought to create the impression that it had made a major concession when it agreed to allow its remaining combatants to be escorted across the border by UNTAG monitors. Its explanation for its concessions and conciliatory stance was unconvincing; its actions actually amounted to a face-saving gesture. Nujoma did not disclose that he had buckled to pressure from the Angolans and Cubans to adhere to the terms of the ceasefire agreement. Once a number of sticking points about the verification process were resolved, the implementation of UNSCR 435 was back on track. With SWAPO’s forces confined to bases in Angola north of the 16th parallel under UNTAG supervision, the parties reverted to the situation prior to the ceasefire.35 Its implementation was resumed in May when the UNTAG contingent reached its mandated strength.36 While SWAPO’s flagrant violation of the ceasefire did not derail the peace process entirely, it had calamitous consequences. The organization’s cadres were wantonly killed, its reputation was damaged and Nujoma was dealt a humiliating blow.

Enemies of a kind? SWAPO and the South African security forces Given the strength of the pro-SWAPO lobby and the organization’s standing in the UN,37 the knee-jerk response was to assume that South Africa was the villain of the piece (peace?).38 And because the South Africans were assumed to be in the wrong, the UN Special Representative was castigated in the media for

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daring to side with them and defying the wishes of the international community. However, Ahtisaari reckoned that his unpopular decision was necessary to salvage the ceasefire. When the blame game commenced with a vengeance, it became imperative to find scapegoats. South Africa and SWAPO pointed fingers at one another, as well as implicated UNTAG for its failure to act as an honest broker. Pretoria seized the opportunity to discredit SWAPO and deliver a body blow to its military capacity while making itself indispensable to UNTAG in the performance of its peace-keeping duties. This strategy was designed to improve the image of the South African government, which had for decades been subjected to international censure on account of its unwillingness to agree to the implementation of UNSCR 435. But South Africa might also have been impelled by pettier, vindictive motives. General Geldenhuys suggested that the South Africans chose to ‘stick their tongues out at the world community’ and to teach SWAPO ‘a final, useless lesson that they [would] never forget’.39 It is difficult to ascertain whether the egregious violence amounted to a meaningless orgy of bloodletting or whether it was a last-ditch attempt to sabotage the peace process. Whatever the case, the conduct of the South African security forces meant that they forfeited any claim to a moral high ground. Their parting shot in a 23-year-long war served to confirm that they were bowing out of the conflict but still had the capacity to mobilize a deadly force should SWAPO not play by its rules. SWAPO proved to be its own worst enemy during April 1989. It compromised its commitment to the spirit and the letter of the ceasefire, as well as UN mediation for achieving a lasting settlement in Namibia. Having previously enjoyed the unqualified support of the international community against the apartheid regime, SWAPO acted without regard to the consequences of its flouting of UN authority. Nujoma made a grave miscalculation when he instructed PLAN cadres to assemble in Namibia so that UNTAG might create or arrange bases for them,40 knowing fully well that UNSCR 435 made no provision for this. While an under-strength UNTAG contingent did not have the resources to enforce the terms of the ceasefire, it was not prepared to turn a blind eye to violations thereof. Nor did Nujoma count on Ahtisaari mobilizing the South African security forces against his men. In short, SWAPO’s calculated risk to test the ceasefire agreement backfired. The actions of both SWAPO and the South African security forces were confrontational when restraint was called for. SWAPO held that its guerrillas were in Namibia before the ceasefire deadline and therefore had not infiltrated

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the country. Even if it were conceded that they had crossed the border after the ceasefire, they could hardly be called ‘insurgents’ as PLAN had a well-established presence amongst, and enjoyed the support of, the Namibian ‘masses’.41 South Africa, for its part, expressed no objection to the return of SWAPO personnel and supporters provided they did so without arms and in the manner and time set out in the ceasefire agreement.42 The crux of the matter was that both sides wanted to be able to operate with military reserves in the build-up to the elections, or even to be in a position to seize control in the event that results did not go according to plan. Such contingency planning was to be backed by a ‘show of strength’.43 This reveals the mutual lack of trust between the parties and lack of faith in the UN as a mediator. Certain commentators have suggested that the SWAPO guerrillas that violated the ceasefire were ‘rogue’ units acting of their own volition without the authorization of the SWAPO hierarchy. However, the interrogation of two captives by UNTAG personnel suggested that PLAN cadres had been instructed by their commanders to test the ceasefire. They maintained that they had not taken the fight to the South African security forces but they had obviously been led to believe that they would encounter no resistance to their incursion.44 According to some sources, PLAN commanders, such as the late Dimo Hamaambo, Charles ‘Ho Chi Minh’ Namoloh and Martin Shalli, among others, had advised against Nujoma’s order to enter Namibia but that he had defiantly and recklessly enforced his decision.45 The most cynical charge levelled by SWAPO’s critics was that Nujoma deliberately dispatched armed combatants across the Namibian border with the knowledge that they would be killed by South African security forces because he wanted to eliminate dissident elements within PLAN that constituted a potential threat to his own power base.46 During the so-called ‘spy crisis’ some of these elements had been subjected to or witnessed torture, or had knowledge of those missing or unaccounted for from SWAPO camps and detention centres. As such, the ‘purge’ bore testimony to SWAPO’s Stalinist tendencies, and its potential for implosion.47 So SWAPO’s detractors called it a ‘suicide mission’ aimed at eliminating dissenters from within its ranks. Nujoma denied any responsibility for sending his soldiers to almost certain death. Instead, he blamed the South Africans whom he claimed had set a trap to ambush PLAN combatants. This presumes that the security forces had prior knowledge of SWAPO’s intentions and had manipulated the situation to obtain the desired result. It beggars belief that the security forces could call the shots when they were subjected to considerable constraints in terms of the ceasefire agreement.

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In his autobiography, Nujoma holds that the absence of UNTAG troops in the northern regions of Namibia gave the security forces carte blanche to indulge in a killing spree so as to eliminate as many PLAN soldiers as possible prior to their withdrawal from Namibia. He contends that there was a conspiracy orchestrated by South African foreign minister ‘Pik’ Botha to lure PLAN fighters into northern Namibia so that they could be massacred.48 In a later interview he went as far as to claim that Botha had hatched a plot with Ahtisaari, the South African appointed Administrator-General Louis Pienaar, and the visiting British prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, to weaken SWAPO prior to the 1989 elections.49 In a review of Nujoma’s autobiography, Christopher Saunders offers a more plausible explanation for SWAPO’s decision to cross the border despite the absence of a formal agreement permitting PLAN to have bases in Namibia once the ceasefire had commenced. It seems that he was acting on the advice of Robert Mugabe to seize the opportunity to establish a presence in northern Namibia under the noses of the South African security forces. Whereas ZANLA-PF had established a significant presence in the rural areas of Zimbabwe prior to that country’s ceasefire, PLAN had been unable to achieve anything comparable.50 SWAPO representatives, who insist that PLAN bases existed within Namibia prior to the ceasefire,51 would seem to want to equate arms caches with military strongholds. Notwithstanding SWAPO propaganda claims, PLAN had not been able to establish permanent bases since the elimination of Omgulumbashe in 1966. Nor were there any ‘liberated zones’ in Namibia.52 SWAPO had wished to strengthen its hand prior to the elections but actually shot its bolt. The most detailed study of the crisis of April 1989 is Peter Stiff ’s pro-South African account entitled Nine Days of War.53 But the title is something of a misnomer for it was not a war in which two more or less evenly matched sides battled; rather, it was a wanton slaughter by the South African security forces of hapless SWAPO combatants. Stiff ’s work has been called ‘advocacy journalism of the right’,54 and he had privileged access to SADF records and participants in the sorry saga. Stiff reckons that SWAPO’s violation of the ceasefire was an act of ‘treachery’ and alleges that the UN colluded with PLAN’s invasion of northern Namibia.55 And yet, somewhat contradictorily, he notes that the South African security forces acted under the authority of UNTAG when they were deployed against the SWAPO guerrillas. As far as he is concerned, the UN’s duplicity is matched by SWAPO’s treachery. Stiff argues that SWAPO was intent on seizing power in Namibia by force and thus rendering elections unnecessary. He charges that SWAPO is an inherently autocratic organization with no respect for democratic traditions or human rights. He castigates the Namibian liberation

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movement for its violation of the rights of dissidents and refugees. Here Stiff is in the unlikely company of human rights activists such as the Breaking the Wall of Silence (BWS) advocacy group and the Parents’ Committee who believe that there is solid incriminating evidence that during its exile years SWAPO condoned the torture and killing of detainees in its camps in Angola.56 The validity of these charges provides Stiff and other champions of the South African cause with corroborative evidence to discredit SWAPO’s human rights record. Another pro-South African ‘insider’ account of the events of early April 1989 is provided by Jannie Geldenhuys, who was then chief of the SADF.57 In the chapter of his memoir called ‘A Tragic Fiasco’, Geldenhuys notes that the JMMC refused to heed South African warnings that SWAPO was contravening the terms of the ceasefire prior to the ‘invasion’ of northern Namibia by 1,600 heavily armed insurgents. In support of his position, he cites the report of the US State Department that dubbed SWAPO the ‘transgressor’ and concludes that because Angola and Cuba had permitted the infiltration of insurgents into Namibia, they were guilty of the flagrant violation of the Geneva Protocol.58 But Geldenhuys rejects the argument that the JMMC was at fault for not performing its task adequately. Rather, he holds that the member states lacked the political will to maintain the peace and take the JMMC seriously.59 He presumably has the Angolans and Cubans in mind here because in terms of the ceasefire agreement, they were responsible for disarming PLAN cadres before they crossed the border at specially designated points established for the purpose. But if the Angolans and Cubans were remiss in not taking measures to prevent the infiltration of PLAN guerrillas after 1 April, they made amends once the Mount Etjo agreement was in place. Geldenhuys is surprisingly forgiving of his former enemies, namely Angola and Cuba, in making allowances for their mistakes but not quite so ready to excuse SWAPO for wilfully flouting the ceasefire.

The denouement of a ‘dirty war’ The mass killings of April 1989 marked the denouement of Namibia’s ‘dirty war’.60 The South African security forces did not confine their war against SWAPO to the battlefield but resorted to interference in the political process. According to the TRC, it adopted a multipronged strategy to ‘weaken and damage SWAPO and disrupt its electoral campaign’ following the implementation of UNSCR 435, and held that the breach of the April 1989 ceasefire was part of this strategy.61 It also argued that the SADF initiated the

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subsequent clashes with SWAPO in order to disrupt its preparations for the election campaign for the Constituent Assembly, a charge that Malan dismissed as ‘complete nonsense and factually incorrect’.62 While it seems unlikely that the South African security forces were responsible for the (temporary) collapse of the ceasefire, there is considerable evidence to show that the government continued its subterfuge after the fighting was over. Amongst other things, it financed the election campaigns of SWAPO’s opponents from a ‘slush’ fund, and employed front organizations such as Operation 435 to produce disinformation to discredit SWAPO leaders and destabilize the organization.63 The agencies that ran Operation 435 were answerable to the chief of the army but their projects were coordinated by central government. It aided Democratic Turnhalle Alliance (DTA)-aligned parties to try and prevent the liberation movement from obtaining a two-thirds majority in the November 1989 elections.64 Former foreign minister ‘Pik’ Botha admitted as much later.65 Botha was not as forthcoming about South Africa’s ‘dirty tricks’ at the time. Despite assurances by the South African authorities that Koevoet had been demobilized prior to the ceasefire, this was not exactly the case as elements of this COIN task force had been absorbed by SWAPOL.66 This subterfuge provided South Africa’s critics with ammunition to lambast its commitment to the implementation of the peace process. And claims that Koevoet was responsible for ‘terrorising the civilian population in the north’ were not without substance. Former Koevoet members remained within the ranks of regular COIN units until the Administrator-General succumbed to UN pressure and demobilized SWAPOL some six months after the cease fire took effect.67 Thus Koevoet cast a long and sinister shadow over the Namibian settlement.

Conclusion South African and SWAPO apologists produced diametrically opposed versions of the events that followed the ceasefire of 1 April 1989. Pro-South African accounts stressed that SWAPO had violated the ceasefire in order to take advantage of the withdrawal of security forces from bases in northern Namibia so as to lay claim to being an occupational force prior to the elections. According to this line of reasoning, SWAPO was intent on staking a claim to what they had been unable to win on the battlefield. For its part, SWAPO accused the security forces of killing its cadres who planned to surrender their arms to UN representatives and summarily executing those who were captured, as well

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as intimidating, assaulting and firing upon civilians in the ‘killing fields’ of Owamboland. Both sides claimed to have acted according to the provisions of UNSCR 435, which governed the ceasefire and subsequent disarmament of the warring parties, but neither adhered to its spirit. The deceased and wounded were unnecessary casualties of a war that was winding down; victims of two sides bent on gaining an advantage over the other in the run up to the Namibian elections. They were casualties of the political posturing by warring parties in the final days of the ‘Border War’ or Namibian War of Independence. Although SWAPO must bear considerable responsibility for the consequences of its ill-advised actions in flouting the terms of the ceasefire agreement so, too, must the South African security forces. But the latter’s war crimes and human rights abuses in Namibia described above should not blind us to the fact that SWAPO’s own record is tainted. Jonathan Dunnage warns us that ‘public reconstructions of the past according to victim–perpetrator/good–evil absolutes often fail to take account of the rather more blurred dynamics behind oppressive state rule and acts of atrocity’.68 This is equally true of (anti-)colonial conflicts and wars of national liberation. Neither the South African nor the SWAPO leadership was ‘innocent’; both had blood on their hands. Nor have they been held to account for this and other gross violations of human rights in Namibia. And the pursuit of reconciliation at the expense of justice has been compounded by the inability of South African courts to prosecute perpetrators for transnational war crimes. Thus there is still much ‘unfinished business’ with respect to the ‘Border War’, as well as the inextricably linked liberation struggle in South Africa. The failure to prosecute war crimes and human rights abuses has eroded faith in, and inhibited the resuscitation of, the judicial system in the new South Africa.69 And the blanket amnesty has compromised the competence of the courts in Namibia. In short, the denial or deferral of justice has consolidated rather than challenged the culture of impunity that existed in colonial Namibia and apartheid South Africa.

8

The Spectre of Vietnam: Lessons and Legacies of the Border War

The title of this chapter is prompted by a poster that suggests that South Africa’s war in Namibia was eerily reminiscent of Vietnam. It invokes the spectre of Vietnam. A spectre is a nightmare, a menacing vision in one’s imagination; an image that conjures up unwelcome and intrusive thoughts (Figure 8.1). For William V. Spanos, the spectre of Vietnam implies that the United States is haunted by its violence, bordering on genocide, that it committed against ‘the Other’.1 The inference to be drawn from the poster is that the South African

Figure 8.1 S.A.’s Vietnam (ECC Archives, University of the Witwatersrand)

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Defence Force (SADF)’s occupation of Namibia was analogous to the United States of America’s presence in Vietnam. The tattoo on the soldier’s arm would seem to suggest that SADF is the agent of death and destruction for Namibia and its peoples. The poster seems to proffer a portentous warning that the outcome would be the same for South Africa in Namibia as it had been for the United States in Vietnam: defeat and humiliation. The poster was produced for the End Conscription Campaign (ECC), an organization that opposed national service in South Africa during the 1980s. The ECC provided a support network for those conscripts who objected to the call-up on conscientious grounds and attempted to make the general public aware that the lives of the country’s young men were being sacrificed in support of the apartheid regime. Thus it is understandable why the artist would invoke Vietnam in voicing opposition to the Border War. For him or her, Vietnam probably symbolized the arrogance of power wielded by a wealthy, military superpower against a small, poor, colonized country. Rather remarkably, the Vietnam analogy was invoked by opinion makers in both the apartheid security forces as well as leaders of the liberation movements.2 Not surprisingly, they drew altogether different lessons therefrom. But it is worth asking why the leaders of armed formations repeatedly invoked the spectre of Vietnam. In this chapter, I will discuss how and why Vietnam has been referenced in military memoirs, histories and other writings about the Border War.

Analogies and metaphors The use of analogies often serves a heuristic or didactic purpose. They are the stock in trade of politicians and generals who seek to draw ‘lessons’ from the past and apply these to the shaping of policy.3 An analogy allows us to compare what is known about one domain, realm of experience or set of events with something similar.4 In the words of David Elliott, analogies ‘ … serve as a cognitive filter that transforms the unfamiliar into something recognizable and reduces complexity to manageable proportions’.5 Notwithstanding their utility, analogies have obvious limitations. We can understand a particular object, event or idea because it is like another but should be wary of making an inappropriate comparison between two unlike things. Two things may be analogous but they are not homologous, so our reliance on analogy creates distortions and misunderstandings. Thus there are always incongruities in analogies. Analogies are never perfect and admit both similarities and differences.

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Whereas analogies allow us to compare similar things, metaphors compare unrelated things that are drawn from distinctly different realms of experience. Analogies might be useful for finding historical precedents for new situations, but metaphors ‘provide an underlying intellectual construct for framing the situation, for viewing the world, an outlook which creates some degree of order and expectations’.6 In other words, metaphors offer a comparative frame of reference that helps understand something outside one’s previous range of experience or field of knowledge; they help to make sense of novel situations. This is especially the case when we do not have the necessary cognitive and linguistic tools to create new categories of meaning.7 A metaphor can provide a schema, a mental picture of something familiar that is invoked to make sense of something that is unfamiliar. In short, these figures of speech function as linguistic devices of domestication and cultural codification.

The lessons of Vietnam Following the departure of the Portuguese forces from Angola and Mozambique and the resultant collapse of part of South Africa’s cordon sanitaire, southern Africa became a ‘hot spot’ in the Cold War. The stakes were reckoned to be as high as in Southeast Asia. The 27 February 1976 edition of The Guardian newspaper commented, ‘If the watershed of history was Vietnam, the fatal blow to imperialism and Western capital at home itself could very well be in South Africa’.8 Many pundits expressed the view that southern Africa would succeed Vietnam as the epicentre of the Cold War.9 The South African government adopted an ideology similar to that of the United States, one that essentially justified its conduct as necessary to contain the spread of international communism and uphold Western civilization. It proved politically convenient to emphasize the communist or ‘red’ threat rather than being seen to be defending white supremacy. Apartheid’s defenders spoke of the ‘total onslaught’, an assault on the country by the twin threats of Soviet communism and African nationalism. For their part, American cold warriors invoked the domino theory to suggest that if communist expansion on foreign shores was not stopped, it would eventually come to threaten the United States itself. Although the rhetoric was different, both these discourses were shaped by political cultures suffused with strident anti-communism, an irrational fear of the Soviet Union and an obsession with security. Daniel Hallin noted, ‘The ideology of the Cold War was ideally suited to the reduction of this complexity [of the nature of the

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conflict]: it related every crisis to a single, familiar axis of conflict’.10 The prism of the Cold War allowed South Africa to justify its interventions in Angola and its occupation of Namibia by claiming that it was safeguarding vital Western interests. The West, for its part, often applied double standards when it refused to condemn the apartheid regime’s repression and discrimination for fear of alienating the regional superpower in the African sub-continent. James Sanders shows that American and British media were reluctant to condemn outright the country’s treatment of its black population because the West was convinced that South Africa was an indispensable ally in the war against communism.11 Soon after helicopters airlifted the last remaining US personnel and some South Vietnamese allies from the rooftops of Saigon in 1975, SADF troops invaded Angola in an attempt to prevent the MPLA (Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola) from establishing itself as the government in the country’s capital, Luanda. This intervention in Angola’s civil war (described in Chapter 3) in support of the FNLA (National Front for the Liberation of Angola) and UNITA (National Union for the Total Independence of Angola), was ostensibly to prevent SWAPO (South West Africa People’s Organisation) from establishing bases in the southern part of the country from where it might infiltrate Namibia. The SADF was intent on using Namibia as a buffer, as well as a forward base to launch attacks on SWAPO and its sister South African liberation movements operating from Angolan soil. But the SADF aborted Operation Savannah and withdrew its forces from Angola following the arrival of Cubans after Castro unilaterally decided to show solidarity with the MPLA government and support its armed forces in the face of the aggression by the racist apartheid regime.12 The South African decision was also informed by the withdrawal of American support, the condemnation of the OAU (Organisation of African Unity) and that of other bodies and nations. Additionally, the spectre of Vietnam preyed upon the minds of the SADF leadership. This is suggested by an observation of General Magnus Malan, then Chief of the Army, who notes that the decision to invade Angola in 1975 was not taken lightly as he was concerned that South Africa might create its own Vietnam if it did so.13 The SADF’s initial invasion of Angola was aborted because Malan and his confidantes harboured misgivings about the wisdom of military intervention. He concedes that Operation Savannah could have ‘drawn South Africa into a Vietnam-like situation which could have caused the country to bleed to death slowly’.14 Malan was possibly acquainted with the ‘slippery slope’ metaphor that was much debated in US military circles with respect to the Vietnam War: the argument that a relatively small commitment to provide military aid in support of a regime invariably makes it increasingly

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difficult for the sponsor state to extricate itself. It suggested, in other words, that there is no turning back once a certain course of action has been decided upon; a turn back might trigger a downward slide (in another prevalent metaphor from the era) into a quagmire. The provision of advisers, troops and matériel would necessarily have to be increased exponentially to make up for the inability of a puppet regime or surrogate force to fight its own battles. The weakness of the South Vietnamese regime and its army’s poor morale hindered the military effort. As US diplomat George Ball noted, ‘we failed not from military ineptitude but because there was no adequate indigenous political base on which our power could be emplaced’.15 If the Saigon regime owed its survival to Washington’s support, the administration in Windhoek was dependent on Pretoria for its very existence. The South Africans never managed to fashion a political opposition formidable enough to challenge SWAPO’s overwhelming support amongst Namibians. After Operation Savannah, the SADF consolidated its forces in Namibia (and was to occupy large swathes of Angolan territory intermittently during the next 12 or so years). From its bases in the northern parts of the country, the SADF conducted counterinsurgency operations that were informed by the lessons of Vietnam and other revolutionary wars. Some high-ranking personnel studied at American military institutions such as Fort Leavenworth.16 But in fact, the SADF brains trust was more enamoured with French COIN doctrine, drawn from their army’s experience in Indochina and Algeria.17 Lessons from these wars were set out in the course materials for the officer corps developed after 1977 at the Saldanha Military Academy, as well as training manuals produced for the troops.18 SADF generals believed that if the lessons of Vietnam and other revolutionary wars were learned then victory might be assured.19 The exiled African National Congress (ANC)20 leaders drew a similar conclusion to their SADF counterparts for diametrically opposite reasons. The ANC reckoned that they were capable of humbling a militarily powerful adversary like the apartheid state by adopting the strategy of a people’s war.21 The ANC delegation that visited Vietnam in 1978 came away with the distinct impression that too much emphasis had been placed on the armed struggle at the expense of political mobilization. The primacy of political imperatives in waging the armed struggle was given due recognition in The Green Book: Lessons from Vietnam (1979), which was published with the imprimatur of the ANC’s national executive committee.22 This blueprint for waging a protracted people’s war advocated, inter alia, restructuring its armed wing, Umkhonto weSizwe (MK) and forging a network of armed units that would ultimately constitute a

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people’s revolutionary army, improving MK’s military training programmes so as to enable it to mount attacks against security targets and the establishment, and stepping up propaganda and agitation. According to Anthea Jeffery, it mattered little to the ANC that the situation in Vietnam was very different from that pertaining in South Africa.23 However, a people’s war would compensate for MK weakness as it offered a way of defeating Pretoria politically without having to engage in a military confrontation that it had no hope of winning. But it was contended that a protracted and inconclusive warfare would undermine the apartheid regime’s public support. It has been asserted that the ANC never sought to defeat the South African security forces on the battlefield but gave priority to eliminating its political rivals, the other liberation movements.24 Similar claims have been made with respect to Vietnam. This line of argument commences with the assertion that the Vietcong (or National Liberation Front, NLF), the guerrilla army based in South Vietnam, was purposefully virtually eliminated as a fighting force by the North Vietnamese during the 1968 Tet Offensive. It is reckoned that the NLF were deliberately sent into battle inadequately trained and equipped to withstand American firepower, while the more formidable regular North Vietnamese Army (NVA) units were held in reserve. It is suggested that this tactic was pursued because the North Vietnamese feared that the Vietcong would not join the communist alliance but form an opposition grouping when the country was re-united. This argument has a number of flaws. If the Vietcong were virtually eliminated, it begs the question as to why the Phoenix Program that identified and removed VC cadres was deemed necessary. It also ignores the substantial evidence that the VC played a significant role in the liberation of South Vietnam during 1973–1975. As Peter Brush concludes, there is irrefutable evidence that ‘not only were the Vietcong not eliminated in 1968, they were an important component of Communist strategy right to the very end of the war’.25 The same can be said of the ‘comrades’. While not part of the ANC’s command structure, armed members of township street committees contributed to the armed struggle by making the country ‘ungovernable’. They formed themselves into militias that emulated MK strategy as they understood it.26 Realistic assessments of the prospects for armed struggle by MK leaders such as Ronnie Kasrils acknowledged that there was little hope of tanks trundling onto the streets of Pretoria as had been the case when the NVA overran Saigon.27 Yet, the anti-colonial struggle in Vietnam was an inspiration to the ANC leadership in exile, as well as cadres who infiltrated the country. When reflecting upon the significance of the visit by an ANC delegation to Vietnam

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nearly three decades earlier, then president Thabo Mbeki called Ho Chi Minh and General Vo Nguyen Giap inspirational leaders and strategists.28 And former MK combatant, Joseph Kobo, recalls entering South Africa via so-called Ho Chi Minh trails through Botswana, Rhodesia and other neighbouring states.29 SWAPO combatants also regarded the NLF as an example to be emulated and established a base in southern Angola that bore the southeast Asian country’s name. And PLAN’s Chief of Staff David Phillips Namholo adopted the nom de guerre ‘Ho Chi Minh’.30 South Africa’s politico-military leadership drew the salutary lesson from Vietnam that the national liberation movements in southern Africa were capable of mounting a relatively low-key but prolonged war of insurgency. Accordingly, the SADF sought to adapt lessons from Vietnam to suit the Namibian situation where PLAN proved a more formidable enemy than MK did in South Africa. However, it is doubtful whether the SADF developed and refined a thoroughly novel COIN doctrine.31 Its maxim was that the war was 20 per cent military and 80 per cent political and so soldiers were deployed in civic action programmes (or PSYCHOPs) designed to win the ‘hearts and minds’ of Namibians.32 Alongside its winning hearts and minds (WHAM) strategy, the SADF conducted counterinsurgency operations (COINOPs) that involved free fire zones, search and destroy missions and cross-border raids. The helicopter was the workhorse of the war although mobile armoured vehicles proved particularly effective in the SADF’s hot-pursuit operations against an enemy confined to foot. As with the US forces in Vietnam, the SADF measured operational success in terms of the ‘kill ratio’, which meant that the body count was invariably inflated on account of the need to impress or placate superior officers.33 SADF generals insisted that they had learnt from the mistakes of the Americans in Vietnam and that they had adapted their tactics accordingly. The SADF recognized the inefficiency of the rotational system employed by the Americans in Vietnam where troops were replaced after completing a 12or 13-month tour of duty.34 The practice reduced the likelihood of bonding between those ‘in country’. It also meant that each new intake only achieved maximum efficiency towards the end of their tours as low-intensity war involved a steep learning curve.35 The SADF sought to retain institutional knowledge and ensure operational continuity by implementing a system whereby troops were deployed in their units in the ‘operational area’ for three-month periods. Following their initial tour as national servicemen, SADF conscripts would be allocated to citizen force units, which would be mobilized regularly for stints in Namibia/Angola. Thus the SADF soldiers generally served for shorter periods

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but completed more tours of duty than their American counterparts. This implied there was not only more experience but also a greater age differential amongst the SADF troops than US soldiers in Vietnam.36 SADF apologists also claimed that their troops were tougher and more disciplined than the US forces in Vietnam. The decline in discipline and morale of the US armed forces in Vietnam followed President Nixon’s decision in 1969 to disengage and withdraw American ground combat units.37 Once it became apparent that winning the war was not the objective, US soldiers were not prepared to put their lives on the line needlessly and so survival became an end in itself. The breakdown in discipline and order was manifest in the increased incidence of substance abuse, a refusal to obey orders and the ‘fragging’ of unpopular officers and NCOs.38 There is no documentation of fragging in respect of the Border War. However, there is sufficient anecdotal evidence to suggest that the misuse of alcohol and drugs were commonplace in the SADF. The SADF’s (sometimes) exaggerated claims as to its efficiency were made to impress upon observers that it was capable of teaching both friend and foe a thing or two about unconventional warfare. Notwithstanding the SADF’s increasing confidence in its ability to combat ‘terrorism’, MK staged some successful ‘armed propaganda’ and spectacular sabotage operations against military and industrial targets. Whereas contacts between the SADF and MK were minimal, PLAN regularly infiltrated Namibia and engaged directly with South African forces and their auxiliaries.39 Although PLAN established a base temporarily at Omgulumbashe in the 1960s, it was unable to replicate guerrilla practices in Vietnam by developing liberated areas within Namibia.40 Initially, PLAN’s lines of communication and infiltration were lengthy as it operated from its Dar-es-Salaam headquarters but it later relocated to bases in Angola with the sanction of the MPLA government. Namibia’s subtropical climate, combined with the flat, sandy landscape dotted with thick mopani savannah did not offer much cover to guerrillas infiltrating into the country. The wet season (usually December to March) improved their chances of avoiding detection as the denser foliage providing a measure of concealment and rain erased tracks and provided drinking water. The ability of PLAN combatants to evade pursuing patrols in the semi-arid conditions won them the begrudging admiration of SADF soldiers. This was like the respect that American soldiers developed for NLF or Viet Cong guerrillas. For as Andrew Wiest notes, ‘praise of enemy forces in Vietnam makes perfect historical sense, for facing such stalwart American adversaries … makes America’s failure in its Vietnamese adventure somehow more palatable’.41 Whereas US forces found the environment hostile, their adversaries were at home in Vietnam’s jungles,

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elephant grass and rice paddies. The enervating climate did not sap the energies of NLF guerrillas as much as it did of the US forces. And their unwillingness to wage a protracted conflict without discernible military objectives meant that the greater firepower of the US soldiers over the NLF and NVA did not give them the edge. Nor could they match the resilience of the NLF and the NVA. In short, the US forces were primarily concerned with surviving their tours of duty in a distant land in a war for which they had little enthusiasm. Whilst some SADF soldiers could not understand the purpose of fighting and dying for a ‘strip of desert’, the contiguity of Namibia to South Africa gave some credibility to the argument that it was preferable to fight one’s enemy in a neighbour’s rather than in one’s own backyard. Nonetheless, SADF soldiers referred to Namibia/South West Africa as ‘Nam’ and to South Africa or home as ‘the States’ thereby implying that the war was not being fought to defend hearth and home. Indeed, the SADF troops saw through the fiction that they were protecting South Africa’s border and fully realized that they were fighting on foreign soil.42 The dehumanization of the enemy who were described in pejorative monosyllabic terms such as ‘gook’ by US forces in Vietnam or ‘terr’ by security forces in South Africa made it possible to treat them inhumanely. Photographs of the bodies of dead SWAPO guerrillas slung over the mudguards of military vehicles called Casspirs published by the independent press served to confirm that the SADF and its proxies – particularly Koevoet – paid no heed to the rules of war. What the South African authorities did not bargain on was that such actions were effective in destroying the myth of the soldier-hero or grensvegter (literally, ‘border fighter’) so carefully constructed by the media they regulated and controlled.43 The corollary of such dehumanization was that those brutalized responded with equally brutal behaviour and that this contributed to a cycle of violence in Vietnam and Southern Africa. As is already evident, the SADF was accused of atrocities, most notably the Cassinga ‘massacre’ (see Chapter 5) and the ceasefire violations (Chapter 7). The SADF followed the lead of the US military, which invented the euphemism ‘collateral damage’ to justify the killing of innocent civilians.44 This term implies that the immunity of non-combatants in modern warfare is a myth perpetrated by the US military for its record reveals a culpable lack of concern for victims’ lives and property.45 Yet the indiscriminate slaughter of non-combatants in the infamous My Lai massacre was regarded as an aberration rather than a consequence of the ‘pacification’ strategies pursued by US forces in Vietnam.46 In this instance, a junior officer became the ‘fall guy’ for his superiors. Although the SADF did charge a few of its personnel for heinous crimes such as murder

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and rape, in other instances reprehensible acts went unpunished because the president granted perpetrators immunity from prosecution for acts supposedly committed in ‘good faith’ in the line of duty.47 The SADF held that it observed the rules of engagement despite not officially being at war and that its code of conduct was strictly enforced in the ranks. However, South Africa did not ratify the 1977 additions to the Geneva Protocol that accorded captured ‘freedom fighters’ the status of POWs. It was believed that granting POW status to PLAN or MK cadres would have legitimated the insurgency. Instead, captured ANC and SWAPO cadres were treated as ‘terrorists’ and subjected to abuse and torture. Some were ‘turned’ and became askaris (collaborators). The use of torture, ostensibly for gathering intelligence, was an integral part of American and South African operating procedures.48 Although stories of the maltreatment of enemy soldiers and civilians have emerged in published accounts of the ‘Border War’,49 there has been reluctance on the part of SADF veterans to accept responsibility for such acts. Whereas at least 100 US veterans confessed to having committed or witnessed atrocities in Vietnam during the Winter Soldier hearings of 1971,50 there was no comparable admission of culpability by SADF generals or their foot soldiers before the TRC.51 Moreover, the SADF assumed no responsibility for the conduct of its proxies such as Koevoet and Battalion 32, both of which employed tactics such as impersonating PLAN cadres and committing atrocities so as to discredit SWAPO. Koevoet was a rogue unit that never conformed to COIN doctrines or the SADF’s WHAM programme.52 Its business was killing. Still, South Africa was able to secure immunity for any alleged atrocities its security forces may have committed, thereby protecting personnel from extradition to and possible prosecution by Namibian courts. Both the South African and American forces evinced a total disregard for the countries that they were occupying, as well as scant concern for its peoples. The US policy of ‘pacification’ implemented in the countryside was an endeavour to place the peasant population under the protection of the United States and Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) forces in order to prevent their villages from falling to the NLF. This frequently involved the forcible relocation of communities from their traditional lands into a more easily defensible compound in which they were dependent not on their own resources but US largesse for survival. This was exceptionally disruptive to the social fabric of Vietnamese society. Furthermore, the US forces and ARVN made extensive use of defoliants such as Agent Orange and incendiary devices such napalm and white phosphorescence to clear and destroy large areas of the natural habitat so

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as to prevent the NLF from hiding in areas where there was dense undergrowth. These acts did long-term damage to the environment, including the polluting of valuable water supplies. The US Air Force also carried out a systematic and prolonged campaign of area or carpet bombing that destroyed vast tracts of land and reduced agricultural production, crippled infrastructure and left tens of thousands of Vietnamese homeless. In fact, the USAF dropped more ordnance on Indochinese targets from the mid-1960s to the mid-1970s than on European and Japanese cities during World War II, and killed more people in the process.53 General Jannie Geldenhuys’ claim that ‘Namibia and South Africa bore almost no scars of war’54 is almost as perverse as the twisted logic of (the apocryphal?) statement attributed to an unidentified US officer in Vietnam who reckoned that his forces had to destroy the village of Ben Tre in order to save it.55 The casualties in the southern Africa region might not have approached the millions killed in Vietnam and neighbouring states, but the SADF inflicted enormous damage and caused considerable physical destruction, social dislocation and psychological trauma to its inhabitants. The South African Air Force (SAAF) used alpha bombs but made sparing use of napalm and chemical weapons.56 It had a small nuclear arsenal of only six bombs, which it developed for deterrent purposes but never utilized.57 Whilst weapons of mass destruction were not deployed in either southern Africa or Southeast Asia, the myriads of mines laid during these conflicts continues to inflict harm upon communities in these regions. Before 1969, the ARVN was little more than an adjunct to US forces. As such, it was dependent on US firepower and leadership instead of developing its own capabilities.58 With the adoption of a policy of ‘Vietnamization’, the US scaled down its own troop levels and accorded the ARVN greater responsibility for preserving the Saigon regime. However, the ARVN could not shoulder the burden of war alone and so the VC and NVA quickly overran its positions once US ground forces were withdrawn in1973. The South African government resorted to the ‘Namibianization’ (or indigenization) of the war not for the purpose of disengaging but for bolstering its fighting capacity by co-opting the local population. This involved introducing conscription in Namibia in 1980 and the establishment of the South West African Territorial Force (SWATF) whose members were 70 per cent black.59 The SADF preferred not to deploy large numbers of its troops and equipment at any one time by avoiding largescale engagements with the Angolan and Cuban forces and by ‘outsourcing’ much of its fighting to surrogates such as UNITA. The government simply could not afford to sustain high levels of casualties, especially amongst conscripts for fear of alienating its white constituency. Nor did it have the extensive resources

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and arsenal of the United States. The cost of waging the war became increasingly prohibitive as the SADF was forced to match the quality of Soviet-supplied weapons to the liberation movements and ‘frontline states’.60 For the most part, the Great Powers remained on the sidelines of the conflict in Angola/Namibia. The Soviet Union supported the MPLA government with arms and advisors but was seldom drawn into the fighting.61 The Cuban troops that augmented the fighting capacity of FAPLA seldom engaged with the SADF until the final phase of the war. Although the Soviet Union and the Eastern bloc countries backed southern Africa’s Marxist governments and national liberation movements ideologically, diplomatically, strategically and militarily, Shubin and Traikova insist that the ANC was not a Soviet ‘proxy’ or ‘task force’.62 Since South Africa regarded the Soviet Union as the main enemy, it courted the United States’ favour in combating Soviet expansionism. And it was precisely because South Africa sought validation for its actions by way of American approval that it nursed a strong resentment when this was not forthcoming. So when the United States withdrew its clandestine support of the SADF’s invasion of Angola in 1975 and subsequently passed the Clark Amendment Act, relations became strained. Successive US administrations deflected pressure brought to bear against the apartheid state on the economic, cultural and diplomatic fronts and rendered little direct military aid (while France, the United Kingdom, Taiwan, Israel and some Latin American dictatorships ignored United Nations’ arms embargoes). South Africa’s relations with the United States subsequently improved as a result of the Reagan administration’s policy of ‘constructive engagement’, although the United States could not be seen to be endorsing the former’s oppressive racist policies.63 Still, the United States condoned the apartheid regime’s obduracy in finding a political solution to the impasse in Namibia during the 1980s and turned a blind eye to the apartheid regime’s destabilization of its neighbours. US support was arguably at least partly responsible for offsetting some of the effects of disinvestment and sanctions, but nonetheless South Africa’s economic and manpower resources were stretched to the limit by the Border War. There can be little doubt that South African society was far more thoroughly militarized during the 1970s and 1980s than was the United States in the Vietnam War era. Still, American society has been infused with − even dominated by − military culture, values and goals and might be termed a garrison state.64 South Africa, too, has been described as a garrison state on account of the growth of the security establishment during B. J. Vorster’s premiership and his successor (and later president) P. W. Botha’s leadership.65 The articulation of Botha’s ‘total strategy’ gave the securocrats who controlled the National Security Management

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System that sanctioned the illegal activities of the SAP, SADF and other agencies of the state the means to subvert the legislature and exercise control of the executive.66 Almost imperceptibly, socialization in the homes, churches and schools bred conformity that caused white males and their families to accept national service as a rite of passage and regard ongoing military duties (such as camps) as a necessary price to pay for upholding white power and privilege. In the United States a disproportionate burden of bearing arms in Vietnam was the lot of minority groups who did not have the same stake in the system as South Africa’s white ruling elite did in theirs. This group apparently suffered three times more casualties than did Americans in Vietnam as a proportion of the total population.67 Both the South African and US governments were wary that high casualty rates would become politically unsustainable. Neither the United States nor South Africa could afford to sacrifice their ‘men in uniform’ to the extent that their respective enemies were prepared to do.68 In South Africa opposition to conscription gained some purchase from the mid-1980s as the demands made by the state on the cohort of young white males increased exponentially. Foremost amongst the groups that articulated opposition to the compulsory call-up was the aforementioned ECC that provided moral and legal support primarily for conscientious objectors. Opposition to the war grew despite attempts by the government to obfuscate the extent of the casualties sustained by the SADF and its allies. But it was the deployment of troops in the townships to crush insurrection thereby implying that ordinary black people were the ‘enemy’ that catalysed opposition to conscription and increased the numbers of citizen force members who ignored call-ups for camps. Although its relatively small size meant that the ECC remained a peripheral pressure group, attempts to suppress it suggest that the government feared disruption of the national service system.69 By comparison, American anti-war movements were able to mobilize growing numbers against the draft and these included many veterans who joined organizations such as Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW). The Vietnam War became increasingly unpopular after the media exposure of the Tet offensive revealed that a US victory was neither imminent nor certain.70 But contrary to Gretchen Rudham,71 I do not believe that the ‘Border War’ was ever as unpopular amongst South Africa’s (white) electorate as Vietnam was amongst its American counterpart. Opposition to the Vietnam War coalesced across many sectors of society once it became apparent that the US government and military spokespersons were deliberately manipulating and falsifying official news releases. The disjuncture between official statements released by the military and State Department

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officials and what the media, and hence the public, believed to be the situation on the ground became a yearning one. It has been suggested that the most dispiriting lesson of Vietnam for Americans was discovering that their trust in government was so thoroughly violated.72 The South African government also abused the trust of its citizens by not taking them into its confidence about the extent of its military operations, as well as its subterfuge and ‘dirty tricks’. The credibility gap was evident not only to informed observers, but also to the SADF soldiers on the ground. The story of SADF troops in Angola listening with incredulity to broadcasts of statements by a government spokesperson who denies their presence in that country has become part of the lore of the ‘Border War’ and has featured in novels.73 While some chose to believe the official li(n)e, others were understandably sceptical of SADF statements and press releases, which spun a web of disinformation. Unlike the Vietnam War, media coverage of the Border War was censored. The South African news ‘blackout’ of the Angolan invasion of 1975–1976 was exposed by foreign journalists. And when the story broke, an attempt was made by the government to cajole local newspaper editors to agree not to publish disclosures that did not emanate from official sources.74 Invoking the cause of national security, the state restricted access to information, while disinformation and propaganda was fed to a gullible public. The SADF had its own mouthpiece in the magazine Paratus, but the government also used slush funds to establish front organizations that published newspapers such as The Citizen and periodicals like To the Point to propagate its agenda. The mainstream media − the Afrikaans and English press, as well as the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC), which monopolized radio and television broadcasts − lent their unqualified support to the SADF as the provider of security and stability in the country, but was uncertain or ambivalent about the legitimacy of its operations in Angola or Namibia. In order to compensate, the SADF attempted to win over independent local media by inviting carefully vetted (photo)journalists and military correspondents to visit SADF units in the operational area. These journalists were more like their ‘embedded’ counterparts in the Gulf Wars than those who operated outside of military strictures in Vietnam. The mistaken lesson learned by the apartheid regime from the Vietnam War was that unrestricted media coverage of war could undermine public support for the war effort.75 In fact, South African censorship fuelled rumour-mongering and undermined civilian morale and support for the fighting in Angola and Namibia.76 In the case of Vietnam, there was no denying the American presence but there was an equal degree of official mendacity.77 American media might have created greater

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awareness of the situation, even contributed to the growth of opposition to the war, but it alone was not responsible for erosion of public support for the war. Nonetheless, former president Nixon expressed a commonly held view when he stated that ‘Vietnam was lost on the political front in the United States and not on the battlefield in Southeast Asia’.78 According to this view, the media served as a fifth column for the enemy and undermined the American will to fight although it won most of the engagements on the battlefield. Thus the media became a convenient scapegoat for the first loss that the US armed forces suffered in their history. But the media did not determine the outcome of either the Vietnam or the Border War.

The aftermath of lost wars The ignominious defeat suffered by the United States in Vietnam damaged its standing in the international community and its status as a superpower. This setback led to a reluctance of the United States to interfere in the domestic affairs of other countries where the administration reckoned that its national interests were at stake. But as much as the ‘Vietnam syndrome’ occasioned a paralysis of diplomatic and/or military power, there was no accompanying domestic political crisis or upheaval. The ‘fall’ of South Vietnam also revealed the fallacy of the domino theory for neighbouring Southeast Asian states did not collapse to communism in rapid succession (although Cambodia was overrun by the Khmer Rouge, the genocidal Pol Pot regime). In the southern African subcontinent the withdrawal of the SADF from Angola and then Namibia, and the implementation of UN Security Council Resolution 435 was no less dramatic especially as it occurred in tandem with the end of the Cold War. It also set in motion a sequence of events that culminated in a ‘ceasefire’ and a relatively peaceful political transition in South Africa. The majority of the white electorate embraced – albeit with some trepidation – the dismantling of the apartheid edifice. But President F. W. de Klerk was regarded by right-wingers as having betrayed the Afrikaner and/or white ‘nation’, especially after he purged the SADF for its apparent involvement in ‘third force’ activities.79 And they insisted – with some justification − that the SADF was undefeated or had been betrayed by spineless politicians. Whilst it is true to say that the SADF never really engaged with MK in battle as the latter was never able to wage anything more than a low-key war of insurgency, there can be little doubt that the result was a political victory for the ANC.

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As with the Vietnam War, there has been something of a ‘silence’ or selective amnesia with respect to the Border War. I have argued elsewhere that the exclusion of the Border War from public discourse can be partly ascribed to the desire to construct a consensual past and new national identity; to the displacement of the divisions of apartheid by a desire to make the ‘miracle’ of the negotiated revolution work.80 However, this silence is gradually being eroded and former SADF conscripts are finding their voices although they obviously do not speak as one. This much was evident in the controversy that followed Freedom Park trustee’s decision to omit the names of SADF veterans from the site’s Wall of Names discussed fully in Chapter 9. This ‘crisis of commemoration’ echoes the tensions that followed the erection of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. in 1982. Whilst the American memorial Wall has arguably done much to heal the wounds of the Vietnam War by affording veterans and the families and loved ones of those killed in the war a site at which to mourn their losses,81 in South Africa the commemoration of the Border War remains an unresolved issue. SADF veterans reckon that they have been unfairly treated, even ostracized by the ANC government and many have come to see themselves as ‘victims’. In this regard, they are not unlike their US Vietnam veterans who have been transformed from villains to victims in the American public imaginary. The demobilization and reintegration of soldiers from the SADF and liberation movements into the new South African National Defence Force (SANDF) has been a fraught process. Ex-combatants, especially from the ranks of the non-statutory forces, are poorly regarded by the majority of the public, whose image of them tends to be stereotypically negative.82 Their reputation for being prone to violence and using military skills and weapons in criminal activities is as a result of publicity given to a few high-profile cases involving ex-combatants. Their participation in strike action protesting their terms and conditions of employment furthered public perceptions that the SANDF was ill-disciplined and did not conduct itself in a manner befitting soldiers. But such stigmatization of all veterans is underserved. Similarly, US Vietnam veterans were unfairly portrayed by the media as dysfunctional ‘outcasts’ and ‘psychopaths’, or inveterate drug addicts.83 They returned home to find that their nation, and even their own families, had disavowed them and were blaming them for the war that went awry. The scapegoating of the veteran absolved the American public of complicity in the ‘bad’ war and allowed the narrative of American military power to stand.84 American and South African societies are still counting the costs of the psychological damage incurred by their soldiers in their respective wars. In

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the United States, veterans were initially obliged to repress rather than come to terms with traumatic memories. Vietnam veterans’ combat stress and trauma was only belatedly recognized when PTSD became a diagnostic category in 1980.85 Acknowledgment of the work of the mental health profession and a changing political climate contributed to the rehabilitation of the Vietnam veteran. By contrast, little professional counselling has been available to excombatants from the ranks of both the statutory and non-statutory forces in post-apartheid South Africa. The TRC recognized the need to address this issue but neither it nor the veterans’ associations have the resources to provide such services. Some SADF veterans have ‘discovered’ PTSD and with it, the language to tell their stories in print and social media (see Chapter 4). There is much talk of the need for closure in the case of those suffering from trauma, as well as for the suturing of the country’s wounded body politic. Whereas Vietnam has arguably left a scar that binds US society,86 the legacy of South Africa’s Border War is still inflamed.

Conclusion The Vietnam War now exists as a lesson rather than an historical event. The analogy has been invoked by virtually every US administration since the end of that war. During the 1980s and 1990s the US military held that the war there had been lost because of political interference and constraints on its conduct of the war.87 When in 1990 President George H. W. Bush invoked the Vietnam analogy at the time of the Operation Desert Shield, he and his advisors reckoned that the United States had lost the war in Vietnam because previous administrations had lacked the political will to see the conflict through to its end. According to David Greenberg, ‘Vietnam helped convince them that America had to deploy armed force around the world more often and with fewer qualms. The exercise of American might could not only achieve diplomatic ends but also dispel the debilitating shame of Vietnam’.88 And after the expulsion of Iraqi forces from Kuwait, Bush proclaimed that ‘the spectre of Vietnam has been buried forever in the desert sands’ and that the United States had kicked the Vietnam syndrome once and for all.89 Whereas the lessons of Vietnam chastened Cold Warriors and tempered US foreign policy ambitions for close on two decades, the first Gulf War convinced the government that ‘the only cure for that long-ago defeat is yet more war’.90 So armed with the pretext of destroying Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction, President George W. Bush sanctioned the overthrow of Saddam

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Hussein’s regime. But when the American-led occupation forces failed to ‘pacify’ Iraq and establish a functional democracy, commentators and pundits once again invoked the spectre of Vietnam.91 Thus there can be no doubt that Vietnam still casts a shadow over US foreign/military policy decision-making. While the spectre of Vietnam might have influenced the apartheid state to forsake its colonial ambitions and nuclear aspirations, it has not obviously influenced the decision-making of South Africa’s post-apartheid diplomats. Indeed, South Africa has recognized that it has no enemies in a post–Cold War world, down-scaled its armed forces and sought its security in membership of the community of nations. Still, the Vietnam analogy certainly framed perceptions about the ‘Border War’. Although lessons were drawn from a war outside of the South African experience, they were thought to hold instructive parallels by both sides involved in the conflict. This is a good illustration of the workings of David Rothberg’s theory of multidirectional memory, which reveals memory as a process of ‘ongoing negotiation, cross-referencing and borrowing’.92 His concept is not far removed from that of Levy and Sznaider’s cosmopolitan memory93 for both describe how a collective memory of trauma transcends its directly affected community by being mediated to and appropriated by others. Rothberg decouples the process from the Holocaust and applies it to other atrocities of modernity. I would want to go one step further and suggest that this process need not be confined to traumatic memories but holds good for any interchange between global and local memory regimes.

9

The Freedom Park Fracas: Commemorating and Memorializing the ‘Border War’

Previous chapters have shown that every war is fought twice: militarily and then discursively. The ‘war of words’ or discursive struggle tends to be particularly acrimonious following civil wars. Inasmuch as the ‘Border War’ was the counterpoint of the war of liberation, or part of the apartheid wars that beset the southern African region in the 1970s and 1980s, it can be regarded as a civil war. Notwithstanding the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the legacy of this conflict remains divisive. Contestations over the meaning and memory of the war have manifested themselves in a number of ways. These include tensions during the integration of the South African Defence Force (SADF) and the armed wings of the liberation movements (see Chapter 10) and a commemorative crisis that followed the erection of the Freedom Park memorial to honour heroes and heroines of the liberation struggle. A fracas followed the decision of the Park’s trustees to omit the names of deceased SADF soldiers from the Wall of Names. This chapter examines how Freedom Park became the site of struggle between self-styled representatives of SADF veterans and cultural elites of the post-apartheid order. It suggests that this controversy exemplifies the functioning of memory politics in transitional societies. Memorials serve as significant markers of post-colonial society’s (re)construction of its past. This is evident from Richard Werbner’s critique of the memorialization of the liberation struggle in Zimbabwe. In developing his notion of a ‘postcolonial memorial complex’ in respect of the Heroes Acre site in Harare, Werbner questions the privileged place accorded to the struggle narrative in the war memorial.1 The narrative constructed by the leadership of the ruling party serves to define the nation and becomes part of the official history of the new nation-state. Heroes Acre on the outskirts of Windhoek serves much the same purpose in Namibia.2 However, the commemoration of the liberation

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struggle in post-apartheid South Africa exemplified by Freedom Park does not mimic the Zimbabwean and Namibian models of remembrance. Whereas the governments and ruling parties of Zimbabwe and Namibia considered it wiser or more expedient to pursue a policy of reconciliation that does not stir up past conflicts,3 South Africa’s TRC favoured an approach that investigated and constructed a record of human rights violations. Although those who fully disclosed their involvement in politically motivated human rights abuses were granted amnesty, the TRC’s findings were deemed to have vindicated the conduct of the liberation armies at the expense of the security forces. Instead of promoting reconciliation and unity, the process of memorialization has become divisive. This will be illustrated by reference to the counter-memorials that have been erected to honour those who served in the SADF after the trustees of the state-sponsored Freedom Park memorial project declined to do so. My approach to memorialization is informed by Annie Coombes’ seminal study of memorials and museums in which she examines the tensions inherent in narratives of belonging in the imagined community of the South African nation and whether these can (and should) be resolved.4 It also owes something to Sabine Marschall’s exploration of the ANC government’s strategy of juxtaposing new memorials with existing colonial and apartheid-era monuments so as to ‘counter’ the commemoration of a singular version of the past.5 By reference to a controversy that erupted over the flagship memorial project, Freedom Park, it will be shown that the relationship between reconciliation and nation building is a fraught one. Memorialization is often a highly charged political process that leads to contestation between competing interpretations of past events. This contestation, in turn, raises questions that should concern us: who gets to claim ownership of the past and, in particular, the narrative of the liberation struggle/ Border War, and who gets to define the nation in post-apartheid South Africa? This chapter explores these and related issues.

A forgotten memorial? The SADF memorial at Klapperkop The apartheid regime erected a monument to pay tribute to those who lost their lives in defence of the Republic of South Africa.6 A twice-life sized statue of an infantryman7 was erected on a hill called Klapperkop south of Pretoria (now Tshwane). It is situated at the entrance of Fort Klapperkop, a military museum that houses artefacts of the South African War (1899–1902). Unveiled on 31 May 1979 by the then prime minister and minister of defence and security, P. W. Botha,

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the memorial includes a realist statue of a soldier in a combative posture that resembles the design of war monuments the world over (Figure 9.1). The site became the locus of regular Republic and Remembrance Day memorial parades. On one such occasion, Botha admonished the audience with these words: … if you become faint hearted, and if you become tired, and if you are filled with despair, go to Pretoria, to Fort Klapperkop, and look at the simple statue of a soldier in combat uniform who gazes far over the horizon of the future, and look at the symbol of that monument which looks to the future and not the past, with faith in the Lord and with the knowledge that civilization must triumph.8

The equation of white society with civilization was commonplace in the rhetoric of the apartheid regime, and the invocation of God’s name was a feature of Calvinist-inspired Afrikaner nationalism. Nonetheless, it was no guarantee of victory. Indeed, as the conflict dragged on ceremonies staged at the site by the SADF failed to reproduce the ritual of national self-sacrifice in apartheid South Africa that was necessary to legitimize the war effort. The absence of reaffirmation had a deleterious effect on public morale and memory. For as James Mayo argues, ‘Memorials lose the forcefulness of their meaning when past wars

Figure 9.1 Fort Klapperkop Statue of Uniformed Soldier (Dudley Baines)

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and events are forgotten. A nation may cherish the memory of a particular war, but when persons and places are forgotten their monuments are not preserved and honour rituals are no longer held.’9 The memorial site on Klapperkop also includes a series of walls with the names of deceased soldiers inscribed on slate plaques affixed thereto. Nearly 2,000 names are inscribed on these plaques (Figure 9.2).10 At annual Remembrance Day parades prior to 1994 tributes were paid to these soldiers, as well as to those who lost their lives in the Korean and World Wars. However, since the transition the site has been seldom used for official ceremonies. During a 2003 visit to the site, I spotted a solitary wreath and gained the impression that the memorial had been neglected. In fact, the status of the Klapperkop memorial has diminished since the integration of the statutory and non-statutory armed forces into the South African National Defence Force (SANDF). A wreath-laying ceremony in 2005 was designed to ease tensions between former enemies, the SADF and UmKhonto we Sizwe (MK) and the Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA), the armed wings of the ANC and PAC, respectively. This symbolic gesture was an attempt to find common ground and ‘bury the hatchet’.11 However, the ceremony did little to heal rifts in

Figure 9.2 Fort Klapperkop Memorial Wall (Dudley Baines)

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the ranks of the SANDF. And the choice of site for the ceremony – Freedom Park rather than Klapperkop – suggested that the latter had been rendered virtually invisible notwithstanding its elevated position on the Tshwane landscape. It has become a forgotten memorial to an undeclared war.

Site of struggle: Freedom park’s wall of names The Truth and Reconciliation Commission suggested that there should be some form of symbolic reparations for those who suffered during the apartheid years. According to the TRC Report, symbolic reparations are those that aid in ‘the communal processes of remembering and commemorating the pain and victories of the past’.12 To this end, it proposed a memorial site that would enable visitors to come to terms with South Africa’s divided history by providing a place where people could not only mourn the loss of the loved ones who died in various conflicts, but also celebrate the victory of democracy and freedom. In short, the site would enable the public to remember the struggle for humanity and freedom. Consequently, Freedom Park was commissioned. Freedom Park has been described as ‘a major landmark that is reshaping and enhancing the skyline of the capital city’.13 Erected upon Salvokop south of Pretoria’s CBD, it was deliberately juxtaposed with the nearby Voortrekker Monument, which was erected to commemorate the centenary of the Great Trek and celebrates Afrikaner nationalism’s heyday.14 With a budget in excess of R700 million, Freedom Park is one of the most ambitious Legacy Heritage projects championed by the Mbeki presidency in terms of the National Heritages Resource Act No. 25 of 1999.15 As a state-funded memorial site, Freedom Park is dedicated to fostering a sense of national identity. Its mission statement commits the project to ●

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provide a pioneering and empowering heritage destination in order to mobilize for reconciliation and nation building in our country; reflect upon our past, improve our present and build our future as a united nation; contribute continentally and internationally to the formation of better human understanding among nations and peoples.16

The Freedom Park Trust not only derived its mandate from the TRC but also followed its lead in adopting the notion of ubuntu as the foundational formula for an integrated nationalism.17 Ubuntu is an invented tradition and type of cultural

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essentialism that seeks to minimize the historical fault lines in South African society. It is a synthesis of African philosophy that stresses a common humanity and Christian theology that emphasizes the need for forgiveness as a prerequisite for reconciliation. Championed by (former Archbishop) Desmond Tutu who coined the phrase ‘rainbow nation’ to describe the nascent nation in the postapartheid period, ubuntu became the cornerstone of the nation-building project. Nationalism is an ideology of integration that serves to exclude those that can be defined as ‘different’ as much as it unites those who share commonalities.18 Notwithstanding the Africanist cultural nationalism promoted by President Mbeki, the trustees of Freedom Park conceived of the nation in inclusive terms. According to a statement on its website, the project was committed, inter alia, to ‘foster a new national consciousness’ and to ‘play a primary role in healing our nation’s wounds by uniting the diverse peoples of South Africa’.19 In order to promote such goals, the Park hosted ritualistic cleansing ceremonies that symbolically ‘purified’ traces of the country’s divisive past. Freedom Park’s 52-hectare site includes Sikhumbuto (siSwati for ‘those who have passed on’), a commemorative compound designed to showcase the spirit of the nation and ensure that the history represented is based on the principles of redress and corrective action.20 The precinct comprises indoor features such as the Gallery of Leaders, and a Sanctuary with an eternal flame. The outdoor features comprise an Amphitheatre and the Wall of Names. The latter is actually a series of inter-connected walls nearly 700 m in length and reaching at least 6 m in height in parts (Figure 9.3). The walls make provision for listing the names of the fallen who died during the conflicts that shaped present-day South Africa. These are enumerated as follows: ●

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Pre-colonial wars Genocide Slavery Wars of Resistance South African Wars (first and second Anglo-Boer Wars) World War I World War II The Liberation Struggle

It is envisaged that some of the lists of names will only be representative of those who died in these conflicts but that others will be as definitive as possible.21

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Figure 9.3 The Wall of Names, Freedom Park (Gary Baines)

Space is provided for the inclusion of 136,000 names on the walls. At the time of my 2008 visit to the site, 75,000 names had been verified for inclusion on the walls. Space has been allocated for some 5,000 names of (deceased) ‘heroes and heroines of the liberation struggle who laid down their lives for freedom’.22 The Freedom Park Trust made an appeal for the nomination of names to be included on the Wall of Names as part of a public participation process.23 Interpreting the directive to include SADF soldiers who died in combat during the apartheid era, veterans’ organizations submitted the names of fallen comrades to the Trust. They sought to have these names included in the wall’s roll of honour. However, the Trust summarily rejected these submissions.24 This perceived sleight caused a controversy that was further fuelled by the intervention of Afriforum, a lobby group that took up the issue on behalf of some of these veterans. Together with its sister organization, the trade union Solidarity, Afriforum serves as a watchdog for the protection of minority group rights.25 Afriforum has repeatedly accused the ANC government of deliberately undermining the rights of white Afrikaners. It has opposed measures such as affirmative action that are regarded as being designed to marginalize its constituency. Yet, its assertion of an exclusive white Afrikaner identity sits

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uneasily with its demand for recognition of their contribution to the making of the new ‘rainbow’ nation. These countervailing imperatives serve to reinforce the fault lines in society at large, as well as in the ranks of the SANDF. In fact, little headway was made in respect of accommodating all stakeholders and special interest groups who put forward suggestions as to who should be included on the Wall of Names. In January 2007, Afriforum made further representation on the matter to the Freedom Park Trust.26 This time it requested that additional concerns be addressed. It asked for recognition of the fact that the innocent civilians and security force members who died as a result of ANC ‘terror attacks’ should be acknowledged as victims of the liberation struggle. This effectively sought to broaden the base of those deserving of tribute to all who could lay claim to have suffered in some way or another from the violence of the country’s conflicts. Afriforum also objected to the proposal to include the names of Cuban soldiers who died in Angola fighting the SADF on the grounds that they were fighting for communist world domination and not freedom.27 The CEO of Freedom Park Trust, Wally Serote, agreed to recognition of the victims of ‘terror’ (although he did not elaborate as to how victimhood would be defined nor as to how such victims would be honoured). However, he reiterated the Trust’s previous stand that the names of deceased SADF personnel did not deserve inclusion on the wall on the grounds that they had fought to preserve apartheid and defeat the struggle for liberation.28 Certain SADF veterans responded to the perceived affront by erecting an alternative memorial at the access road to Salvokop on 16 January 2007.29 It was dedicated by shamelessly self-promoting singer, activist and SADF veteran Steve Hofmeyr.30 The plaque mounted on the memorial bears the following inscription in Afrikaans, English and north Sotho: For All Those Who Fell heeding the Call of Their Country including those whose names are not on the Freedom Park wall. So We May never Forget the Dearly Fought Freedom of all Ideologies, Credos, and Cultures and their Respective Contributions to our rich South African Heritage.

Obviously not all ideologies are committed to the cause of freedom – and white supremacy in the guise of apartheid was most certainly not – yet Hofmeyr suggests that all contributed equally to the making of the ‘new’ South Africa. He also invokes the trope of historical impartiality to validate his view that public memorials should represent all sides where there is contestation over the

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meaning of past events. This much is evident from the plaque’s poorly worded (or translated) explanation of the memorial’s symbolism: This triangular monument’s various sides symbolise the fact that history is not one-sided. It is erected to ensure that those who will, as a result of Freedom Park’s one sided usage of history are not being honoured, will get the recognition they deserve. Even though this monument does not cost the R716 million that Freedom Park cost, it is a sincere effort to pay homage to those who died in conflicts.

The unnamed conflicts presumably refer to those within living memory, to the ‘Border War’. The plaque also, rather pointedly, quotes a statement attributed to Serote: ‘Because at the depth of the heart of every man beats the love for freedom.’ The citation of the Freedom Park CEO suggests Serote’s insincerity and even hypocrisy in not including SADF members on the wall of names. The erection of this cheap counter-memorial was a token but symbolic act by a group of disgruntled former SADF national servicemen protesting the perceived exclusiveness of Freedom Park’s remembrance of conflicts in the country’s recent past. A meeting involving Afriforum executive member Kallie Kriel, Hofmeyr and the trustees of Freedom Park was subsequently held on 30 January 2007. Serote proclaimed this an opportunity to promote dialogue and further debate on the SADF issue. Whilst he spoke of the need for inclusivity, Serote is also quoted as saying that ‘the issue of reconciliation and the past can be pitted against the history of the SADF’.31 His mention of the fact that the names of SADF soldiers had been recorded elsewhere was presumably a reference to the Klapperkop memorial. Yet, there was no discernible attempt by Serote to appreciate why Hofmeyr, Kriel and company felt compelled to erect their own alternative monument rather than gather at the SADF site. For his part, Kriel reckoned that ‘To sing the praises of participants in the struggle while the rest are vilified will be a recipe for undesirable polarisation’.32 A subsequent workshop, which included representatives from the South African Veterans Association, the Afrikaanse Taal en Kultuur Vereniging, SA Heritage and the Departments of Defence and Justice, was held on 8 February 2007.33 The workshop apparently did little to resolve the differences of opinion, and the issue became polarized and racialized. According to one report, it ‘was split between those intent on reconciliation and others dead against displaying oppressors’ names in the same place as those of freedom fighters’.34 In August 2008, the Freedom Park Trust hosted an event in honour of the families of the SADF soldiers who died in the course of the Border War.35 The

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function included a wreath-lying ceremony and the launch of a memorial book that was inscribed with the names of SADF soldiers who had died in the line of duty. This can be seen as an attempt by the Trust to include the white minority in its commemoration efforts. While some relatives of the deceased expressed gratitude for the gesture of reconciliation, others regarded it as mere tokenism. And some veterans regarded it as an insult, as rubbing salt into their wounds. As far as they were concerned, the betrayal by apartheid politicians of what they had fought to preserve was followed by the ANC government’s refusal to acknowledge their contribution to the making of the ‘new’ South Africa.36

The SADF memorial wall in the Voortrekker Monument precinct Subsequent steps aimed at resolving the impasse proved counter-productive. This much was evident when Major-General (retired) Gert Opperman, the chief executive officer of the Voortrekker Monument and Heritage Foundation, announced that his organization would no longer participate in the debate about Freedom Park’s Wall of Names and, instead, erect its own wall of remembrance for fallen SADF soldiers. He denied that the project was a reaction to the Freedom Park Trust’s decision to exclude SADF members from the Wall of Names.37 Consequently, a privately funded Wall of Remembrance with the names of SADF members who died between 1961 (the establishment of the Republic) and 1994 (the formation of the SANDF) was erected in the heritage site’s garden. Apart from the semi-circular wall, the precinct comprises a small triangular memorial in honour of the ‘unknown soldier’. At the unveiling ceremony held on 25 October 2009, former Chief of the SADF General Constand Viljoen remarked that the memorial wall was an acknowledgment of the guilt felt by those paying tribute to those who had sacrificed their lives for a free South Africa. It was some consolation for those families who had lost loved ones and whose names had been omitted from Freedom Park’s Wall of Names.38 The Wall of Remembrance is a project of the Directors of the Voortrekker Monument and Nature Reserve, a Section 21 company not for gain. It is being constantly updated to include the names of all who died while in active service (i.e. in military operations) and those who died while on duty in ‘other incidents’ (i.e. accidents). The initial figure of 2,521 names has since been supplemented as a result of Opperman’s inclusive approach to adding names.39 Ceremonies in

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2010 and 2011 were attended by the next-of-kin of the deceased, representatives of various military veterans’ organizations and political parties, as well as former SADF generals, who laid wreaths. A noteworthy addition to the dignitaries at the latter ceremony was the (new) acting CEO of Freedom Park, Peggy Photolo, whose presence was hailed by the media as (another) attempt by the organizations to ‘bury the hatchet’.40 The likelihood of the trustees of the Voortrekker Monument and Freedom Park finding common cause seems remote. The ANC insists that it wants Freedom Park and the Voortrekker Monument integrated into a single precinct. To this end, a road linking Freedom Park and the Voortrekker Monument situated on proximate kopjes (hills) was constructed. But this has done little to challenge the mindset that regards these sites as symbols of two mutually exclusive versions of South Africa’s past. A strategy aimed at countering the tendency of particular groupings to appropriate certain history and heritage as their own whilst disavowing a common past has not yielded results.41 The Voortrekker Monument and Heritage Foundation’s board of directors has rejected amalgamation with Freedom Park and preferred to remain a Section 21 company, which was not financially dependent on government funding. 42 Its CEO, Opperman, rejects the current Freedom Park CEO and her predecessor’s attempts to criminalize the SADF and impugn its integrity.43 This theme was reiterated by Afriforum representatives who argued that the Freedom Park Trust attempted ‘to turn everybody involved in the struggle into a hero or heroine, while criminalising everybody who did [sic] not’.44 Although they conceded that SADF members had spread terror amongst ‘their fellow Africans’ during apartheid, this did not mean that every SADF soldier should be treated as a criminal. The fact that their fallen friends’ names were not allowed on the wall made SADF veterans feel as if they were the enemy of the nation.45 Furthermore, they were of the opinion that if the monument did not include the names of the SADF members who died in Angola, then the Sikhumbuto wall could hardly claim to be all-inclusive of the nation.

Discursive struggles and the politics of memory Discursive struggles over the legacies of past wars continue in the guise of memory politics.46 The rancour regarding Freedom Park’s Wall of names hinges on the question of how the respective roles of the statutory and nonstatutory forces during the Border War/Liberation Struggle are defined. Many

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SADF veterans see themselves as having fought a legitimate and necessary war against the enemies of South Africa. They and their defenders contend that the Freedom Park Trust has not been consistent in upholding the principle of inclusivity when remembering those who lost their lives in South Africa’s conflicts. Their case rests on the argument that combatants on both sides of the South African (or Anglo-Boer) Wars are inscribed on the wall of names whereas the names of those who lost their lives in the Liberation Struggle are not offset by those killed in the Border War. Both conflicts were arguably civil wars and rather than treat one side as victims and the other as perpetrators, it would be more even-handed to regard these conflicts as a shared tragedy. The premise of this viewpoint is that there is a moral equivalence between being prepared to sacrifice one’s life for the armed struggle and defending white supremacy. Their opponents reject this viewpoint. For instance, the National Chair of the MK Veterans Association, Kebby Maphatsoe, contends, ‘You cannot equate the former freedom fighters, who were fighting for freedom of the people of South Africa, with the former soldiers of SADF who were fighting an unjust war.’47 The ANC’s claim to the moral high ground rests on the fact that the United Nations declared apartheid a crime against humanity and therefore the armed wings of the liberation movements had fought against an illegitimate regime. The Afrikaner historian Hermann Giliomee has branded Freedom Park an ‘ANC monument’. Similarly, language-rights activist Jaap Steyn reckons that it is an exclusive monument that reinforces divisions rather than promotes reconciliation.48 And the aforementioned Major-General Gert Opperman reckoned that the Freedom Park memorial space was not contributing to nation building but was ‘a pet project of the ANC, aimed at dividing the nation and praising that party’s achievements’. This was in response to Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) leader Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi’s claim that Afrikaners and Zulus shared the same struggle to preserve their cultural heritage and identity.49 In his capacity as the CEO of a monument dedicated to celebrating the Great Trek, an episode that constitutes the foundation myth of Afrikanerdom, Opperman acts as a custodian of an exclusive narrative of the past. Although the Voortrekker Monument has under his watch sought to become more accessible to a broader cross-section of the country’s population, it is an act of reciprocity rather than reconciliation. For Opperman expects others to respect Afrikaner culture and heritage while seemingly oblivious of the fact that his people’s struggle for independence and nationhood resulted in the dispossession and repression of the majority of South Africans.

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For their part, Freedom Park spokespersons have refuted charges that they define freedom (narrowly) as that won as a result of the liberation struggle led by the ANC or that the site articulates the ANC’s version of history. Instead, they have insisted that they have embraced the principle of inclusivity. According to the Freedom Park Trust’s heritage manager, Sikhumbuto is not a war memorial but is dedicated to those who fought for freedom and democracy in the country.50 So it is not surprising that when the Freedom Park trustees affirmed the contribution of those with struggle credentials to building the nation whilst rejecting the claims of SADF soldiers for recognition that they should have been accused of bias; nor is it surprising that it would have rekindled the tendency of some white Afrikaners to see themselves as being victimized for who they are rather than for what they did in the past. Indeed, they have come to see themselves as being excluded from the foundation narrative of the incipient nation as well as a major memorial site of the ‘new’ South Africa. Prolific military historian and publisher, Peter Stiff, holds that the omission of the names of SADF personnel who died on ‘the border’ would be understandable if Freedom Park’s wall of names was dedicated only to heroes and heroines of the freedom struggle.51 But the inclusion of the names of those who died in other southern African conflicts renders this omission inconsistent. He believes that in terms of the TRC’s mandate to promote reconciliation, the Park should have been established to honour both sides of the freedom struggle. He also believes that conscripts and citizen force soldiers were not necessarily supporters of apartheid. This may have been so in certain instances but this does not gainsay the fact that the majority of white South Africans were complicit in upholding the system of minority rule. While retired military correspondent Willem Steenkamp does not believe that SADF members should be included on the Wall of Names, he dismisses the idea that they were upholders of apartheid. He says that many believed that they were ‘combating Soviet imperialism and authoritarianism’. He also makes the spurious argument that these soldiers ‘would not have fought as hard as they did if they had no motivation except a fear of going to jail’.52 Steenkamp quite correctly insists that not all conscripts and volunteers were white but he overlooks the fact that most of those who joined the South West African Territory Force (SWATF) or paramilitary police units such as Koevoet did so for a mixture of motives that included coercion and material inducements rather than fighting to preserve apartheid. He concludes that to insist on the inclusion of SADF names on Sikhumbuto will only serve to force the ANC to dig in its heels and that this would polarize race relations further.

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There are good reasons why SADF soldiers’ names should not be added to the wall. Young white males who were conscripted might have been discriminated against in this one regard but they certainly benefitted from the apartheid system. Yet they have not been forthcoming in admitting their complicity in defending apartheid. White conscripts showed little willingness to testify before the TRC and acknowledge their culpability for war crimes and other abuses. ‘Of the 256 members of the apartheid era security forces that applied for amnesty … only 31 had served in the SADF. In contrast, there were close to 1,000 applications for amnesty from members of the various armed structures aligned to the ANC’.53 MK (and APLA) combatants were prepared to make more extensive disclosure than their SADF counterparts. The latter remained largely silent either out of a (misplaced?) sense of loyalty to the old regime and fellow soldiers, or for fear of being held accountable by the ANC government for human rights violations. With the benefit of hindsight and following the revelations made before the TRC, ignorance and naiveté constitute a limited defence against the view that veterans should accept their fair share of responsibility for what was done in their name by the SADF. Whilst there are merits to the argument that conscripts had to make difficult choices and should be regarded as both ‘victims’ and ‘perpetrators’ of apartheid, I believe that there is a need for SADF veterans to admit at least a degree of agency and to own up to their culpability. There are equally good reasons why the names of SADF soldiers should be included on the Wall of Names. If the Freedom Park project is committed to reconciliation, it could be argued that historical consensus is a prerequisite for achieving this goal. Accordingly, such an imperative might seem to point towards the desirability of the Freedom Park trustees going out of their way to accommodate those disavowing a memorial dedicated to remembering those who sacrificed their lives for an exclusive nationalist project (Klapperkop) in favour of a more inclusive nation-building project (Freedom Park). According to this line of argument, all sectors of the public must feel comfortable in the knowledge that they can relate to names of the deceased on both sides of the Liberation Struggle/ Border War. Indeed, including the names of SADF soldiers alongside those of ‘freedom fighters’ would be a fitting way to commemorate the end of apartheid because such a gesture rejects the process of ‘othering’ upon which white minority rule was founded. Moreover, Freedom Park must move beyond paying lip service to nation building and dialogue, and make a concerted effort to remember the sacrifices of all who suffered and died for the freedom of their country. Given this mutual experience of suffering, it is only right that the names of the dead of both sides should be inscribed on the Wall of Names as a token of reconciliation.

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It is noteworthy that the Park’s trustees regard the Sikhumbuto memorial as a work in progress, as a ‘living monument’. The Park’s website states that ‘[t]he wall is not conceptualised and designed as a fait accompli and the design allows future generations to add their heroes and heroines’.54 A process of validation has to be followed before names are accepted for inclusion on the wall but it is not exactly clear what criteria have to be met by nominees to qualify. The Park’s trustees and curators are not exactly sure what they wish to achieve. As an anonymous researcher admitted to a Mail & Guardian reporter, Its mandate is a little confused … There is dissonance between the nature of political violence that took place [in the past], the casualties and the criteria chosen by Freedom Park … it has a very simple notion of heroism and doesn’t take into account the complexity of political violence in South Africa.55

This confusion has resulted in a number of anomalies. For instance, Dimitri Tsafendas, who assassinated Prime Minister Hendrik Verwoerd and was then declared insane by the courts, cannot be regarded as a ‘freedom fighter’ by any stretch of the imagination and yet his name has been included on the Wall. And many of those killed in the 1960 Sharpeville massacre and during the 1976 Soweto uprising whose names were added to the wall56 were not necessarily political activists but innocent bystanders. Thus, there has been slippage between the categories of ‘hero/heroine’ of the liberation struggle and ‘victims’ of apartheid, as well as a blurring of the distinction between combatants and civilians. It seems that suffering or victimization rather than furthering the aims of the liberation struggle has effectively become the qualification for inclusion of names on the walls, and, for now, trustees are not willing to entertain the idea that SADF soldiers’ names should be included. However, they have been prepared to compile a register of SADF personnel who died in the execution of their duties and to add these names to Freedom Park’s database. But this has not satisfied those who have advocated the inclusion of SADF soldiers on the Wall of Names. Having failed to achieve this, they have preferred to erect their own Wall of Remembrance.

Conclusion In a slot on the current affairs programme Carte Blanche broadcast on pay channel M-Net, presenter Derek Watts opined: ‘The Voortrekker Monument and Freedom Park are probably the two most visual symbols of a nation struggling to come to terms with its past. Two monuments, two histories, two walls, and the

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gap between them seem to be widening.’57 In fact, there are now three memorial walls, two of which are dedicated to SADF soldiers, one erected by the apartheid state and the other funded by private donations. The Voortrekker Monument holds a well-attended annual memorial service for deceased SADF soldiers and the site is a well-frequented place of remembrance or mourning for friends and families, whereas the Klapperkop site has become all but redundant. Thus the fracas over Freedom Park’s Wall of Names has resulted in the reconfiguration of the memorial landscape in post-apartheid South Africa, which is a sure sign that the construction of a consensual past remains elusive. According to Peter Carrier,58 disputed sites of memory offer a basis for public negotiation of historical memories and their political function. It is not necessarily a zero-sum game. Therefore, so the argument goes, a compromise could and should be found between creating an inclusive (national) and exclusive (sectional) memorial at Freedom Park and thereby promoting both reconciliation and nation building. This begs the question whether it is at all possible (or even desirable) to create a truly all-encompassing national memorial in a society that has experienced civil strife? And whether the situation is more complicated when the memories of the South African conflict are still recent and raw? There are precedents for honouring the dead on opposing sides of a civil conflict. For instance, in Italy there are monuments that include the names of Mussolini’s Fascists and the partisans killed during the latter stages of World War II. And memorials erected on battlefields such as Gettysburg pay tribute to both the Union and Confederate forces involved in the American Civil War.59 However, examples of inclusive memorials are the exception rather than the rule. Most war memorials represent sectional interests and memory cultures are seldom national in scope and appeal. Indeed, if their conceptualization and design is hotly contested, they can actually undermine political consensus.60 The Freedom Park fracas would appear to lend credence to suggestions of the existence of irreconcilable memory regimes in post-apartheid South Africa. But will they be able to coexist? Is it desirable that they do so?

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Fictive Kinship: The National Service Generation and Veteran Networks

There are an estimated 850,000 military veterans in South Africa. At the time of its dissolution in 1994, the South African Defence Force (SADF) numbered about 45,000 full-time members (or permanent force), and 500,000 part-time members that included citizen and commando forces, as well as reservists. Some had been volunteers, but most had been amongst the more than 600,000 conscripted by the apartheid regime between 1968 and 1993.1 The personnel in the armed formations of the Bantustans (or ‘homelands’)2 exceeded 15,000. All included, veterans from the statutory forces were estimated at about 800,000. The non-statutory forces comprised the armed wings of the African National Congress and Pan Africanist Congress, namely Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK) and the Azanian Peoples’ Liberation Army (APLA), respectively. The size of these forces is a matter of some dispute. The Certified Personnel Register (CPR)3 for the former liberation armies contains about 56,000 names but there is a strong likelihood that this figure might be inflated.4 Then there are members of the self-defence units who did not wear military uniforms nor have a rank structure but still seek recognition as veterans. Indeed, veteran status has been a hotly contested issue in post-apartheid South Africa. SADF veterans constitute a generation whose formative years were spent in the militarized environment of apartheid South Africa. As such, they shared certain lived experiences that influenced their values and sense of collective identity. Along with the rest of society, SADF veterans have had to adjust to a changing political landscape. During the early years of the transition of the Mandela presidency (1994–1999) when reconciliation was the buzzword, some former national servicemen acknowledged complicity in upholding apartheid. But during the Mbeki presidency (1999–2007) attitudes hardened and political correctness was disavowed. And since Zuma’s elevation to the highest office,

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racial polarization has increased. Consequently, SADF veterans have become more assertive in affirming their self-worth and reclaiming the ‘Border War’. Against this background, this chapter investigates whether or not SADF veterans still share a sense of belonging to a community given the subsuming of the apartheid army by the South African National Defence Force (SANDF). It argues that veterans from both sides of the erstwhile battle lines have embraced victimhood as a form of political capital. It pays particular attention to whether access to Information and Communication Technology (ICT) enables veterans with the requisite skills to exercise influence on veteranhood discourse and opinion on matters of public interest pertaining to the ‘Border War’. It holds that SADF veterans or neterans,5 as I am tempted to call them, have taken to social media with alacrity and created internet sites, discussion or listserv groups and blogs that provide platforms to challenge their perceived marginalization and stigmatization. This chapter, then, will seek to examine what influence SADF veterans are able to exert on the body politic: whether or not they are able to challenge the imperatives of transformation or reconfigure socio-political relations in post-apartheid South Africa. In short, it asks whether fictive kinship (veteran) networks6 have utilized digital technology to wrest ownership of their past.

Veterans and the politics of victimhood A distinction is frequently made in the DDR (democratization, demobilization and reintegration) literature between veterans from the statutory forces and ex-combatants from the liberation or non-statutory forces. However, this distinction has virtually disappeared from the discourse of veteranhood. Now the issue is who qualifies as military veterans. There is more at stake than semantics as definitions are inextricably tied to access to limited resources, economic opportunities and the construction of collective memory. Those from the ranks of the liberation armies, in particular, have a vested interest in being defined as veterans. First, it held out the possibility of a position in the newly integrated SANDF. Second, it made them eligible for certain benefits in terms of legislation pertaining to military veterans. Former members of the SADF, including conscripts, might not have quite the same financial stake in the matter but many attach significant value to their identity and status as veterans. Increasingly, the ANC government has seen fit to treat veterans as a special interest group primarily to placate the lobby of its own MK veterans. It accorded MK recognition as a voting bloc in the election of its national executive

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committee at its conference at Polokwane in 2007 and added the portfolio of Military Veterans to that of Defence. Then in December 2009, Military Veterans was proclaimed as a separate department within the ministry and a DirectorGeneral was appointed. The ministry was tasked with addressing the plight of military veterans by introducing new legislation to create a comprehensive framework for dealing with their specific interests and needs. Consequently, it tabled the Military Veterans Bill in the National Assembly in August 2011. It occasioned an acrimonious debate. While the opposition Democratic Alliance recognized the need for providing benefits to former needy freedom fighters, it opposed the bill on the grounds that it furthered cadre deployment and its financial implications for the taxpayer were not carefully calculated. In short, it ‘opened the door to massive corruption’.7 The DA’s spokesperson on defence, David Maynier, noted that the costs of the bill were based on misleading assumptions about the number of veterans who qualified for benefits in terms of the legislation.8 The Bill defined a veteran as a South African citizen who rendered military service to any of the military organizations, which were involved on all sides of South Africa’s liberation war from 1960 to 1994; those who served in the then Union Defence Force before 1961, and those who became members of the South African National Defence Force after 1994, and has completed his/her military training and no longer performs military duties, and has not been dishonourably discharged from that military organization.

Maynier insisted that the broad definition of military veteran in the Bill meant that SADF veterans (including conscripts) were eligible to apply for benefits thus increasing the potential costs thereof exponentially. The crucial question was whether the state was responsible for those who had served in the ‘apartheid army’, or whether it should reserve the benefits of the Bill to former members of the liberation forces. Deputy Minister Thabang Makwetla expressed the opinion that ‘the plight of former SADF conscripts who served two years could not compare with those that dedicated their lives to the armed liberation struggle’.9 Anecdotal evidence would appear to lend credence to this claim as former white conscripts are more likely to be better educated, socially mobile and financially secure than ex-combatants from the ranks of the non-statutory forces. Maynier conceded that the application of a means test was likely to exclude the majority of veterans who had served in the statutory forces. But the lack of credible data makes it impossible to verify how many veterans from either side of the erstwhile battle lines would qualify for benefits after the application of the (as yet unspecified criteria) of the means test.

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The Military Veterans Bill made provision for those who could establish their bona fides as veterans and qualify for the following benefits and services: ●

●

●

●

●

●

●

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Military pension Housing subsidies Subsidized healthcare at military hospitals Public transport subsidies Education and training Employment opportunities Business placement Counselling

According to the Deputy Minister, the Bill was designed to enhance the wellbeing and quality of life of veterans through a steady realization of socioeconomic opportunities. It was intended to achieve this in a holistic manner so that it marked a departure from previous ad hoc measures that had been attempted to address the plight of military veterans since 1994. It allowed for the establishment of institutions such as an advisory council on military veterans and an appeal board to give effect to these provisions. The Bill was eventually promulgated as the Military Veterans’ Act (No. 18 of 2011). The passage of the Military Veterans Act highlights how the treatment of veterans has become a potentially explosive issue in post-apartheid South Africa. It is evident from the events preceding the passage of the legislation that military veterans, especially those from the ranks of MK, comprise an influential lobby group. Indeed, the creation of a ministry dedicated to veterans’ affairs means that the Zuma government has followed the lead of South Africa’s neighbouring states (notably, Namibia and Zimbabwe) in seeking to address the needs of a group that regards itself as marginalized and neglected by the very liberation movement that it helped bring to power. However, the ANC has been able to virtually ignore the concerns of white veterans even though they outnumber their black counterparts. And its insensitive handling of matters such as the memorialization of SADF soldiers has aggravated their sense of alienation. The growing disaffection on both sides of the former battle lines has contributed to a sense of victimization of military veterans in post-apartheid South Africa. The government has realized that it can ill afford to ignore veterans’ issues and, yet, it has not managed to defuse the political ‘time-bomb’.10 We have seen in Chapter 4 that certain SADF veterans have appropriated victimhood. It is precisely this status that their counterparts from the liberation

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armies have laid claim to. Our focus remains on the former, even if the latter might be more deserving of state support.

SADF veterans: A (ma)lingering militarized identity? The bonds of military veterans are social and experiential. Jay Winter borrows the anthropological term ‘fictive kin’ to describe Great War veterans as agents of small-scale collective memory (or what he prefers to call ‘collective remembrance’). They occupy spaces at the intersection of individual and national memory; at the borderline between the private and the public, between families, civil society and the state.11 Veterans and other ‘families of remembrance’ are the equivalent of what I have referred to as a ‘mnemonic community’. SADF veterans are defined by their common experience in the nutria brown uniform of the institution and (for some) of deployment during the ‘Border War’. This set them apart not only from civilians, but also from veterans of previous wars. Whilst some joined established veterans’ associations such as the MOTH (Memorable Order of the Tin Hats) and the South African Legion, others sought out the company of those in their units who had shared their experiences. Such male bonding occurred in unit pubs, shell holes and other places where veterans got together to swap stories. This age-old practice predated the formation of the SADF – and even the Union Defence Force before it. However, such traditions and the very institutional memory of the SADF itself have been subverted by the formation of the SANDF. The question, then, is to determine whether the veterans’ militarized identities and sense of community have survived the integration of the statutory and non-statutory forces. War veterans comprise a speech community. Charles Braithwaite notes that the large number of terms, acronyms, place names and military nomenclature (including slang) familiar to the American Vietnam veteran, and his ability to use them in conversation, sets his speech apart from others. Their discourse features certain linguistic markers such as the phrase ‘the Nam’ for Vietnam. In their vocabulary, Vietnam is not a country but the space where they shared an experience. Thus, it is the common experience of the group, rather than common characteristics of the individuals, that makes US Vietnam veterans a distinct speech community. This can be seen in several aspects of the co-variation of linguistic features and social context. Language features were so prominent in the life-world of the Vietnam soldier that they can still be heard in the speech of those men [many] years after their original use.12 Such speech patterns and

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symbolic acts allow veterans to create and affirm a sense of communal identity. It also serves as an exclusionary device. The posing of the question: ‘Were you there?’ has become a ritual of legitimacy amongst American Vietnam veterans for it allows them to vet outsiders or imposters.13 The mindset of the typical white South African conscript was shaped by a ‘closed socialisation environment’14 in which school (especially the cadets programme), church (especially those that attended the Dutch Reformed Church and other conservative places of worship) and the mainstream media played major parts. As conscripts, they were subjected to indoctrination during basic training. Many of the rank and file undoubtedly bought into the idea that they were protecting the country from the combined threats of African nationalism and communism. But many, especially amongst the educated elites who often held high ranks in the citizen force, did not necessarily equate military service with defending apartheid. They subscribed to the view that they had a responsibility to defend the government of the day rather than the ideology that it propagated. However, professional military (or permanent force) veterans retained stronger commitment to the ideology of ‘total onslaught’. For them Namibia/Angola represented an opportunity for combat experience and promotion. Although many conscripts considered ‘border duty’ an adventure, even a rite (and right?) of passage, many more resented having to jeopardize their civilian careers because as members of the citizen force they were liable for repeated call-ups that disrupted their day-to-day lives. Still, their thought processes and speech patterns reveal the lingering influence of SADF military discourse.15 To this day their language is still frequently peppered with expletives, turns of phrase and jargon learned whilst in uniform. In the army, the arm of service in which by far the majority of national servicemen rendered their duties, drilling and most commands were only delivered and learned in Afrikaans. Indeed, certain terms such as ballesbak, bosbefok and vasbyt seem to have no English equivalents.16 This is not to suggest that the two main language groups necessarily embraced one another. Indeed, differences were accentuated during training where insults such as rooinek or soutpiel 17 (for English-speakers) and Dutchmen or rockspiders18 (for Afrikaans-speakers) were frequently traded. And conscripts often had little in common in the way of cultural and social background. But the fighting unit invariably did develop a camaraderie and loyalty to each other. For the shared experience of the group rather than the common characteristics of individuals created a sense of belonging and identity. This does not mean that SADF veterans are a homogeneous group. Yet, their identities have been fashioned, to some extent, by their military experiences.

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Indeed, some have a large emotional investment in remembering what they accomplished whilst in uniform. Some might even said to be fixated or obsessed with defending the reputation of the SADF as a fighting force. This seems especially true of those who participated in well-known engagements or operations. I have been struck by how many veterans have collections of books on the Border War on their shelves. Apart from histories of their units, many have copies of Willem Steenkamp’s South Africa’s Border War,19 Helmoed-Römer Heitman’s volumes such as The Angolan War: The Final South African Phase,20 and some of Peter Stiff ’s numerous titles.21 Some are assiduous collectors of memorabilia related to the war.22 Souvenirs, mementoes and other objects of remembrance serve as carriers of personal and collective memories. Such objects acquire affective attachments as they are tangible markers of fleeting personal experiences and significant public events. Veterans have mixed – even contradictory − memories of their experiences: whilst some look back with sentimentality on this period of their lives, others would rather forget it altogether. Whether these experiences are fondly remembered on account of the camaraderie of the masculinized military environment or regretted as time wasted in defending an unjust system, they left a lasting impression on soldiers whether they look back on the army with fondness or loathing. Irrespective of how they choose to remember their time in uniform, they were separated from family and friends during their formative years. And to imagine that veterans have been able to make a seamless transition to civilian life or attain closure if they suffered psychosocial trauma is unrealistic. For the experience of waging war – especially an unjust one in the name of a discredited ideology and illegitimate regime – has left certain veterans with a residual sense of guilt or shame.23 Yet other veterans clearly enjoyed the experience and found it positively life-transforming. The issue for veterans, then, is not whether the war was right or wrong but that they were involved. One way or the other, national service proved to be consequential for veterans as individuals, as well for South African society at large. SADF veterans’ (ma)lingering militarized identities are closely tied up with what it means to be ‘white’ in post-apartheid South Africa. In certain respects, veterans constitute a special category because their choices were limited by conscription. But they were and remain moral agents. They share in the collective responsibility for upholding the apartheid system by virtue of their racial identity or whiteness. This whiteness assumes many guises. There is an assertive whiteness that takes pride in what was accomplished under colonial and white minority rule. This is typified by the viewpoint that South Africa owes its relative

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economic strength and political stability to infrastructure and institutions established during the period of white supremacy. In its more arrogant (read: racist) form, this suggests that blacks are incapable of running the country. Conversely, there is an abject whiteness of the kind advocated by philosopher Samantha Vice. She suggests that white South Africans ‘cultivate humility and silence, given their morally compromised position in the continuing racial and economic injustices of this country’. Vice holds that this will allow blacks the sole curatorship of the body politic and serve as atonement for white privilege.24 Such withdrawal strikes me as being decidedly counter-productive in the democratic order where all citizens are part of the moral community and have the right to hold the government of the day accountable for its actions. Engagement is preferable to a retreat into silence, which is likely to impoverish debate and short circuit dialogue. White silence can cloak a lack of remorse for the injustices of the past, as well as provide an excuse for ignoring the cumulative effects of the country’s structural inequalities on the majority of its population. Whether constructive or not, all voices should be heard.25 Whereas certain SADF veterans have sought to reconcile themselves to the political transition and commit themselves to making the ‘new’ South Africa work, others have remained indifferent or opposed to the changes. Some have employed their enormous social capital for the good of all. They have welcomed South Africa’s return to the community of nations and the benefits of globalization – understood here as deterritorialized and detemporalized interaction. These ‘benefits’ include a return to international sporting codes and the lifting of travel restrictions and economic sanctions. Others have left the country. Indeed, white South Africans have become a very mobile group since 1994 and have relocated all over the world and many of these veterans have become part of the South African diaspora who have taken their skills elsewhere. These include those that have been recruited by private security companies that have assumed many of the tasks previously performed by the armies of nation-states or international peacekeeping forces. But wherever these expatriate veterans find themselves, they appear to have a need to connect with those who had similar experiences. And this has been made possible by new technologies, especially via the ether.

SADF veterans as a virtual community The internet has its origins in the common language of binary digits and data communication mechanisms.26 However, its development has been closely tied to

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the conditions and practices of public discourse.27 Social discourses are not neutral or innocent; the worldview of many ICT pioneers was informed by a teleology of technological progress. However, this utopian vision was contradicted by the realities of the Cold War and the prospect of nuclear apocalypse. The digital computer technology that made the internet possible was developed for the US military, an institution whose culture was embedded in the Cold War’s ‘closedworld discourses’. Paul Edwards defines these as ‘the language, technologies and practices that together supported the visions of centrally controlled, automated global power at the heart of American Cold War politics’. Edwards reckons that the Cold War and computer systems had a symbiotic relationship: the latter were developed to promote military objectives, which provided justification for massive government spending. But the same systems, in turn, justified the discourse of the Cold War; they sustained the fantasy of a closed world subject to technological control. Edwards emphasizes what he calls the ‘technological construction of social worlds’.28 However, he ignores another trend of the late 1960s and 1970s whereby digital technology was subverted by the so-called ‘Netizens’29 who sought to make the internet an open resource. The most optimistic amongst them envisaged a ‘brave new world’ in which worldwide connectivity will eradicate physical and political boundaries. … The levelling nature of online interaction as well as the universalization of information access will foster democratization … the decentered nature of hypertext will further erode the existence of limiting hierarchies; and the engaging power and linking capabilities of multimedia will revolutionize learning … .30 These techno-enthusiasts circumvented the closed system developed by the military–industrial–academic complex and turned it into a decentralized and interactive communication network. In other words, the internet was ‘shaped both by the closed world discourse of the Cold War and the open world discourse of the anti-war movement and the counterculture’.31 These countervailing tendencies still characterize the internet, and explain why it seems an inchoate social phenomenon despite its reliance on technical precision.32 The internet only came of age following the Vietnam War. The war was followed by the stigmatization of the US Vietnam veteran and ‘a portentous silence’ pertaining to this episode in US history.33 In the absence of the Vietnam veteran voice and lobby, the political elites and cultural brokers were able to influence the government of the day. As mediators, they have managed to construct narratives of the Vietnam War that were only belatedly challenged by veterans who reclaimed the right to their story by virtue of ‘having been there’ – this was especially true of the ‘grunts’, the ordinary draftees who have done most

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of the fighting. It has been suggested by Roland Leikauf that cyberspace offers an antidote to the silence of the American Vietnam veteran;34 that it affords them the space to tell their stories and that they do so without much reference to the representations of the war in other media. But if this is so, it begs the question of whether the veterans are sharing experiences or engaged in discourse with anyone outside of their own ranks? Do they inhabit an open or closed world? And are they able to utilize the new media to shape the memory of the Vietnam War? Similar questions may be posed about SADF veterans. SADF veterans were latecomers to digital technology as they did not grow up with the internet but most have ended up on the right side of the digital divide. And the breaking of their silence about the ‘Border War’ coincided with the exponential growth of web technology. Many made the transition from web 1.0 with its static HTML and its passive viewing of content (such as in websites) to web 2.0 with its greater degree of interaction and mobility with relative ease. They have also made the change to web 3.0, which involves participatory information sharing like that facilitated on social networking sites (such as Facebook and Google and Twitter groups) equally well. Such new media competencies enable the multidirectional exchange of information that has turned to the state-centric model of knowledge dissemination on its head.35 Some ex-SADF veterans have gravitated to the apparent political neutrality of cyberspace to tell their stories in order to contest their perceived invisibility in post-apartheid South Africa. The camaraderie of cyberspace has largely replaced face-to-face meetings such as unit reunions or gatherings of veterans. Groups of war veterans who have served in the SADF, belonged to a specific unit, or performed border duty have established a network of sites to exchange memories and, in some cases, provide platforms for advice on matters like post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Most sites have disclaimers to the effect that they have no political affiliations and claim to be apolitical – although a few advertise their (invariably right-wing) political stripes and reminisce nostalgically about their time in the army. Such sites provide the (cyber)space for soldiers to tell their stories, thereby contesting what Sasha Gear calls the ‘silence of stigmatized knowledge’ carried by ex-combatants.36 These sites are obviously male domains, the type that Lori Kendall likens to the ‘virtual pub’.37 SADF veterans who interact in cyberspace constitute a ‘virtual community’.38 Website hyperlinks, multiple postings and cross-citations undoubtedly reinforce the idea that web authors and their readers share membership in a Net-mediated community. New intermediaries make it possible to develop and distribute content across old boundaries, lowering barriers to entry. Whereas

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the traditional press is called the fourth estate, this space might be called the ‘interconnected estate’ – a place where any person with access to the internet, regardless of living standard or nationality, is given a voice and the power to effect change. Eric Schmidt and Jared Cohen postulate that the most revolutionary aspect of this change lies in the plethora of platforms that allow individuals to consume, distribute and create their own content without being subjected to supervision or censorship.39 Thus ICT provides the means for internet users to ‘communicate within and across borders, forming virtual communities that empower citizens at the expense of governments’.40 Natalie Fenton holds that there is a new politics that transcends the nation-state emerging in social media, that it is a politics of non-representation; a politics of affect and antagonism. It includes a multiplicity of experiences that are contradictory and contingent.41

She adds that Often atomised expressions of social activism that move in and out of focus reflect a move to newer forms of civic engagement and open up the public sphere to disagreement over consensus.42

But what influence is the virtual community of SADF veterans able to exercise in the public sphere? Jodi Dean argues that there is no longer a ‘consensus reality’ according to which contested questions of fact can be resolved. She suggests that, instead, there are multiple contending realities that keep contested issues from being decided. Furthermore, the ease with which individuals who hold similar views can communicate with one another allows them to provide the requisite social support for one another.43 In other words, Dean reckons that there has been dissolution of the boundary between the margins and the mainstream. This implies that groups marginalized in the realm of realpolitik are able to challenge the consensus established by hegemonic groups. However, Michael Barkun believes that while the boundary has become more permeable, it still exists and that virtual communities remain on the fringes of the power brokering of interest groups and political elites.44 Whilst the focus of both Barkun and Dean’s studies is conspiracy theorists operating in cyberspace, their arguments have a wider application. ICT can allow ordinary people and marginalized constituencies to challenge the authority of political elites and cultural brokers. The democratic access of the internet promises direct and unmediated access to the past. Ron Rosenzweig speaks of ‘cultural disintermediation’ by which he means that people with an interest in the past make direct contact to information without the mediation of historians, archivists and librarians.45

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The web offers its users an opportunity to produce their own versions of history and place them in the public domain where no one regulates access, and no gatekeeping organizations police content or methodology. Consequently, Mike Featherstone posits the emergence of a ‘new culture of memory’ in which the existing ‘hierarchical controls’ over access would disappear. This ‘direct access to cultural records and resources from those outside cultural institutions’ [and centres of learning such as universities] could ‘lead to a decline in intellectual and academic power’ in which the historian, for example, no longer stands between people and their pasts.46 Thus there is every prospect that virtual communities will share and fashion (new) memories out of connectivity based on common interests or ideology.47 This memory work might well compete with ‘official’ narratives propagated by the state and enable SADF veterans to become instrumental in the generation of counter-narratives and even a new historical consciousness. SADF veterans have not only created a myriad of websites with historical content about the, ‘Border War’, but also seized the opportunity to write and edit numerous entries pertaining to the war on Wikipedia. Despite the inclination of scholars to dismiss Wikipedia as a flawed enterprise that attaches no value whatsoever to specialist knowledge, we should not overlook the fact that powerful search engines such as Google rank Wikipedia entries highly in their lists. Thus veterans who contribute to such forums are able to provide a perspective on the past, which allows them to challenge the verdict that they were on the losing side of history and rewrite it to some extent. They are very often more savvy with new media than the historians who write the text books or the political functionaries who disseminate the ‘official’ view of the SADF’s place in history. The web clearly demonstrates that meaning emerges in contestation or dialogue, and that culture has no stable centre but rather proceeds from multiple ‘nodes’.48 I have examined various sites of interest to those who served in the SADF. Some of these form part of the Southern African Military Web Ring. Its anonymous manager declares it ‘a ring of web sites that contain information on (or about) the Southern African military scene, past or present’. This description is purposefully vague but conceals an agenda that is not clearly articulated. These sites are not confined to the ‘Border War’. They include sites related to the Anglo-Zulu War, the Anglo-Boer (or South African) War, the Rhodesian Bush War as well as a number of international conflicts. I have accessed or sampled a selection of SADF-related sites based in South Africa and abroad. I have communicated with some of the site owners or hosts with a view to ascertaining, inter alia, how long their sites have been functional, how many signed-up

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members they have or ‘hits’ they receive and so on. I have begun to develop a sense of who comprises the audience for these sites. For the most part, it would seem that they are fellow veterans (or ‘neterans’). But it is likely that open sites are also accessed by military aficionados and buffs, as well as veterans of other wars. The connectivity of these SADF veterans enables them to champion causes that are regarded as directly affecting them. A more disturbing feature of some of these sites is the high level of intolerance shown towards discordant voices. Those daring to express views that are critical of the conduct of the SADF have been subjected to discipline by ritual humiliation. Flame wars have erupted in which vitriolic language has been used to ‘shoot down’ the posts of those who articulate different perspectives. Such behaviour is characteristic of the laager mentality of white Afrikaner identity politics, the tendency of members of this group to safeguard common cultural practices and dwell upon the experiences of real (and imagined) wrongs.

Discursive laagers and dissent: The dissonance of disembodied voices I have borrowed the concept of a discursive laager from Theresa Edlmann.49 A laager is the Afrikaans word for the defensive system consisting of a circle of ox-wagons used to protect descendants of the Dutch and other settlers who trekked into the African sub-continent’s hinterland from attack by indigenous peoples. It is often used as a metaphor for a closed, defensive, adversarial mentality. Such a mentality informed white South Africans’ perceptions of a threat (‘total onslaught’) posed by African nationalism and communism (the swart and rooi gevaar of Nationalist ideology) during the 1970s and 1980s. Edlmann contends that the insular and circular nature of these laagers produced discourses that shaped the social and psychological narratives of the people who lived through those times; narratives that were interior to the laager at the time but continue to shape the thinking of its adherents. While the deep imprint of these discourses can be found in the lives and socio-political realities of all who lived through those times, the current narratives that white South Africans, and conscripts in particular, use to make sense of them are varied. Some continue to reinforce the laager (from within and without), some reveal confusion and struggle to find a coherent narrative, others are rendered silent (a consequence of personal trauma or political circumstances), while a few are exploring the means to work through and beyond the discourses of the past in order to make

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sense of the present. Whatever form they take, Edlmann argues that these varied narratives have remained largely unacknowledged and unresolved in the postapartheid South African context. I am not a ‘neo-luddite’ who complains ceaselessly about the negative impact of the new technology’s impact on social discourse. But these discursive laagers are the virtual equivalent of gated communities in South African suburbs. Hence I have some sympathy for Michael Ignatieff who laments what he terms the ‘perverse effects’ of digital technologies. As he puts it, ‘Instead of creating a shared public space of common discourse, information technology seems to be increasing people’s shrillness, malice, and unwillingness to listen to differing opinions. It also empowers anonymous denunciation, removes responsibility from opinion, and places reputation at risk’.50 This lack of accountability by disembodied voices – very often influential bloggers who write under pseudonyms – is symptomatic of the development of closed discursive communities amidst the disaggregation of public opinion. Thus, it is my argument that digital technologies and new media contribute to the insularity of discourses by members of virtual communities – such as the SADF veterans. For these technologies disseminate views amongst those who share ideological persuasions and political convictions. As we have noted, because SADF veterans shared a commonality based on circumstance and shared experience, many believe that only they alone are entitled to speak about it. Conversely, anyone without first-hand knowledge of what it was like in the SADF has no right to comment or criticize. But as Jay Winter has argued in Shadows of War, ‘experience is much more fruitfully defined as a set of events whose character changes when there are changes in the subject position of the person or group which had shared those events’. He adds that ‘[r]elegating the rest of us to silence must be seen as a strategy of control, of cutting off debate, of ad hominem assertions of a kind unworthy of serious reflection’.51 Yet the ‘you-were-not-there’ type statements are reiterated in response to any form of criticism by outsiders. As we saw in Chapter 1, SADF veterans are quick to dismiss those without first-hand knowledge of the military as unqualified to comment on their experience. A common theme in the discourse of SADF veterans in cyberspace is the camaraderie of war; the bonds forged between soldiers who have to rely on one another in the heat of battle. SADF soldiers became ‘buddies’ or ‘brothers in arms’ when they lived with and fought for one another for extended periods in a hostile environment. Like families, they also ‘prayed together’. Clichés such as Die Army is nou jou Ma en Pa, troep! (the army is now your mother and

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father, soldier!) were used ad nauseam by NCOs during training so that they were rendered meaningless.52 The very notion of the military unit as a surrogate family is problematical. There is no shortage of authority (‘father’) figures in the armed forces but seldom is there room for the appropriation of feminine qualities or nurturing maternal role models. It is precisely the separation from women in war that (some) men like. This affords them the space to badmouth their own women and to assert masculine power over women who get caught up in the combat zone. The hoary old war adage that the rifle, the standard weapon of war, serves as a replacement for a partner suggests the sexually charged nature of killing. Such images are at odds with that of the family. Thus the valourization of the military as a surrogate family, of the notion of brothers in arms who fought not for an ideology but mainly for one another, is riddled with contradictions. Another recurrent theme in the digital discourse of SADF veterans is of sacrifice; of the dutiful soldier who put his life on the line and in some cases paid the ultimate price for his country. His act was sacrificial rather than self-serving and so society owes him a debt of gratitude. This can be illustrated by a posting by ‘Dave’ on the Facebook site entitled Grensoorlog/Border War 1966–1989: We are the National Service generation. The youngest is about 35 years old and the oldest in their sixties. We built the new South Africa! We are the generation that gave our time and ourselves for the nation in various ways. Some of our fathers and grandfathers wore medals during WW2 and some of us also received the Pro Patria Medal on occasion. Presently our involvement in this war is mostly knocked underestimated and being criticized [sic].53

This is an excerpt from a lengthier statement that extols the contribution of the ‘National Service Generation’ to the ‘new’ South Africa. Variants of the statement are to be found on many internet sites. The emphasis in such statements is that the 18-year-old troop served the government of the day; that he simply performed his duty and did not fight in order to defend apartheid. Those who followed the orders of their leaders should have no reason to feel guilt or shame. Such sentiments are tied to the notion that national servicemen were called to battle. This, in turn, evokes the warrior myth; the rite of passage of the soldier who becomes a man; who defends his country and conducts himself in a way befitting the rules of war. However, the archetypal warrior is an anachronism in the 20th-century conscript army, more especially in the case of the ‘apartheid army’ that sought to uphold a system that has been declared to be a crime against humanity. There was seldom any attempt to question the reasons for taking up

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arms or the legitimacy of such actions. To do so or to take an alternative (nonpatriotic) position on the war would involve the acceptance of guilt and shame. Or it would amount to an admission that soldiers died in vain; that it was a futile or ‘wasted war’. There are also sites that pay homage to deceased SADF soldiers. For instance, the South African Roll of Honour maintained by veteran John Dovey serves as a record and tribute to all those who lost their lives in the line of duty.54 This virtual wall complements the newly erected SADF Memorial Wall situated in the precincts of the Voortrekker Monument described in the previous chapter. The Memorial Wall was built with privately donated funds following the refusal of the trustees of Freedom Park to include the names of SADF members on its wall of names. It serves as some sort of compensation for SADF veterans who believe that their role in the building of the ‘new’ South Africa has not been adequately acknowledged.

Conclusion This chapter has suggested that connections forged between SADF veterans in cyberspace have managed to preserve their sense of belonging to a community – albeit a virtual one. It has contended that ICT stores digital memories and prolongs the life of a speech/discursive community after it has been effaced from the ‘real’ world. But, in so doing, it may also serve to reinforce the existence of discursive laagers where these veterans share memories of common experiences or use language that is not readily comprehended by the uninitiated. Finally, this chapter has suggested that connections forged between SADF veterans in cyberspace have served to articulate discontent with the country’s political transformation from which they feel marginalized as white South Africans. Given their shared histories and residual militarized identities, SADF veterans are likely to develop common cause with respect to actual or perceived injustices. But it remains to be seen whether the growing noise of the dissonance of these disembodied voices is ever likely to reach a crescendo, or whether attempts at mobilization achieve sufficient critical mass to make government sit up and take notice of their grievances. However, the moot point is whether SADF veterans constitute a threat to the stability of the post-apartheid state. Rather, it is apparent from this chapter that veterans of the liberation armies have become more active in seeking redress and that they constitute a political ‘time-bomb’ in the government’s estimation.

Conclusion The transfer of power from a white minority to a black majority has been accompanied by attempts to renegotiate the meaning of South Africa’s past. Previously dominant perspectives have been challenged and new narratives are being constructed in order to realign collective memory with a new national identity. It is in this sense, then, that the nation can be regarded as … a mnemonic community whose raison d’être derives from both remembering and forgetting, especially where the past poses a threat to the unity of the nation.1

In post-conflict or post-authoritarian societies, the nation-building project has often been characterized by a quest for consensual history. The conventional wisdom is that contestation about the country’s past has the potential to subvert this project and sow the seeds of disc(h)ord. But is this necessarily so? The conclusion reflects on whether South Africans’ attempt to come to terms with the past, especially with respect to the ‘Border War’, is likely to create sufficient dissonance to derail the nation-building project. It also asks whether consensual history is an antidote to the ‘memory battles’ described in this study.

Coming to terms with the past The phrase Vergangenheitbewältigung entered the German vocabulary in the aftermath of World War II. It literally means ‘overcoming the past’ in the sense of making good or fixing what happened so that memory of the Nazi era would no longer be a burden on the present.2 It turned out to be extremely difficult for Germans to come to terms with the genocide of the Jews and other consequences of Hitler’s dictatorship. Notwithstanding their state of denial, there is little doubt that the generation that survived the war suffered a tremendous amount of guilt. It is also evident that subsequent generations of Germans have also had to live with the legacy of their parents’ guilt and their own unease about the sins of their fathers. This was the past as a traumatic burden rather than a positive inheritance. Indeed, ‘the recognition of a traumatic past (as mourning, regret or guilt) seems to be a fundamental cornerstone of post-war democracy’.3

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Germany does not have a monopoly on the practice of coming to terms with the past or the pursuit of historical accountability. It has almost become de rigueur in post-conflict societies where the discourse of transitional justice has taken root. But Alain Cairns notes: Coming to terms with the past is not a simple concept. At a minimum, it means seeing the behaviour of our predecessors and sometimes of our earlier selves, in terms of its consequences for contemporary generations. This may include trying those responsible for shameful acts and punishing them if found guilty. It includes apologizing to the victims, or their successors; paying reparations; and providing symbolic recognition by plaques and memorials. Where the victims and perpetrators of their successors live in the same society, it involves seeking reconciliation between those of who have to live together despite past injustices.4

Cairns rightly recognizes that ‘[c]oming to terms with the past is not a celebration of great achievements, but rather the reverse: a moral and ineffectual grappling with past behaviour that gives cause more for shame than for pride’.5 It is a fraught process that cannot be applied in a formulaic fashion as if ‘one size fits all’ nor be expected to bring about closure. So what purpose does it serve and (how) should we go about it? A comprehensive coming to terms with the past requires much more than the writing of books or reports that catalogue human rights abuses, war crimes and atrocities. The assembling of evidence and the construction of narratives constitutes a necessary first step, but it is merely a point of departure. It requires political and legal measures including the active engagement of powerful and influential elites in apology and restitution, and where appropriate, punishment of the perpetrators if they are still alive. Amnesty might be necessary for the sake of reconciliation but it should not be applied at the expense of perpetuating impunity for perpetrators. Nor should victims be sacrificed on the altar of political expediency. Above all, coming to terms with the past must involve the survivors in post-authoritarian or post-conflict societies in moral education.6 They are beholden to teach the value of human rights to the next generation. So what form should such moral education take? In the context of post-conflict or post-authoritarian societies, collective instruction includes historical research, discussion and critical debate. It implies ‘the internalization of the past and acknowledgment of some sort of responsibility for past actions. Responsibility, unlike guilt can be collective and between generations’. But as Siobhan Kattago warns, ‘it is important to make the distinction between collective instruction as education and collective instruction as ideology’.7 Although she does not elaborate upon the difference, she seems to have in mind the inculcation of the

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values consistent with democratic citizenship: liberal pluralism and respect for cultural difference. In short, living in a democracy means that individuals ‘can agree to disagree’. Or, as Kattago puts it, Consensus isn’t possible on all issues, particularly on ones that are based upon history or culture. The best we can hope for is respectful disagreement.8

Agreeing to disagree is neither a whitewashing of the past nor a grand narrative, but an acknowledgment of different conflicting memories of historical events.9 As a nation in the making, South Africa has taken halting steps to come to terms with its apartheid past. Its primary attempt to come to terms with its past was with the (memory) work of its Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Notwithstanding its many accomplishments, the TRC arguably accentuated divisions by defining people according to the categories of ‘victim’ and ‘perpetrator’. In positing a victim–perpetrator binary,10 the TRC reserved the latter label for those who committed gross human rights abuses and regarded those individuals − not groups − so violated as their victims. These categories have shaped perceptions about the past and how people deal with this legacy in the present. They have produced a reductionist understanding of the conflicts of the apartheid era. According to Tristan Anne Borer, If truth is the first casualty of war, then complexity must surely be the second. In the midst of conflict, it is easier and more satisfying for people to think in terms of absolutes. People want to see things in terms of black and white, with little acknowledgment that there may in fact be many shades of gray. And so, under apartheid, people were either victims or they were perpetrators, and the reality of a much more complex relationship between the two was buried. One’s life might depend on having a clear distinction between enemy and ally. However, in post-apartheid South Africa, the search for and process of reconciliation may well be better served by moving beyond the black and white of victims and perpetrators to a more nuanced understanding of a landscape painted in shades of gray.11

I agree with Borer that we need to problematize the perpetrator–victim binary; that such categories should not be thought of in either/or terms but that we should acknowledge the hierarchies of perpetrators and victims. In short, not all victims or perpetrators are equal. Claire Moon notes that the TRC’s construction of South Africa’s history as a catalogue of human rights violations is a departure from extant narratives framed by concepts such as oppression and exploitation. She attributes this to the ascendancy of international human rights discourses that shaped the country’s

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reconciliatory process.12 But she is critical of the narrative of reconciliation that served as the TRC’s political imperative. She holds that Reconciliation works as an organizing category that seeks and imposes concordance in place of contestation, conditioning the way in which South Africa’s history is related in symbolic and material ways; through the discourse of forgiveness at the public hearings, and through the negation of criminal trials in favour of amnesty, Reconciliation conditions what gets told and how. It demands a particular story about South Africa’s past to be told, a story of a cleavage between or violent ‘splitting’ of ‘two’ communities that requires healing.13

Moon adds that the TRC has brought neither narrative closure nor concordance between contending perspectives on the past. Instead, the reconciliation projected by the TRC was unable to fully redeem the antagonisms of the past and indeed continues to generate new conflicts in ‘post-reconciliation’ South Africa.14 Certain groups (mnemonic communities) have chosen amnesia or very selective remembering rather than confronting the past in an honest and forthright fashion. As we have seen, most white military veterans have tended to regard themselves as ‘victims’ rather than ‘perpetrators’. And communities such as ex-combatants from the liberation movement have also realized the potential political capital attached to victim status. In a society of limited resources and endemic corruption, this provides the veterans with a bargaining chip within the ranks of the ruling party. For all the ANC’s lip service to an inclusive nationalism, it is obliged to defer to its own constituency. Some of the fault lines of South African society seem to have been exposed by the memory battles related to the armed struggle against apartheid and the concomitant ‘Border War’.

Consensus or contested coexistence? Some have argued that for the sake of suturing the wounds still manifest in South African society, we should forge bonds that emphasize a common identity, one not mired in divisions of the past. To this end, an attempt was made to turn the divisive memory of apartheid into a shared memory of tragedy that regards both victims and perpetrators as being damaged by human rights violations. This imperative is exemplified by the TRC’s reconciliatory narrative constructed around a shared past where virtually everyone was a victim of some sort or the

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other. Others have advocated that post-TRC discourse should rather articulate a vision of society that looks beyond pain and the politics of victimhood. Yesterday’s victims have become today’s survivors and so they would want to stress the embrace of an altogether new identity in which the nation’s sense of worth is projected onto a positive future. But even such an approach cannot ignore the contingent political circumstances out of which reconciliatory politics emerged. The recasting of history and public memory in post-apartheid South Africa is a political project. The negotiation about the meaning and ownership of the past has imposed strains on the country’s fledgling and fragile democratic order. It has contributed to the creation of a fluid political matrix for memory formation and contestation. Various groups or mnemonic communities are engaged in a dialogic relationship with official and national narratives. This is to be welcomed. For consensual history promotes a bland, sanitized national narrative in the name of reconciliation and its proponents, assume – incorrectly in my view – that contestation is likely to undermine the nation-building project. So is there an alternative to consensual history? According to Charles Maier, the historian has a responsibility to produce contrapuntal rather than consensual history. She or he ‘must create a narrative that allows for contending voices, that reveals the aspirations of all actors, the hitherto suppressed and the hitherto privileged’.15 Maier adds: Not all histories must aspire to this multivocal quality. But any history that has politics or conflict at its core, that seeks to encompass the story of a society or regime−that is, a history that seeks to do justice to the public experience of individuals−must work to achieve a contrapuntal narrative.16

If we were to elaborate on this analogy, the historian can be likened to a choirmaster. She or he must recognize that all voices add a dimension to the rendition of a choral item and must be adept at teasing out their individual and collective contributions to the musical performance. But it is not her or his task to make members of the choir (read: mnemonic community) sing in unison for the sake of telling a singular story or producing harmony. Collective memories of conflicts evolve by way of a dialectic of counterpoint and consensus, a process that might be termed dialogical memory making. This study of the ‘war of words’ waged by stakeholders (primarily military veterans from both sides of the erstwhile battle lines) in respect of the ‘Border War’ reveals that consensus has proved elusive and contestation over the meaning of the past has produced social tensions. Antagonists in the racialized

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political squabbles continue to construct (hi)stories that validate their actions and discredit those of their former enemies. The battle lines are being redrawn and war is being waged without recourse to weapons. Instead, it is being waged in the public sphere as ‘memory battles’. There have been recurrent and often very public spats over how certain episodes within living memory should be viewed. Exchanges have become quite vitriolic and vituperative on occasion. In some instances, SADF veterans have threatened violence as a means of silencing those critical of the conduct of the ‘Border War’. The assault of Stellenbosch University philosopher professor Anton van Niekerk by an ex-paratrooper is a case in point.17 The incident reveals that many of the NSG have not been able to unlearn the habits of a bygone era; that they regard a shooting war as preferable to resolving differences of opinion through dialogue. Violence is obviously no solution. But is contestation necessarily a bad thing? Are differences of opinion necessarily inimical to the nation-building project? I am not convinced that we should be prepared to sacrifice a robust democratic culture where differences of opinion are tolerated – even cherished − for the sake of achieving consensus. Nor should we seek an end to such contestation for it is a normal – even necessary – occurrence in the practice of democracy. Instead, we should seek to develop the institutions and structures to manage conflict. Leigh Payne’s Unsettling Accounts (2008) advances the notion of contentious coexistence or a conflictual dialogue approach to democracy in deeply divided societies.18 South Africa demonstrates that new democracies can survive profoundly unsettling and even antidemocratic political discourses. Democracies may even thrive in such climates. Contentious coexistence embraces political contestation as a fundamental pillar of democracy. Moreover, rather than advocating the lofty and elusive goals of consensus, contentious coexistence rests merely on open and democratic debate. Debate about the meaning(s) of the past can also feed into intergenerational dialogue. The generation of whites who have come of age since 1994, who count themselves amongst the ‘born frees’, have comforted themselves with the assumption − rather than knowledge − that they would never have supported apartheid. But they need to be challenged on this score. In 2011, Anthony Akerman’s anti-war play Somewhere on the Border was revived. It was performed at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown, 25 years after it was first staged in front of South African audiences (following a banning that had been in force). Being familiar with the script and its previous incarnation, I wondered whether Somewhere on the Border would speak to audiences in our post-apartheid democratic order. I also mused on what relevance, if any, it might

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have for the new generation of ‘born frees’. My questions were answered when I attended a performance of the play. Peter Frost’s review captured the divergent responses of the mixed – age, gender and race – audience with the observation that: Akerman’s script is agonising to listen to after all these years and the nauseating humour is brilliant, but appalling. Indeed, knowing now what it was hiding, what it would mean, gives the play a dreadful third dimension; as the kids in the audience roared at the disgusting jokes, the older members stayed terribly, terribly still.19

As a former national serviceman, I cringed at the recall of the ribald humour, the denigration of women, the homophobic diatribes, as well as the racism of the barracks and training grounds. I winced at being reminded of the machismo and the false bravado of soldiers in an operational situation. I felt a deep sense of relief that my own sons had not been subjected to military service. Yet, I realized how the play might facilitate intergenerational dialogue, especially between fathers and sons. Whilst chatting with some of the cast after the show, I was struck by how profoundly they were affected by their participation in the play. Although they had no military experience to speak of, they were able to identify with Akerman’s characters. But, above all, I was overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions that the performance prompted in me. I came away wondering how many of the national service generation bore emotional and mental scars on account of their experiences, and whether watching such performances might open up spaces for dialogue. By way of a conclusion, I must echo Leigh Payne’s cautionary warning that ‘truth’ is unable to settle accounts with the past and that ‘healing truths’ have proved equally elusive. The South African model of reconciliation through truth is flawed as it has not successfully resolved the deep and enduring political divisions they confront.20 There can never be one truth about the apartheid past nor the place of the ‘Border War’ in that history. It will remain a point of contestation and it is likely that this book will further conflictual dialogue rather than consensus. If so, it will have achieved its aim.

Notes Introduction 1

Peter Ehrenhaus and Richard Morris, Cultural Legacies of the Vietnam War: Uses of the Past in the Present (Norwood, NJ: Ablex Publishing Co., 1990), pp. 22, 224. 2 T.G. Ashplant, et al., ‘The Politics of War Memory and Commemoration: Contexts, Structures and Dynamics’ in Timothy G. Ashplant, Graham Dawson and Michael Roper (eds), Commemorating War: The Politics of Memory (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2004), p. 21. 3 Lorraine Ryan, ‘Memory, Power and Resistance: The Anatomy of a Tripartite Relationship’, Memory Studies, 4, 2 (2011), 165–166. 4 Natasha Norman, Notes to the exhibit ‘Not My War’ by David Brits, Michaelis Art School, University of Cape Town cited by Rebecca Davis, ‘Whose war was it anyway?’, Daily Maverick, 7 September 2012, at http://www.dailymaverick.co.za/ article/2012-07-09-whose-war-was-it-anyway/#.Ubq9UOemjfE (accessed 13 June 2013). 5 See, for instance, Willem Steenkamp, South Africa’s Border War, 1966–1989 (Gibraltar: Ashanti, 1989). 6 David Williams, On the Border: The White South African Military Experience 1965–1990 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2008), p. 117. 7 The term is used interchangeably with ‘Border War’. This phrase is also applied to the Rhodesian bush war waged by the white minority regime against the national liberation movements, where it is also known as the Second Chimurenga or Zimbabwean Liberation War. 8 For instance, Timothy J. Stapleton, A Military History of South Africa: From the Dutch-Khoi Wars to the End of Apartheid (Santa Barbara, CA.: Praeger, 2010), p. 152. The chapter titled ‘Apartheid Wars’ covers the period 1948–1994. He also (p. 185) alludes to South Africa’s ‘Border War’ in Namibia and Angola. 9 This periodization corresponds to the brief of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. 10 John J. McCuen, ‘Hybrid Wars’, Military Review, March–April 2008, 107–113 cited in Leopold Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War 1966–1989 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2013), p. 436. 11 Department of Information and Publicity, SWAPO of Namibia, To Be Born a Nation: The Liberation Struggle for Namibia (London: Zed Press, 1987).

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12 C.W. Erichsen, ‘Shoot to Kill: Photographic Images in the Namibian Liberation/ Bush War’, Kronos, 27 (November. 2001), 158. 13 Janet Cherry, Umkhonto weSizwe (Auckland Park: Jacana, 2011), p. 141. It has been suggested that following the launch of Operation Vula in 1986 and the coup in the Transkei, that the ‘homeland’ was a liberated zone. See Stapleton, A Military History of South Africa, p. 166. I am not convinced by this. 14 I owe much of the argument in this paragraph to Luise White and Miles Larmer’s proposal for the conference titled ‘Mobile Soldiers and the Un-national Liberation of Southern Africa’, University of Sheffield, UK, 22–23 March 2013. 15 Willem Steenkamp, Freedom Park: Roots and Solutions (Durban: Just Done Publications, 2007), p. 4. 16 See Gary Baines and Peter Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Southern Africa’s Late-Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008); Sue Onslow (ed.), Cold War in Southern Africa: White Power, Black Liberation (London: Routledge, 2009). 17 Ashplant, et al., ‘The Politics of War Memory’, pp. 54–55. 18 Emmanuel Sivan and Jay Winter, ‘Setting the Framework’ in War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 24, 28. 19 Eviatar Zerubavel, Time Maps: Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003); Wulf Kansteiner, ‘Finding Meaning in Memory: A Methodological Critique of Collective Memory Studies’, History & Theory, 41 (May 2002), 179–197; James V. Wertsch, ‘Texts of Memory and Texts of History’, L2 Journal, 4 (2012), 9–20. 20 See, for instance, Daniel Levy and Natan Sznaider, The Holocaust Memory in the Global Age (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2006). 21 Kansteiner, ‘Finding Meaning in Memory’, 188–189. 22 Winter and Sivan, War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century, p. 13. 23 Eviatar Zerubavel, ‘Social Memories: Steps to a Sociology of the Past’, Qualitative Sociology, 19 (1997), 286. 24 Ryan, ‘Memory, Power and Resistance’, 156. 25 Jay Winter, ‘Forms of Kinship and Remembrance in the Aftermath of the Great War’ in J. Winter and E. Sivan (eds), War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 40–41, 47–54. 26 E. Lomsky-Feder, ‘Life Stories, War and Veterans: On the Social Distribution of Memories’, Ethos, 32, 1 (2004), 4. 27 Christian Noll, ‘Narratives: The Front Line of Identity Conflicts’, Interculture, 5, 1 (January 2008), 43–52. 28 Wertsch, ‘Texts of Memory and Texts of History’, passim. 29 Zerubavel, Time Maps, p. 2. Wertsch employs the phrase ‘mnemonic standoffs’ to describe similar confrontations involving nations.

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30 Edward Linenthal and Tom Engelhardt (eds), History Wars: The Enola Gay and Other Battles for the American Past (New York, 1996); Stuart McIntyre, The History Wars (Carlton, Victoria: Melbourne University Press, 2004). 31 Michael J. Hogan, ‘The Enola Gay Controversy: History, Memory and the Politics of Presentation’ in Michael J. Hogan (ed.), Hiroshima in History and Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 200–232. 32 James V. Wertsch, ‘Collective Memory’ in Pascal Boyer and James V. Wertsch (eds), Memory in Mind and Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 124–132. 33 Winter and Sivan, ‘Setting the Framework’, p. 6. 34 Karl Mannheim, ‘The Problem of Generations’ in Karl Mannheim (ed.), The Sociology of Knowledge (London: Routledge, 1952), p. 286. 35 Efrat Ben-Ze’ev and Edna Lomsky-Feder, ‘The Canonical Generation: Trapped between Personal and National Memories’, Sociology, 43, 6 (2009), 1048. 36 Gary Baines, ‘Shame, Blame or Reaffirmation? White Conscripts Reassess the Meaning of the “Border War” in Post-Apartheid South Africa’, Interculture, 5, 3 (2008), 214–227. 37 G. Baines, ‘Introduction’ to Baines and Vale, Beyond the Border War, p. 8. 38 John Keegan, The Face of Battle (London: Pimlico, 2001 [1976]), p. 46. 39 The Vietnamese refer to conflict as the ‘American War’ because it was the final phase of their anticolonial struggle against a succession of occupiers that included the Chinese and French. See Andrew Wiest, ‘Introduction: An American War?’ in Andrew Wiest (ed.), Rolling Thunder in a Gentle Land: The Vietnam War Revisited (Oxford: Osprey Publishing, 2006), pp. 21–34. 40 Diane Gibson, ‘“The Balsak in the Roof ”: Bush War Experiences and Mediations as Related by White South African Conscripts’ in Lidwien Kapteijns and Annemiek Richters (eds), Mediations of Violence in Africa: Fashioning New Futures from Contested Pasts (Leiden: Brill, 2010).

Chapter 1 1 2 3 4

Sunday Times, Lifestyle section, 23 August 2009, 17. Jeffrey P. Kimball, ‘The Stab-in-the Back Legend and the Vietnam War’, Armed Forces & Society, 14, 3 (Spring 1988), 443–458. Eugene Goddard, ‘Fighting on the Wrong Side of History’, Business Day, 17 February 2011. Anonymous, ‘South Africa’s “swart gevaar” generating new debate’ at http://www. timeslive.co.za/local/2012/03/26/south-africa-s-swart-gevaar-war-generatingnew-debate (accessed 11 June 2013).

Notes 5

6 7 8

9

10

11 12 13 14 15 16

17

18 19 20

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Mike Barno, ‘Watching an American Soldier Die’ at http://nation.time. com/2012/11/20/watching-an-american-soldier-die/ (accessed 15 March 2013). Barno is a dentist who completed a 12-month deployment in eastern Afghanistan with the 3rd Brigade Combat Team of the 25th Infantry Division, based at Forward Operating Base Fenty in Jalalabad. Thus, he was not an active participant in operations but treated casualties. Facebook page for Grensoorlog/Border War 1966–1989 group at http://www. facebook.com/group.php?gid=103819570796. General Jannie Geldenhuys (compiler), We Were There: Winning the War for Southern Africa (Pretoria: Kraal Publishers, 2012). Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), pp. 7–8. Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), p. 125. Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), p. 193. Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), p. 22. Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), p. 7. John A. Lynn, Review of Harari’s ‘Ultimate Experience’, The American Historical Review, 114, 3 (2009), 708–710. Shaun O’Dwyer, ‘The Yasukuni Shrine and the Competing Patriotic Pasts of East Asia’, History & Memory, 22, 2 (Fall/Winter 2010), 150, 164. Stephane Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker, 1914-1918: Understanding the Great War (London: Profile Books, 2000), p. 38. Dominic Harman, ‘“The Truth about Men in the Front Line”: Imagining the Experience of War in Memoirs of the Western Front’, University of Sussex Journal of Contemporary History, 2 (2001) at https://www.sussex.ac.uk/webteam/gateway/file. php?name=2-harman-the-truth-about-men-in-the-front-line&site=15 Harman, ‘“The Truth about Men in the Front Line”: Imagining the Experience of War in Memoirs of the Western Front’, University of Sussex Journal of Contemporary History, 2 (2001) at https://www.sussex.ac.uk/webteam/gateway/file. php?name=2-harman-the-truth-about-men-in-the-front-line&site=15., 12. Samuel Hynes, The Soldiers’ Tale (New York: Pimlico, 1998), p. 16. John Keegan, The Face of Battle (London: Pimlico, 2001 [1976]), p. 48. Hynes, The Soldiers’ Tale, p. 25.

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21 Michael Oakeshott, Experience and Its Modes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966 [1933]. My reading of Oakeshott is mediated by O’Dwyer, op. cit., 147–177. 22 Keegan, The Face of Battle, pp. 36–37. 23 Leopold Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War 1966–1989 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2013), pp. 448, 457. 24 The piece by National Serviceman Dave titled ‘Some Thoughts’ was first published online in Army Talk Magazine (Issue #1, March 2008) and has subsequently been reproduced in a number of print publications such as Appendix N in Jan Breytenbach, Eagle Strike! The Story of the Controversial Airborne Assault on Cassinga 1978 (Sandton: Manie Grove Publishing, 2008), 585–587. An unedited version appears in Geldenhuys, We Were There, pp. 685–687 under the title ‘We Built the Bloody Place’. 25 Gary Baines, ‘Introduction: Challenging the Boundaries, Breaking the Silences’ in Gary Baines and Peter Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Southern Africa’s Late-Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008). 26 WG Sebald, On the Natural History of Destruction (London: Penguin, 2004). 27 Harari, The Ultimate Experience, p. 336, note #137. 28 Daniel Conway, Masculinities, Militarisation and the End Conscription Campaign: War Resistance in Apartheid South Africa (Johannesburg: Wits University Press, 2012), p. 66. 29 Truth and Reconciliation Commission Report, v. 4 (Cape Town: Juta & Co.), pp. 221. 30 TRC Report, v. 4, p. 242. 31 William Minter, ‘The Armored Bubble: Military Memoirs from Apartheid’s Warriors’, African Studies Review, 50, 3 (December 2007), 150–151. 32 J.H. Thompson, An Unpopular War: From Afkak to Bosbefok: Voices of South African National Servicemen (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2006) went through six reprints in almost as many months. 33 In 1989, Prof. Jannie Gagiano of the Department of Political Science, University of Stellenbosch, conducted quantitative research amongst white students on attitudes towards national service. His research indicated that 85 per cent of Afrikaner male students and 55 per cent of English-speaking students indicated that they would never refuse to render military service as a form of political protest. The TRC Report also highlights Gagiano’s remarks that a large majority of white students still viewed communism as a very serious threat. See TRC Report, v. 4, p. 224. It is safe to say that even smaller proportions of the general white male population would have refused to serve. 34 Email from Cameron Blake to the author, 8 November 2010. 35 Blake, Troepie: From Call-Ups to Camps (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2009), p. xii. 36 For example, Gary Green, Stand at Ease: A Reluctant Conscript’s Tale of Military Madness & Mayhem (Wandsbeck: Reach Publishers, 2009).

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37 See Eve Fairbanks, ‘Trophies and Treasured Times’, Mail & Guardian, 25 November 2011, at http://mg.co.za/article/2011-11-25-trophies-and-treasured-times (accessed 28 November 2011). 38 John Nauright, Rugby and the South African Nation: Sport, Cultures, Politics and Power in the Old and New South Africa (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), p. 65. 39 Henriette Roos, ‘Writing from Within: Representations of the Border War in South African Literature’ in Baines and Vale, Beyond the Border War, pp. 141–148. 40 Chester Crocker, High Noon in Southern Africa: Making Peace in a Rough Neighbourhood (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball, 1994), p. 117 refers to Geldenhuys as a ‘soldier’s soldier’. 41 According to Colonel Jan Breytenbach, General Geldenhuys was persuaded to agree to the inclusion of Bravo Group under SADF command when it was pointed out that it would reduce the number of casualties amongst white conscripts. Bravo Group was transformed into Battalion 32 and consisted of white SADF officers and black Angolan soldiers recruited from the remnants of the defeated FNLA and San or Bushmen from the Caprivi Strip. 42 Stapleton, A Military History of South Africa, p. 157. 43 Williams, Springboks, Troepies and Cadres, p. 210. 44 Greg Mills and David Williams, Seven Battles that Shaped South Africa (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2006), p. 21. 45 The SADF seldom referred to PLAN, the Peoples’ Liberation Army of Namibia, because it would have accorded SWAPO’s armed combatants, a degree of legitimation. 46 South African Truth & Reconciliation Commission Report, v. 6, p.185. 47 Philip Frankel, Soldiers in a Storm: The Armed Forces in South Africa’s Democratic Transition (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2000), pp. 23–24. 48 The South African National Defence Force was created in 1994 by amalgamating members of the statutory and non-statutory forces from the apartheid era. 49 Notwithstanding the co-operative posturing of the former SADF members of the nodal point, its establishment actually served to undermine the workings of the TRC. The Act which governed the TRC’s work specified that an amnesty applicant could only qualify for amnesty if they met four specific conditions: first, that they applied in their individual capacity for acts they themselves committed; second, that their actions were political rather than criminal in nature; third, that they made a full disclosure of all the facts; and, fourth, that they acted under orders rather than in their individual capacity. Screening of individuals’ amnesty applications meant that the spirit of this undertaking was being called into question. 50 According to the TRC Report, there were 31 SADF applicants for gross human rights violations committed in South Africa, but each of these was already on their records or in the public domain. There were five applications for violations

200

51 52

53

54 55 56

57

58 59 60 61 62

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Notes committed outside of South Africa, despite uncorroborated reports of large number of violations (TRC Report, v. 6, section 3, ch. 1, p. 183). Elsewhere, the Report records one human rights violations submission and 13 amnesty applications for offences committed by SADF soldiers in Namibia. See TRC Report, v. 2, #76. TRC Report, v. 6, p. 186. Only two conscripts applied for amnesty. Sean Mark Callaghan applied for and was refused amnesty for acts of omission regarding his role while attached to a Koevoet unit during 1983. Kevin Hall was granted amnesty for his role in killings as part of a unit on patrol during the mid-1970s. The latter admitted to having executed captured SWAPO combatants (TRC Report, v. 2 ch. 2, #105–106). Their testimony was carefully scrutinized and rebutted by the Contact Bureau’s commentary on the TRC Report. This has been reproduced as Appendix A of Malan, op. cit., pp. 463–465 and in Hamann, op. cit., pp. 221–223. Karen Whitty, Review of Clive Holt, At Thy Call We Did Not Falter at http://www. iafrica.com/pls/procs/SEARCH.ARCHIVE?p_content_id=474801&p_site_id=2 (accessed on 22 August 2005). Hilton Hamann, Day of the Generals (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2001), p. 130. TRC Report, v. 4, p. 224, footnote 3. General C.L. Viljoen, ‘The Honourable Actions of Our Soldiers’ (translated from the Afrikaans by Cobus Venter) at http://www.rhodesia.nl/viljoen2.htm (accessed 2 February 2006). Magnus Malan, My Lewe Saam Met Die SA Weermag. Translated as My Life with the SA Defence Force (Pretoria: Protea Boekhuis, 2006). For an elaboration of this argument, see my review ‘The Life of a Uniformed Technocrat Turned Securocrat’, Historia, 54, 1 (May 2009), 314–327. See also Chris Barron, ‘Vile, Venal Enemy of the People’ (Obituary for Magnus Malan), Sunday Times, 23 July 2011, at http:// www.timeslive.co.za/sundaytimes/2011/07/23/vile-venal-enemy-of-the-people (accessed 25 July 2011). Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 387. David Welsh, The Rise and Fall of Apartheid (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball, 2009), p. 410. Chris Barron, ‘Tim McNally: Attorney-General Who Let Magnus Malan Walk Free’ (Obituary), Sunday Times, 11 August 2013. Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 417. Mahmood Mamdani, ‘Amnesty or Impunity? A Preliminary Critique of the Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa’, Diacritics, 32, 3/4 (Fall–Winter 2002), 35. The Report lists the SADF as the fourth ‘perpetrator organisation’, trailing the IFP, SAP and ANC. Tristan Anne Borer, ‘A Taxonomy of Victims and Perpetrators: Human Rights and Reconciliation in South Africa’, Human Rights Quarterly, 25 (2003), 1102.

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64 Tristan Anne Borer, ‘A Taxonomy of Victims and Perpetrators: Human Rights and Reconciliation in South Africa’, Human Rights Quarterly, 25 (2003), 1102 65 It is worth noting that the military pact arranged between MK and the SADF excluded other branches of the security forces such as the SAP. See Frankel, Soldiers in a Storm, p. 27. 66 Richard Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization: The Diplomatic, Economic, and Military Battlegrounds of the Namibian War of Independence’ (unpublished manuscript, 2011), 278–279. 67 The SADF subscribed nominally to COIN doctrine but attached more significance to practice than theory. Koevoet had no formal COIN doctrine and never fell in line with the army’s WHAM efforts. See Anita M. Grossmann, ‘The South African Military and Counterinsurgency: An Overview’ in Deane-Peter Baker and Evert Jordaan (eds), South Africa and Contemporary Counterinsurgency: Roots, Practices, Prospects (Claremont, CA: UCT Press, 2010), pp. 90, 96. 68 Arn Durand, Zulu Zulu Golf: Life and Death with Koevoet (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2011), p. 122. 69 South African Truth & Reconciliation Report, v. 2 (Cape Town: Juta, 1998), ch. 2, #82. 70 Copies of ‘trophy’ photographs obtained from John Liebenberg show evidence of abuse and torture of PLAN captives, as well as mutilation of their corpses. 71 Sean Callaghan, an SADF conscript who was trained as a medic and worked with Koevoet for seven months in 1983, surmised that SWAPO prisoners were executed. See his testimony to the TRC health sector hearings, Cape Town, 17 June 1997, at http://shr.aaas.org/southafrica/trc-med/healthday1.htm#SUBMISSION%20 BY%20 MILITARY (accessed on 10 February 2011). Durand mentions that SWAPO prisoners were routinely executed but his account must be treated with caution. Eugene de Kock refutes certain of Durand’s claims but not this. See my review of Durand’s book for the Sunday Independent, Lifebooks section, 9 September 2012 (‘The Dirty War’). 72 Peter Stiff, Covert War: Koevoet Operations Namibia 1979–1989 (Alberton: Galago Books, 2004), p. 488. 73 According to the TRC’s discussion of its mandate (TRC Report v. 1, ch. 4), it framed its description of offences committed by the apartheid state and its agencies (as well as the ANC and its) in the language of ‘gross human rights violations’. It employs the same language when discussing the abuses of the SADF and its surrogates in occupied Namibia and neighbouring states covered in v. 2 of the Report. In response to my query as to why this was the case, former TRC investigator John Daniel replied: … we in the research dept never gave any consideration to classifying any atrocities as war crimes or crimes against humanity. Two reasons probably.

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Notes One, none of us was sufficiently schooled in the intricacies of international law to even think in those terms, let alone ponder whether to classify any particular outrage as such; the second is that we were thoroughly schooled in the idiom of gross human rights violations and nobody ever suggested we should go beyond that paradigm so we did not. In retrospect, a pity and a weakness. But to do so we would have needed some good international legal specialists in our ranks and we did not [have any]. Email from John Daniel to the author, 15 May 2012.

74 Chris Saunders, ‘South Africa’s Role in Namibia/Angola: The Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Account’ in Baines and Vale, Beyond the Border War (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008), p. 267. 75 ‘My Own Experience in Accessing Material in the Department of Defence Archives since the Promulgation of the Promotion of Access to Information Act Is Recounted’ in C. Saunders (ed.), Documenting Liberation Struggles in Southern Africa: Select Papers from the Nordic Africa Documentation Project Workshop, Pretoria, Nov. 2009 (Uppsala: Nordic Africa Institute, 2010), pp. 87–94. It should be noted that SWAPO insists on vetting researchers who apply for access to the organization’s archives. 76 For instance, the documents pertaining to the assassination of Anton Lubowski were amongst those destroyed. See TRC Report, v. 2, ch. 2, #152. 77 See Wolfram Wette, The Wehrmacht: History, Myth, Reality (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), p. 207. 78 Valerie Hébert, ‘From Clean Hands to Vernichtungskrieg’ in Kim C. Priemel and Alexa Stiller (eds), Reassessing the Nuremberg Military Tribunals: Transitional Justice, Trial Narratives, and Historiography (New York: Berghahn Books, 2012), p. 203. 79 Bill Niven, ‘Introduction: German Victimhood at the Turn of the Millennium’, in Bill Niven (ed.), Germans as Victims: Remembering the Past in Contemporary Germany (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006). 80 Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War, p. 458.

Chapter 2 1 2

3

Yuval Noah Harari, The Ultimate Experience: Battlefield Revelations and the Making of Modern War Culture, 1450–2000 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), p. 20. Karen Batley, ‘Socialized Warriors, Not Heroes: Anti-Heroic Subversion in Writing by South African Soldiers in the Angolan and South West African Border Wars’ (unpublished paper, n.d.). L.B. Lewis, The Tainted War: Culture and Identity in Vietnam War Narratives (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1985).

Notes 4

5 6 7 8

9 10

11

12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

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Ron Kovic, Born on the Fourth of July (New York: Pocket Books, 1977), p. 55; Philip Caputo, Rumours of War (London: Arrow Books, 1977), p. 6; Michael Herr, Dispatches (Reading: Picador, 1979 [1977]), p. 169. Neil Roos, Ordinary Springboks: White Servicemen and Social Justice in South Africa, 1939–1961 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), p. 30. Marita Sturken, Tangled Memories: The Vietnam War, the AIDS Epidemic, and the Politics of Remembering (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997), p. 3. For example, P.J. Haasbroek, Heupvuur (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 1974) and J.C. Steyn, Op pad na die grens (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 1976). H.E. Koornhof, ‘Works of Friction: Current South African War Literature’ in J. Cock and L. Nathan (eds), War and Society: The Militarisation of South Africa (Cape Town: David Phillips, 1989), p. 276. Louis Kruger, ‘n Basis Oorkant die Grens (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 1984). Koornhof, ‘Works of Friction: Current South African War Literature’ in J. Cock and L. Nathan (eds),War and Society: The Militarisation of South Africa (Cape Town: David Phillips, 1989), p. 282. Gordon challenges this interpretation and holds that grensliteratuur was conservative and did not represent a challenge to the status quo. See Robert J. Gordon, ‘Marginalia on Grensliteratuur: or How/Why Is Terror Culturally Constructed in Northern Namibia’, Critical Arts, 5, 3 (1991), 81. It seems to me that grensliteratuur is not monolithic and that it stopped short of constructing a singular narrative. Dorian Haarhoff, The Wild South-West: Frontier Myths and Metaphors in Literature Set in Namibia, 1760–1988 (Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press, 1991), p. 196, citing Hendrik van Coller, ‘Border/Frontier Literature’ in Roger Bauer, et al., Space and Boundaries in Literature: Proceedings of the XIIth Congress of International Comparative Literature Association, Munich 1988 (Munich: Ludicium, 1988), p. 6. Sean Rogers, ‘Fighting Tomorrow: A Study of Selected Southern African War Fiction’ (MA thesis, University of Kwazulu-Natal, 2005), 17. Paul Jay, Global Matters: The Transnational Turn in Literary Studies (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010), passim. Harari, The Ultimate Experience. Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975). Caputo, Rumours of War, p. xv. Herr, Dispatches, p. 16. Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 60. Paratus, August 1988, cited in Denis Herbstein and John Evenson, The Devils Are Among Us: The War for Namibia (London: Zed Books, 1989), p. 99. William Broyles, Jr. ‘Why Men Love War’, Esquire, November 1984, 55–56. Caputo, Rumours of War, p. xvi. Herr, Dispatches, p. 60.

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24 Mark Behr, The Smell of Apples (London: Abacus, 1995), p. 12. 25 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 57. 26 Joanna Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing: Face-to-Face Killing in TwentiethCentury Warfare (New York: Basic Books, 1999), p. 220. 27 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 70. 28 James Webb, Fields of Fire (Englewood Cliffs, 1978), p. 336. 29 Caputo, Rumours of War, pp. 308–310. 30 See, for instance, Daniel Lang, Casualties of War (New York: Hodder & Stoughton, 1969). 31 Karl Marlantes, Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War (London: Corvus, 2010). 32 Alexander Strachan, ‘n Wêreld sonder Grense (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 1984) 33 Gordon, ‘Marginalia on Grensliteratuur’. 34 Arn Durand, Zulu Zulu Golf: Life and Death with Koevoet (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2011). 35 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, p. 48. 36 Herr, Dispatches, p. 52. 37 Jerry Lembcke, The Spitting Image: Myth, Memory and the Legacy of Vietnam (New York: New York University Press, 1998), p. 118. 38 W.D. Ehrhart, Passing Time: Memoir of a Vietnam Veteran against the War (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995 [1986]), p. 19. 39 Lang, Casualties of War. 40 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, p. 76. 41 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, pp. 68–71. 42 John Del Vecchio, The 13th Valley (New York: St Martin’s Griffin, 1982), p. 571. 43 Strachan, ‘n Wêreld sonder Grense. 44 Lewis, The Tainted War, p. 161. 45 Cited in Philip K. Jason, Acts and Shadows: The Vietnam War in American Literary Culture (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000), p. 212. 46 Feinstein, In Conflict, pp. 80–81. 47 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, p. 98. 48 Marius van Niekerk and Peter Tucker, Behind the Lines: Healing the Mental Scars of War: The Story of a South African Parabat (2007, n.p.); Clive Holt, At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A Frontline Account of the 1988 Angolan War, as Seen through the Eyes of a Conscripted Soldier (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2004). 49 Ehrhart, Passing Time, p. 15. 50 Damon Galgut, The Beautiful Screaming of Pigs (London: Scribners, 1991), p. 53. 51 Jeffrey P. Kimball, ‘The Stab-in-the Back Legend and the Vietnam War’, Armed Forces & Society, 14, 3 (Spring 1988), 443–458. 52 Marlantes, Matterhorn, p. 489. 53 Lewis, The Tainted War, p. 85. 54 Herr, Dispatches, p. 78.

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55 Tobey Herzog, Vietnam War Stories: Innocence Lost (London: Harper Collins, 1992), pp. 46–59. 56 Tobey Herzog, Vietnam War Stories: Innocence Lost (London: Harper Collins, 1992), p. 52. 57 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 113. 58 Sheila Roberts, ‘The Invisible Enemy: South African Border War Narratives’ in Readings in the Post-Colonial Literatures in English (Atlanta, GA: Rodopi, 1993), p. 93. 59 Andrew Martin, Receptions of War: The Vietnam War in American Culture (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1993). 60 Marlantes, Matterhorn. 61 Caputo, Rumours of War, p. 82. 62 Herr, Dispatches, p. 59. 63 Lewis, The Tainted War, p. 80. 64 Karen Batley, ‘The Language of Landscape: The Border Terrain in the Writing of South African Troops’ in English Usage in Southern Africa, 23 (Pretoria, 1992). 65 Behr, The Smell of Apples, p. 157. 66 Kruger, ‘n Basis Oorkant die Grens, pp. 36–40. 67 Ehrhart, Passing Time, p. 244. 68 Frederick Downs, The Killing Zone: My Life in the Vietnam War (New York: Norton, 1993 [1978]), p. 111. 69 Steve Earle, Doghouse Roses (London: Mariner Books, 2002), pp. 160–161. 70 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 121. 71 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 150. 72 Ehrhart, Passing Time, p. 17. 73 Sheila Roberts, He’s My Brother (Johannesburg: AD Donker, 1977). 74 Etienne Van Heerden, ‘My Cuban’ in Mad Dog and Other Stories (London, 1995) [originally published in Afrikaans, 1983]. 75 Tim O’Brien, If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home (New York: Broadway Books, 1999, [1973]), p. 131. 76 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, p. 80. 77 Gordon, ‘Marginalia on Grensliteratuur’, pp. 5–6. 78 Batley, ‘The Language of Landscape’, 17. 79 Andrew, Buried in the Sky, p. 71. 80 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 70. 81 Bourke, The Intimate History of Killing, p. 22. 82 Caputo, Rumours of War, pp. xix, 160. 83 Matthew Blatchford, ‘Count to Forty, Count to Forty Eight’ in Forces’ Favourites (Johannesburg: Taurus, 1987), p. 156. This figure was repeatedly cited in official SADF statements and propaganda. 84 Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 55. 85 Marlantes, Matterhorn.

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86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94

Caputo, Rumours of War, p. xiv. Caputo, Rumours of War, p. 320. Feinstein, In Conflict, p. 73. Ehrhart, Passing Time. Downs, The Killing Zone, p. 201. David Halberstam, One Very Hot Day (New York: Houghton Miffin, 1967). Jason, Acts and Shadows, p. 124. Gordon, ‘Marginalia on Grensliteratuur’. A well-known example is Larry Heinemann, Paco’s Story (London: Penguin Books, 1979). 95 John Katzmann, ‘From Outcast to Cliché: How Film Shaped, Warped and Developed the Image of the Vietnam Veteran’, Journal of American Culture, 16 (Spring 1993), 7–23. 96 Forces’ Favourites, pp. 105–118. 97 Daniel Levy and Natan Sznaider, ‘Memory Unbound: The Holocaust and the Formation of Cosmopolitan Memory’, European Journal of Social Theory, 5, 1 (2002), 87–88.

Chapter 3 1 2

3

4

5 6

7

This narrative is based largely on interviews with Robert Wilson in Bloemfontein, 14 November 2012 and Graham Danney, Johannesburg, 5 December 2012. Maxwell Leigh, Captives Courageous: South African Prisoners of World War II (Johannesburg: Ashanti Press, 1992). Karen Horn of the University of Stellenbosch is working on a PhD thesis on South African POWs during and after World War II. A few SAAF pilots were also captured during the Korean War. The most famous South African POWs from World War II are men of letters such as Uys Krige and Laurens van der Post, who have referred to their experiences in literary works. Michael J. Allan, Until the Last Man Comes Home: POWs, MIAs, and the Unending Vietnam War (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), p. 134. Dalia Gavriely, ‘Israel’s Code of Captivity and the Personal Stories of Yom Kippur War Ex-POWs’, Armed Forces & Society, 33, 1 (2006), 94–105. Annette Seegers, The Military in the Making of Modern South Africa (London: IB Tauris, 1996), p. 212; Rodney Warwick, ‘Operation Savannah: A Measure of SADF Decline, Resourcefulness and Modernisation’, Scientia Militaria, 40, 3 (2012), 382, 396, n. 198. In a Carte Blanche programme broadcast on M-Net, Colonel (rtd) Jan Breytenbach made the claim that he had watched these events unfold from the vantage

Notes

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10 11

12

13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20

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point of an OP (observation post) and that no shots had been exchanged. This unsubstantiated claim depicted the men as ‘cowards’ and riled my informer who held that he and his companions had been fortunate to escape with their lives. Wilson claimed and Danney vouched for the fact that a shot had passed through the former’s shirt, and that Wiehahn had sustained slight shrapnel wounds to an ankle. Breytenbach seemed to think that the men should have fought to their deaths rather than surrender. Both Wilson and Danney mentioned that silent but ominous figures lurked in the background during their initial interrogations. It is possible that the SADF expected that the captives would be shot in retaliation for the 17 Cubans that had been executed by UNITA forces at Gaga Coutinho. See Edward George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale (London: Frank Cass, 2005), p. 112. Minister van Verdediging (MV) [Minister of Defence] 4/138, Transcript of interview by Military Intelligence (MID), 17 December 1975. The SADF issued a statement that the captured mechanics had inadvertently driven across the SWA/Angola border after the event became public knowledge. It clung to its story in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Interview with Cheryl Wilson, Bloemfontein, 14 November 2012. In the first letter that was delivered to his parents (in January 1977), Robert Wilson made a point about correcting the disinformation spread by the SADF about their capture in Angola. He wrote: ‘I was told that when we were captured the army said that we had driven over the border. This is rubbish because we were captured about 750 kilometres north of the border.’ Letter from Robert Wilson to parents, 15 October 1976. Graeme Addison, ‘Censorship of the Press in South Africa during the Angolan War: A Case Study of News Manipulation and Suppression’ (MA thesis, Rhodes University, 1980), p. 217. The comment appeared on 20 December 1975. Cited in Piero Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions: Washington, Havana, Pretoria (Alberton: Galago, 2003), pp. 323–324. The South African Democracy Education Trust (SADET), The Road to Democracy, V. 2: 1970–1980 (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2006), p. 55. Minister van Verdediging (MV) [Minister of Defence] 4/138, Telex, 8 January 1976; MI/106/23 Communication re: ‘Omstandighede Waarin Eie en Ander Troepe Krygsgevange Geneem Is’ from HSI to the Sec., BOSS, 8 August 1978. Fred Bridgland, Savimbi: Key to Africa (Sevenoaks, Kent, 1988), p. 205. Rand Daily Mail, 14 January 1976 (‘SA men flown to Khartoum’). Addison, ‘Censorship of the Press in South Africa during the Angolan War’, p. 220. Addison, ‘Censorship of the Press in South Africa during the Angolan War’ p. 242 n. 103; George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991, p. 93, n. 235. George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991, p. 72.

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Notes

21 The mercenaries comprised nine Brits, namely: John Clifford Evans, Cecil Martin Foruin [Fortune?], Malcom Macintyre, Michael Wisman, Andrew Kenzie, John Memmock, John Jawler, Kevin John Marchant and Costas Georgiou (aka Col Callan); two Americans, namely: Daniel Geartheart and Gary Acher; and an Argentinian: Gustavo Grillo. 22 George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, pp. 108–110. 23 The Star, 7 June 1976, p. 1 (‘Late Trial for SA Seven’). Three Cubans were being held by the SADF. 24 The Star, 7 June 1976, p. 1 (‘Late Trial for SA Seven’). 25 Unidentified newspaper clipping (‘Eerste nuus van 7 in Angola’). 26 Die Volksblad, 31 August 1976 (‘Vermiste skutter na 2 jare huis toe’). 27 For details of these negotiations, see G. Baines, ‘The Saga of South African POWs in Angola, 1975–82’, Scientia Militaria: Journal of South African Military History, 40, 2 (2012). 28 Rapport, 3 September 1978, p. 2 (‘Angolese wou hulle skiet’). 29 Rand Daily Mail, 1 September 1978, p. 3 (‘SA and Angola Good to PoWs’). 30 Rapport, 3 September 1978, p. 2 (‘Angolese wou hulle skiet’) 31 Email from Robert Wilson to the author, 3 December 2012. 32 The bulk of these letters were passed on to a journalist by the family just prior to Robert’s release and never returned. Email from Wilson to the author, 3 December 2012. 33 Die Volksblad, 31 August 1978, p. 1 (‘Ouers had hele tyd hoop vir seun’). Only one such letter has survived. 34 Danney reckoned that the Springbok Radio signal was boosted to enable them to tune into programmes such as Forces Favourites. 35 The Citizen, 4 September 1978, p. 4 (‘Joyous Tears and Hugs for the Boys Who Came Home’). 36 Sunday Express, 3 September 1978, 2 (‘Fantastic Shouts Graham as They Blink Back Tears of Joy’). Terblanche was promoted from corporal to sergeant upon his repatriation but this clearly caused some resentment amongst his companions. 37 Sunday Times, 3 September 1978, p. 5 (‘The Great Escape Bid’). 38 Addison, ‘Press Censorship during the Angolan War’, p. 220. 39 Not all editors were party to the NPU agreement. The HNP mouthpiece, Die Afrikaner, proved unwilling to comply with this moratorium. See Baines, ‘Saga of South African POWs’ for more on the relationship between the press and the Defence Ministry. 40 Die Afrikaner, 21 October 1977. 41 George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, p. 303. 42 Vorster presumably believed the stories of American POWs/MIAs being held captive in Vietnam after 1973. Yet, the Vietnamese had set a precedent for the exchange of POWs during the war rather than at its end. See Allen, Until the Last Man Comes Home, p. 43.

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43 MV 4/138, HSAW/91/39/1, Notes of a meeting between the Minister of Defence and Next-of-Kin of South African POWs held in Angola, Pretoria, 4 November 1976. 44 MV 4/138, MV/MS/62/14, Notes of a meeting between the Minister of Defence and Next-of-Kin of South African POWs held in Angola, Pretoria, 18 November 1976. 45 Unidentified newspaper clipping (‘Parents Differ on POW Approach’). 46 MV 5/73, Minutes of a Meeting between the Ministers of Defence and Foreign Affairs with the Next-of-Kin of POWs in Angola, 2 June 1977. 47 MV 4/138, Letter from Minister of Defence to Minister of Foreign Affairs, 24 July 1977. 48 Johan Coetzee, ‘Ons krygsgevangenes in Angola’ (deel 2), Huisgenoot, 19 October 1978, 92–96. 49 The Star, 4 September 1978, p. 7 (‘Soldiers Home to VIP Welcome from Top Brass’). 50 Rand Daily Mail, 4 September 1978, p. 1 (‘PoWs Passed Mentally Fit’). 51 Lantern, January 1984, p. 77. 52 Huisgenoot, 19 October 1978, p. 96 (‘Nee, Ons is nie Helde nie’). 53 See, for instance, Rapport, 3 September1978, p. 3, ‘Angola – Album’ which devoted the entire page to the reproduction of these images. 54 The Friend, 4 September 1978, p. 1 (‘OFS Soldier is Not Bitter’). 55 The Star, 4 September 1978, p. 7 (‘Commended for Fortitude’). 56 Sunday Times, 3 September 1978, p. 1 (‘Home! Dramatic PoW Swop’). 57 The Friend, 4 September 1978, p. 1 (‘OFS Soldier Is Not Bitter’). 58 The Citizen, 15 September 1978, p. 7 (‘Coming Home Can Be Difficult’). 59 Eugene de Lange’s behaviour after his release suggests an inability to come to terms with repressed trauma. Within a year of his release, he had married an older woman with four children. He was subsequently charged with child abuse but pleaded diminished responsibility for his actions – which included burning his adopted children with cigarettes. His defence attorney attributed his behaviour to his incarceration in an Angolan prison when he argued in mitigation of sentence. It is difficult to know whether de Lange’s solitary confinement was more of a contributory factor than his unstable home environment. Perhaps it was a manifestation of a cycle of ‘learned behaviour’? 60 The Citizen, 15 September 1978, p. 7 (‘Coming Home Can Be Difficult’). 61 The Citizen, 4 September 1979 (‘PoWs – Just 12 Months Later’). 62 Vista, 15 September 1978, p. 29 (‘Stadsraad verwelkom Robert Wilson’). 63 The Friend, 21 September 1978 (‘Sell Story? News to Me – Wilson’) 64 Republican Press were the publishers of Scope magazine, which made a name for itself by challenging the bounds of ‘decency’ defined by apartheid South Africa’s censor board. Its content was salacious and its female centrefold pin-ups ensured that it was widely read and distributed on SADF bases. 65 The Citizen, 9 September 1978, p. 7 (‘PoWs Sell Stories’).

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66 Sunday Times, 15 October 1978, p. 11 (‘Exchange PoWs to Tell Full Story’). For the Van der Mescht story, see my ‘Saga of SA POWs’ and the film Captor and Captive (d. Rina Jooste and Louis Bothma. Full Circle Productions, 2011). Jooste is also working on a dissertation on Van der Mescht. 67 Beeld, 8 September 1979, p. 1 (‘Vier onthou Angola – en goor kos’). 68 Beeld,? September 1989 (‘Pa’s kyk terug op ‘hel’ van Angola-tronk’). 69 Gavriely, ‘Israel’s Cultural Code of Captivity’, passim.

Chapter 4 1

Samuel Hynes, The Soldier’s Tale: Bearing Witness to Modern War (London: Pimlico, 1998), p. 3. 2 Y.N. Harari, ‘Martial Illusions: War and Disillusionment in Twentieth-Century and Renaissance Military Memoirs’, The Journal of Military History, 69, 1 (Jan. 2005), 68. 3 Karen J. Burnell, Nigel Hunt and Peter G. Coleman, ‘Developing a Model of Narrative Analysis to Investigate the Role of Social Support in Coping with Traumatic War Memories’, Narrative Inquiry, 19, 1 (2009), 91–105. This article is reworked as chapter 9 in Nigel C. Hunt, Memory, War and Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 4 P.G. Coleman, ‘Creating a Life Story: The Task of Reconciliation’, The Gerontologist, 39, 2 (1999), 134, cited in Burnell, et al., ‘A Model of Narrative Analysis’, 92. 5 Hunt, Memory, War and Trauma, p. 117. 6 Chris van der Merwe and Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, Narrating Our Healing (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007). 7 Clive Holt, At Thy Call We Did Not Falter (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2005). First published in Australia by Paradigm Media Trust in 2004. I have referenced the South African edition. 8 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 150. 9 K. Whitty, Review of Clive Holt, At Thy Call We Did Not Falter http://www.iafrica. com/pls/procs/SEARCH.ARCHIVE?p_content_id=474801&p_site_id=2, posted 22 August 2005. 10 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 88. 11 On p. 109, Holt reproduces the official SADF statistics for losses of men and materiál in Angola in between September 1978 and March 1988 (Operations Hooper and Modular). According to these figures gleaned from the SADF mouthpiece Paratus, March 1989, p. 14, the SADF lost 31 whereas FAPLA lost 4,768 soldiers. No mention is made of UNITA’s casualties. Elsewhere, Holt is aware of the discrepancies between official statements about the war in Angola and what he saw with his own eyes.

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12 Edgar Dosman, ‘Countdown to Cuito Cuanavale: Cuba’s Angolan Campaign’ in G. Baines and P. Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Late Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Uinisa Press, 2008), pp. 207–228; Piero Gleijeses, ‘Moscow’s Proxy? Cuba and Africa 1975–1988’, Journal of Cold War Studies, 8, 2 (Spring 2006), 3–51 and ‘Cuba and the Independence of Namibia’, Cold War History, 7, 2 (May 2007), 285–303. 13 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 108. 14 Holt, At Thy Call, pp. 94–95. 15 Edward George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale (London: Frank Cass, 2005), p. 227. 16 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 114. 17 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 120. 18 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 121 19 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 122. 20 Barry Fowler, Grensvegter? South African Army Psychologist (Halifax: Sentinel Projects, 1996), pp. 123–127, reproduced in Holt, At Thy Call, pp. 116–120. 21 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 132. 22 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 129. 23 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 131. 24 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 150. 25 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 152. 26 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 191. 27 For example, the fairly conventional combat story of the capture of Guadalcanal by US marines in The Thin Red Line by James Jones was adapted into a film by Terrence Malick that explored the boundaries between binaries such as good/evil, life/death and madness/sanity. See Rose Lucas, ‘Theatres of Extremity: Permeable Subjectivity in The Thin Red Line, paper presented to ‘Frontlines: Gender, Identity and War’ Conference, Monash University, Melbourne, 12–13 July 2002. 28 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 150. 29 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 111. 30 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 164. 31 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 166. 32 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 167. 33 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 175. 34 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 183. 35 Sharon Ouditt, ‘Myths, Memories, and Monuments: Reimagining the Great War’ in Vincent Sherry (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Literature of the First World War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), p. 256. 36 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 187. 37 Holt, At Thy Call, p. 14. 38 Telephone conversation with Clive Holt, 8 February 2006.

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39 Dan P. McAdams, The Stories We Live By: Personal Myths and the Making of Self (New York: Guildford Press, 1993), pp. 67–68. 40 Michele L. Crossley, Introducing Narrative Psychology: Self, Trauma and the Construction of Meaning (Buckingham: Open University Press, 2000), p. 10. 41 Suzette A. Henke, Shattered Subjects: Trauma and Testimony in Women’s LifeWriting (New York: St Martin’s Press, 2000), pp. xii, xv. 42 Gillian Eagle, ‘The Political Conundrums of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder’ in D. Hook and G. Eagle (eds), Psychopathology and Social Prejudice (Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 2002), p. 87. 43 See, for example, Gary Koen, ‘Understanding and Treating Combat-related PostTraumatic Stress Disorder: A Soldier’s Story’, unpublished MA thesis, Rhodes University, 1991. For a review of the extent and nature of post-conflict trauma and other psychosocial problems amongst veterans from the ranks of the statutory and non-statutory forces, see Sasha Gear, ‘The Road Back: Psycho-social Strains of Transition for South Africa’s Ex-combatants’ in Baines and Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War, pp. 245–266. 44 Marius van Niekerk and Peter Tucker, Behind the Lines of the Mind: Healing the Scars of War: The Story of a South African Parabat (self-published, 2007), p. 36. 45 TRC Report, v. 5, p. 360. 46 L. Meskell, ‘Trauma Culture: Remembering and Forgetting in the New South Africa’ in Duncan Bell (ed.), Memory, Trauma and World Politics (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), p. 164. 47 Brandon Hamber, ‘The Burdens of Truth: An Evaluation of the Psychological Support Services and Initiatives Undertaken by the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission’, American Imago, 55, 1 (1998), 13–16. 48 A. Honwana, ‘The Collective Body: Challenging Western Concepts of Trauma and Healing’, Track Two 8, 1 (1999), 30–35. 49 R.W. Eisenhart, ‘You Can’t Hack It, Little Girl: A Discussion of the Covert Psychological Agenda of Modern Combat Training’, Journal of Social Issues 31, 4 (1975), 13–23; Karen Jochelson, ‘War, State and Society: Men, Masculinity and Militarism: Theorising Military Violence’, unpublished paper (1987); Jacklyn Cock, Colonels and Cadres: War and Gender in South Africa (Cape Town: Oxford University Press, 1991); Sasha Gear, ‘Now That the War Is Over: Ex-combatants, Transition and the Question of Violence. A Literature Review’, Violence and Transition Series. Unpublished Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation Report, 2002. 50 G. Dzinesa, ‘The Role of Ex-combatants and Veterans in Violence in Transitional Societies’, concept paper, Violence and Transition Project Roundtable (Braamfontein: Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, 2008), p. 15. 51 B. Harris, ‘Spaces of Violence, Places of Fear: Urban Conflict in Post-apartheid South Africa’, paper presented to Foro Social Mundial Tematico, Cartagena, Colombia, 16–20 June 2003, 11.

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52 Transcript of ‘The War Within’ broadcast on M-Net, 10 June 2001, at http://www. carteblanche.co.za/display/displayPrint.asp?ID=1750 (accessed on 19 January 2006). 53 http://www.saveterans.org.za/ accessed on 12 November 2008. 54 In this text, Van Niekerk relates his story to Peter Tucker who provides editorial comments. See Tucker and Van Niekerk, Behind the Lines. 55 An extract from the film is available at http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=WOEuF6m9vns (accessed on 3 November 2010). Most of the comments on the site were negative. 56 P. Rock, ‘Theoretical Perspectives on Victimization’ in Sandra Walklate (ed.), Handbook of Victims and Victimology (Devon: Willan, 2007). 57 Theodore Nadelson, Trained to Kill: Soldiers at War (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University, 2005), p. 84. 58 S. Garkawe, ‘Modern Victimology: Its Importance, Scope and Relationship with Criminology’, Acta Criminologica, 14, 2 (2001), 94. 59 The TRC, following UN resolutions, declared apartheid a ‘crime against humanity’. Daniel Conway, Masculinities, Militarisation and the End Conscription Campaign: War Resistance in Apartheid South Africa (Johannesburg: University of the Witwatersrand Press, 2012), p. 11 is incorrect to state the TRC declared conscription ‘a crime against humanity’. 60 Gear, Wishing Us Away. 61 M. Van Zyl, J. de Gruchy, S. Lapinsky, S. Lewin and G. Reid, The Aversion Report: Human Rights Abuses of Gay and Lesbians in the South African Defence Force by Health Workers during the Apartheid Era (Cape Town: Simply Said and Done, 1999). 62 Kali Tal, Worlds of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 10. 63 Harari, ‘Martial Illusions’, 47. 64 Joanna Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing: Face-to-Face Killing in TwentiethCentury Warfare (London: Basic Books, 1999). It should be pointed out, however, that Bourke overstates the extent of killing that was up close and personal during the two World Wars, the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Most killings were impersonal and distant on account of the technology that made possible the development of rifles, machine guns, bombs and other weapons of mass destruction. See Jean Elshtain, ‘War in Person’, The New York Times, 5 March 2000, at http://www. nytimes.com/books/00/03/05/reviews/000305.05elshtait.html (accessed 1 May 2013). 65 Martin Evans’, ‘Rehabilitating the Traumatized War Veteran: The Case of the French Conscripts from the Algerian War, 1954–1962’ in Mark Evans and Kenn Lunn (eds), War and Memory in the Twentieth Century (Oxford: Berg, 1997), pp. 76–83; Raphaelle Branche and Jim House, ‘Silence on State Violence during the Algerian

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69 70 71

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Notes War of Independence: France and Algeria, 1962–2007’ in Efrat Ben-Ze’ev, Ruth Ginio and Jay Winter (eds), Shadows of War: A Social History of Silence in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 123–124. Ross McGarry and Sandra Walklate, ‘The Soldier as Victim: Peering through the Looking Glass’, British Journal of Criminology, 51 (2011), 903. Richard Holmes, Dusty Warriors (London: Harper Perennial 2007), p. 345. S. Layton, ‘Aleksandr Polezhaev and Remembrance of War in the Caucasus: Constructions of the Soldier as Victim’, Slavic Review, 58 (1999), 566 cited in McGarry and Walklate, ‘The Soldier as Victim’, 904. Israeli veterans of the 1973 Yom Kippur War seem to buck this trend. See Efrat Ben-Ze’ev and Edna LomskyFeder, ‘The Canonical Generation: Trapped between Personal and National Memories’, Sociology, 43, 6 (2009). See, for instance, G. Baines and S. Gear, ‘Military Veterans as Victims’ in R. Peacock (ed.), Victimology in South Africa (Pretoria: Van Schaik, 2013), pp. 263–273. Peter Novick, The Holocaust and Collective Memory: The American Experience (London: Bloomsbury, 1999), p. 8. T.G. Ashplant, G. Dawson and M. Roper (eds), ‘The Politics of War Memory and Commemoration: Contexts, Structures and Dynamics’ in Commemorating War: The Politics of Memory (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2004), p. 25. Margaret Macmillan, The Use and Abuses of History (London: Profile Books, 2009), p. 59. Marie Smyth, ‘Remembering in Northern Ireland: Victims, Perpetrators and Hierarchies of Pain and Responsibility’ in Brandon Hamber (ed.), Past Imperfect: Dealing with the Past in Northern Ireland and Societies in Transition (Johannesburg: Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation, 1998), pp. 31–49.

Chapter 5 1

2

3

Anna Lisa Tota, ‘Collective Memories at “Work”: The Public Remembering of Contested Pasts’, in Frederick Englestad (ed.), Comparative Studies of Culture and Power (Amsterdam: JAI Imprint, 2003), pp. 65, 68, 82. For expositions of the derivation and morality of this notion, see Sahr ConwayLanz, Collateral Damage: Americans, Noncombatant Immunity, and Atrocity after World War II (New York: Routledge, 2006); William Andrew Myers, ‘How Civilians Became Targets: The Moral Catastrophe of “Collateral Damage”’ at http://www. wickedness.net/Evil/Evil%207/myers%20paper.pdf. A memo by Constand Viljoen, Chief of the Army, enumerated 22 reasons why the SADF regarded Cassinga as a military camp. Viljoen used this ‘intelligence’ to persuade Minister of Defence P. W. Botha that Cassinga was a bona fide military target. Botha, in turn, used the same arguments to overcome Prime Minister B.J.

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Vorster’s reservations about the operation. Vilho Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering: The Cassinga Massacre of Namibian Exiles in 1978 and the Conflicts between Survivors’ memories and Testimonies’ (PhD thesis, University of the Western Cape, 2011), argues that Vorster’s reservations ‘vindicate the argument that the SADF went to Cassinga with full knowledge and authority to kill civilians’ (p. 6). This is a tendentious reading of the political calculations and the military risks that Vorster believed had to be considered before he gave his approval to the operation. 4 Edward George McGill Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid’ (MA thesis, UNISA, 2003). 5 These figures vary considerably according to their sources. The SADF based its figures of enemy losses on intercepted and monitored communications. SWAPO statements inflated the number of casualties in order to emphasize the enormity of the slaughter. Cuban sources initially denied any involvement and later downplayed their losses. The TRC estimated a death toll of at least 1,000, a figure that includes 150 Cubans. See Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa Report, v. 2, p. 51 (Cape Town: Juta & Co., 1998). Piero Gleijeses, who has had access to Cuban sources, confirms the extent of their losses. See ‘The Massacre of Cassinga’ at http://amadlandawonye.wikispaces.com/The+Massacre+of+Cassinga,+Piero+Gleij eses (accessed 26 November 2007). 6 Documentary evidence reveals that the South African security forces created “grave incidents” to justify the operation. See Jan-Bart Gewald, ‘Who Killed Clemens Kapuuo?’ Journal of Southern African Studies, 30 (2004), 571–573 and Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’, pp. 159–160, note #304. 7 Willem Steenkamp, Borderstrike! South Africa into Angola (Durban: Just Done Publications, 2006 [1983]), pp. 15–141. 8 ‘Battle of Cassinga’ at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/battle_of_Cassinga (accessed 18 September 2007). 9 Breytenbach’s use of the word ‘slaughter’ in connection with the trench-clearing might be construed as a tacit admission that the majority of the Cassinga occupants were unarmed. See Jan Breytenbach, Eagle Strike! The Story of the Controversial Airborne Assault on Cassinga 1978 (Sandton: Manie Grove Publishing, 2008), pp. 154–155. 10 Interview with Colonel (retd) Jan Breytenbach, Sedgefield, 30 April 2008. 11 Mike McWilliams was appointed as the ‘official’ SADF photographer for the operation. He was given a 16 mm cine camera and a still camera for the purpose and returned these and the films to Military Intelligence personnel. These films were either never deposited with or possibly removed from the SADF archives although the paratroopers were shown a 16 mm film at a subsequent debriefing. The South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) apparently also screened some footage on television, which had been shot by one of their cameramen who had accompanied Constand Viljoen when the Chief of the Army had flown into Cassinga during the operation. McWilliams also had his own camera with him,

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14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21

22

Notes which was loaded with colour film and with which he shot numerous images. The paratroopers also retrieved an instamatic camera from Cassinga and were able to develop the film. Email communication from Mike McWilliams, 25 January 2010. See also Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid’, pp. 21–22; Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’, pp. 65–66. Breytenbach, Eagle Strike!, passim. It should be noted that his real target is not SWAPO but Alexander, who is accused of betraying his brothers in arms. See below. See, for instance, Jannie Geldenhuys, A General’s Story: From an Era of War and Peace (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball, 1995), p. 72; Magnus Malan, My Life with the SA Defence Force (Pretoria: Protea Boekhuis, 2006), p. 193. Testimony of Lieutenant Johan Frederick Verster to the TRC, 4 July 1977. Leigh A. Payne, Unsettling Accounts: Neither Truth Nor Reconciliation in Confessions of State Violence (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008), p. 274. The Star, 8 May 1993 (‘Haunted by a Mother’s Look’) cited in Annemarie Heywood, The Cassinga Event (Windhoek: National Archives of Namibia, 1994), pp. 34–35. TRC Report, v. 2, p. 44. Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’. Interview with Colonel (retd) Jan Breytenbach, Sedgefield, 30 April 2008. Breytenbach’s string of publications, which depict his bravado, have made him something of a cult figure in certain circles of SADF military veterans. He is an unabashed apologist for the apartheid army and his justification for Operation Reindeer is replete with self-serving rationalizations. One Cassinga veteran at odds with the camp followers proved to be Pierre Hough, who badmouthed Breytenbach during an unsolicited phone call, 19 March 2008. It appeared from his rant that he felt aggrieved for not being accorded due acknowledgement for his heroic role as part of the anti-tank platoon in withstanding the Cuban counter-attack on Cassinga. He hardly fits Shigwedha’s category of ‘introverts’ who expressed qualms about their conduct or that of the fellow paratroopers. If anything, Hough struck me as a political maverick and ‘loose cannon’. Shigwedha correctly argues that the paratroopers do not speak with one voice about their Cassinga experience. But because his informants chose to remain anonymous, we can hardly be expected to accept their credentials, let alone their testimony. Leo Barnard, ‘Die Gebeurte by Cassinga, 4 Mei 1978 – ‘n Gevallestudie van die Probleme van ‘n Militêre Historikus’, Historia (May 1996), 88–99; ‘The Battle of Cassinga, 4 May 1978: A Historical Reassessment Part 1: The Course of the Battle and Ensuing Controversy’, Journal for Contemporary History, 31 (December 2006) 131–146; ‘The Battle of Cassinga, 4 May 1978: A Historical Reassessment Part 2: Interviews with Two SADF Soldiers’, Journal for Contemporary History, 31 (December 2006), 147–160.

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23 He is not alone in this regard as I, too, have been unable to interview Cassinga survivors and have had to rely on my reading of Shigwedha’s thesis and other SWAPO-sanctioned texts to draw inferences from their testimony. 24 Tommie Lamprecht to McGill Alexander on Cassinga, 4 June 2007. 25 Unsigned letter from LAARSA to Brig. Gen. (retd) McGill Alexander, 1 December 2007. 26 Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid’, p. 186. 27 Edward George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevera to Cuito Cuanavale (London: Frank Cass, 2005), p. 135. 28 TRC Report, v. 2, p. 50. 29 The Namibian, 2 May 1978. 30 Massacre at Kassinga, p. 20. 31 For obvious reasons there are no accounts of the fateful day by SWAPO combatants. There is, however, an account by a ‘dissident’ – some might say ‘renegade’ – member of Umkhonto we Sizwe (MK), the ANC’s armed wing, whose visit coincided with the SADF assault. He describes Cassinga as a military base where Cuban instructors were training SWAPO guerrillas. See Joseph Kobo, Waiting in the Wing (Milton Keynes, 1994), p. 134. 32 SWAPO spokesman Peter Katjavivi cited in The Cape Times, 6 May 1978 (‘5 Die as SA Hits Swapo Bases’). 33 Such claims were first made in SWAPO’s special bulletin, Massacre at Kassinga – Climax of Pretoria’s All-Out Campaign against the Namibian Resistance (Stockholm, 1978), p. 17. The reference to a ‘sticky inflammable phosphate liquid’ placed on the ground sounds like napalm, but Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid,’ p. 150 discounts this. I have found reference to the use of napalm in sitreps (situation reports) documenting later SAAF air strikes in Angola but nothing to suggest its use during Operation Reindeer. Some survivor’s stories recount they were rendered unconscious by a poisonous gas but the use of a substance that immobilized people has been dismissed as pure fiction by SADF paratroopers who were not issued with gas masks. Such tactics would also have delayed their own deployment at Cassinga. The SADF’s own evidence regarding the use of bayonets is contradictory but Cassinga survivors insist they were bayonetted. See Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’, passim. 34 Shigwedha provides testimony in which one of the Cassinga survivors claims that Cmdt Mike du Plessis mercilessly shot dead the wounded at point-blank range. See ‘Enduring Suffering’, pp. 74–75. It seems that he singled out du Plessis after being shown a photograph that shows him in the company of Breytenbach; Shigwedha dubs this the ‘immaculate photograph’ of the commanders of the operation. 35 Those captured at Cassinga were left behind but the SADF raids on Chetequera and Dombondola netted over 100 prisoners who erroneously became known

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38

39 40 41

42 43

Notes as the ‘Kassinga detainees’. Despite being relocated to camps where supervised Red Cross inspections were carried out, many of these prisoners were reportedly subjected to torture during lengthy incarceration. There were also reports of the bodies of victims being dumped into the sea from helicopters. The ‘Kassinga detainees’ became a matter of grave concern for the international community. See International Development Aid Fund (IDAF) Focus, 23, July–August 1978, 16 (‘Cassinga Raid’), IDAF Focus, 28, May–June 1980, 10 (‘Kassinga Detainees’), IDAF Focus, 29, July–August 1980, 8 (‘Detainees Visited’). The dates given differ from one account to the next. According to Shigwedha, the PLAN commander Dimo Hamaambo barred a crew of Angolan journalists and photographers access to the site and was arrested by FAPLA as a result of his obstructive behaviour. Hamaambo apparently resented the fact that the Angolans had not come to the rescue of the Cassinga residents (as the Cubans had). He also feared that publication of images of the mass graves might be inimical to SWAPO’s recruitment strategies and culturally unacceptable to desecrate the resting place of the dead. Moreover, relations with FAPLA had soured over claims that UNITA supporters were housed at Cassinga. See ‘Enduring Suffering’, pp. 52–56. One of Shigwedha’s informants insists that he counted 144 and 583 bodies buried in the small and large trenches, respectively. See ‘Enduring Suffering’, p. 118. Breytenbach, Eagle Strike!, p. 564, reckons that the covered grave might have been an elaborate con trick. He inquires why SWAPO covered this grave rather than the one with the bodies of combatants when it was seeking to score as much sympathetic publicity as possible. But Shigwedha notes that both graves had been covered up but that the larger one was re-opened for the sake of the photographers. However, the visual evidence does not appear to support this claim. They may have been covered with foliage rather than soil in which case they may have been uncovered. This image appears in Pagano’s publication The Kassinga File but the East German news agency, AND, claimed that it had been taken by one of their photographers. See Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid,’ p. 170. Basler Afrika Bibliographien (BAB), A.A3, Swapo Collection, 78aSPR2, 16 May 1978. BAB, A.A3, Swapo Collection, 78fSLkPb1, special bulletin of SWAPO, Lusaka [Luanda?], June 1978. Published and produced by the IUEF, an NGO that had provided assistance to Namibian refugees and SWAPO since 1963. See BAB, Swapo Collection, 78aSpb7, The Kassinga File. BAB Poster Collection, X 445 ‘Massacre at Kassinga’, which is part of the Kassinga File photographic exhibition, 1978. Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid’, p. 170 note # 832.

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44 David Perlmutter, Photojournalism and Foreign Policy: Icons of Outrage in International Crises (Westport, CT: Westview Press, 1998). 45 Ellen Ndeshi Namhila, The Price of Freedom (Windhoek: New Namibia Books, 1997), 40–41. 46 Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’, pp. 104–105. 47 The Sunday Independent, 9 March 2008 (‘I Was at Cassinga and It Was Not a Military Base’). 48 Some survivors feel aggrieved that their story has been appropriated for political purposes, that they have received no compensation for having to endure socioeconomic deprivations, nor any justice for their suffering and trauma. See Shigwedha, ‘Enduring Suffering’ 49 Heywood, The Cassinga Event. 50 See, for instance, D. Herbstein and J. Evenson, The Devils Are Among Us: The War for Namibia (London: Zed Books, 1989) who are unequivocal in condemning Cassinga as the ‘bloodiest massacre of the war’. 51 Heike Becker, ‘“We Remember Cassinga”: Political Ritual, Memory, and Citizenship in Northern Namibia,’ unpublished paper, 2008. 52 Nujoma interview in ‘Namibia Special Report’, New African, 423 (November 2003), 8 cited in H. Melber, ‘Namibia’s Past in the Present: Colonial Genocide and Liberation Struggle in Commemorative Narratives’, South African Historical Journal, 54 (2005), 102. 53 Foreword to Mvula ya Nangolo and Tor Sellström, Kassinga: A Story Untold (Windhoek, 2005), p. vi. 54 Mark Levene, ‘Introduction’ to Mark Levene and Penny Roberts (eds), The Massacre in History (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1999), p. 3. 55 Jeremy Black, Using History (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005), p. 178. 56 See, for instance, Keith Windschuttle, The Killing of History: How Literary Critics and Social Theorists Are Murdering Our Past (New York: Free Press, 1997). 57 Konrad H. Jarausch and Michael Geyer, Shattered Past: Reconstructing German Histories (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003), p. ix. 58 McGill Alexander to the author, 4 February 2009. 59 Edward Linenthal and Tom Engelhardt, ‘Introduction’ to History Wars: The Enola Gay and Other Battles for the American Past (New York: Henry Holt, 1996), p. 5. 60 There is documentation that reveals that the SADF predicted the potential political ‘fall out’ from Operation Reindeer but did not seize the initiative in the rhetorical war that followed the Cassinga attack. See Shigwedha, 223–224, Appendix C. 61 Alexander, ‘The Cassinga Raid’, p. 5. 62 The Star, 6 June 1996 (‘SA to Say Sorry for Celebrating Defence Force Raid’). 63 TRC Report, v. 2, p. 46.

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64 The Star, 19 May 2007 (‘The Battle of Cassinga Still Rages’). http://www.iol.co.za/ index.php?set_id=1andclick_id=13andart_id=vn20070519093038473C345664 (accessed 28 September 2007). 65 Kalí Tal, Worlds of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 7, 18–19.

Chapter 6 1

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4 5

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7

8

John Keegan, The Face of Battle (London: Pimlico, 2001 [1967]), p. 57, traces this approach back to Edward Creasy’s Victorian bestseller Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World (1851). Greg Mills and David Williams, Seven Battles that Shaped South Africa (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2006). There are chapters on the battles of Blood River (1838), Isandhlwana and Rorke’s Drift (1879), Majuba (1881), Colenso (1899), Delville Wood (1916), El Alamein (1942) and Cuito Cuanavale (1987–1988), only four of which were actually fought on South African soil. The authors enumerate specific criteria so as to pre-empt any criticism that their selections are arbitrary. These criteria can be summarized as the impact of the battles on the country’s history, politics, mythology and military practices and culture (p. 13). See, for instance, Colonel JNR ‘Junior’ Botha, ‘Resume of Operations Moduler, Hooper and Packer’ in General Jannie Geldenhuys (compiler), We Were There: Winning the War for Southern Africa (Pretoria: Kraal Publishers, 2012), p. 397. Fred Bridgland, The War for Africa: Twelve Months that Transformed a Continent (Gibraltar: Ashanti, 1990); Mills and Williams, Seven Battles, p. 167. Anonymous, ‘Cuito Cuanavale: Turning Point in Southern Africa’, Umsebenzi, 4, 4 (1988); Ronnie Kasrils, Armed and Dangerous: From Undercover Struggle to Freedom (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 2004 [1993], p. 220) and ‘Cuito Cuanavale, Angola: 25th Anniversary of a Historic African Battle’, Monthly Review, 4 (April 2013), at http://monthlyreview.org/2013/04/01/cuito-cuanavale-angola (accessed 11 June 2013). See, for instance, Isaac Saney, ‘African Stalingrad: The Cuban Revolution, Internationalism and the End of Apartheid’, Latin American Perspectives, 33:5 (2006), 81–117; Peter Polack, Black Stalingrad: The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale, Angola (forthcoming). Piero Gelijeses, ‘The Battle that Put an End to Apartheid’, International, 28 March 2013, at http://www.granma.cu/ingles/international-i/28marz-13cuitocuanavale. html (accessed 10 June 2013). Stephen Davis, ‘Cosmopolitans in Close Quarters: Everyday Life in the Ranks of Umkhonto We Sizwe (1961–present)’ (PhD thesis, University of Florida, 2010), p. 299.

Notes 9 10

11

12

13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21

22

23 24 25

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Helmoed-Römer Heitman, War in Angola: The Final South African Phase (Gibraltar: Ashanti, 1990). Geldenhuys points out that there is no correlation between the operation code names and distinct phases in the fighting. Rather, the code names coincided with the rotation of troops at the front. See Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 226. Edward George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991: From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale (London: Frank Cass, 2005), pp. 214, 234; Mills and Williams, Seven Battles, p. 178. George, The Cuban Intervention in Angola, p. 215; Edgar Dosman, ‘Countdown to Cuito Cuanavale: Cuba’s Angolan Campaign’ in Gary Baines and Peter Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Southern Africa’s Late Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008), pp.207–228. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 265. George, Cuban Intervention, p. 236. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 269. Chester Crocker, High Noon in Southern Africa: Making Peace in a Rough Neighborhood (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1992), pp. 368–369; Stephen Ellis and Tsepo Sechaba, Comrades against Apartheid: The ANC & the South African Communist Party in Exile (London: James Currey, 1992), p. 188. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 265. Piero Gleijeses, ‘The Battle that Put an End to Apartheid’. George, Cuban Intervention, passim. Crocker, High Noon, p. 356. Sue Onslow (with Simon Bright), ‘“The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale”: Media Space and the End of the Cold War in Southern Africa’ in Artemy Kalinasky and Sergei Radchenko (eds), The End of the Cold War and the Third World (London: Routledge, 2012), p. 290. This was the doctrine that the withdrawal of South African forces from Angola and Namibia should be tied to the simultaneous withdrawal of Cuban forces from the former. It is closely associated with Chester Crocker, the Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs in the Reagan administration, who played a key role in the negotiations that culminated in the implementation of UN Resolution 435. He projected himself as a ‘honest broker’ but was inclined to use the ‘carrot’ of US trade and investment as an inducement to Luanda to make concessions while not being prepared to curtail support for UNITA or exert much leverage on Pretoria. For Crocker’s self-promoting but often perceptive version of events, see his High Noon. Mills and Williams, Seven Battles, p. 180. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 253. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 254. The battle group Sgt Major, ‘Boats’ Botha, confirmed a figure of 1,000 men and 480 vehicles.

222 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37

Notes Posting by Botha on onehourproject.co.za, 20 November 2011. Email message from John Liebenberg to the author, 5 June 2013. Onslow, ‘The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale’, p. 280. Onslow, ‘The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale’, p. 291. Crocker, High Noon, p. 370; George, Cuban Intervention, p. 235. Dosman, ‘Countdown to Cuito Cuanavale’, pp. 219, 223. Geldenhuys, At the Front, pp. 151–152. See, for instance, Richard Allport, ‘The Battle of Cuito Cuanavale: Cuba’s Mythical Victory’ at http://www.rhodesia.nl/cuito.htm. Jannie Geldenhuys, Dié Wat Wen: ‘n Generaal se Storie uit ‘n era van Oorlog en Vrede (Pretoria: Van Schaik Publishers, 1993) states that the title was inspired by a statement attributed to Napoleon. The title of the English translation dispensed with the epithet and was published as A General’s Story: From an Era of War and Peace (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 1994). It has since been revised and published under the title At the Front: A General’s Account of South Africa’s Border War (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 2009). Geldenhuys, At the Front. p. 250. Heitman, War in Angola, p. 25. The then Minister of Defence, Magnus Malan, as well as the SADF generals, claim that it was never the SADF’s intention to occupy Cuito Cunanvale. Malan first denied that it was the SADF’s intention to do so on 17 May 1988, according to a report in the New York Times. See J. Brooke, ‘Angolans Besting South Africa in a Remote Battle’, The New York Times, 18 May 1988, at www.nytimes.com/ … / angolans-besting-south-africa-in-a-remote-battle.html? (accessed 11 June 2013). This standpoint was reiterated in Bridgland’s War for Africa and Romer-Heitman’s The Final South African Phase, the publication of each of which was sanctioned by the SADF. It is reiterated by Mills and Williams, Seven Battles that Shaped South Africa, p. 185. It is also repeated by Leopold Scholtz, ‘The South African Strategic and Operational Objectives in Angola, 1987–1988’, Scientia Militaria, 38, 1 (2010), 68–98, who cites General Kat Liebenberg as stating that an attack on Cuito would have proven too costly in terms of manpower. For an alternative viewpoint, see Ellis and Sechaba, Comrades against Apartheid, pp. 186–187. Also see Andreas Velthuizen, ‘The Significance of the Battle for Cuito Cuanavale: Long-Term Foresight of the Current Strategic Landscape’, Scientia Militaria: South African Journal of Military Studies, 37, 2 (2009), 107–123 and Gerhard J.J. Oosthuizen, ‘Die Suid-Afrikaanse Weermag in die “stryd” om Cuito Cuanavale: Fases 2, 3 en 4 van Operasie Moduler’, October–December 1987 [Deel 2], New Contree, 61 (May 2011), 31–55. See Bernice Labaschagne, ‘South Africa’s Intervention in Angola: Before Cuito Cuanavale and Thereafter’ (MA thesis, University of Stellenbosch, 2009), especially pp. 48–54, for a superficial synopsis of the historiography on the outcome of the battle, and Leopold Scholtz, ‘The Standard of Research on the Battle of Cuito

Notes

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41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

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Cuanavale, 1987–1988’, Scientia Militaria, 39, 1 (201), 115–137 for a critique of the historiography. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 240. Velthuizen, ‘The Significance of the Battle for Cuito Cuanavale’, p. 117. See, for instance, Piero Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions: Washington, Havana, Pretoria (Alberton: Galago, 2003), ‘Moscow’s Proxy? Cuba and Africa 1975–1988’, Journal of Cold War Studies, 8, 2 (Spring 2006), 3–51, ‘Cuba and the Independence of Namibia’, Cold War History, 7, 2 (May 2007), 285–303, and ‘Cuito Cuanavale revisited’, Mail & Guardian, 6–12 July 2007, 29; Ronnie Kasrils, ‘Turning Point at Cuito Cuanavale’, The Sunday Independent, 23 March 2008, 13. Vladimir Shubin, The ‘Hot’ Cold War (London: Pluto Press, 2009), p. 112. Karl Maier, Angola: Promises and Lies (London: Serif, 2007 [1996]), p. 32. Ellis and Sechaba, Comrades against Apartheid, p. 187. Stephen Ellis, External Mission: The ANC in Exile (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 2012), p. 232. Elaine Windrich, ‘Savimbi’s War: Illusions and Realities’ in Baines and Vale, Beyond the Border War (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008), p. 205. Windrich, ‘Savimbi’s War: Illusions and Realities’. Windrich, ‘Savimbi’s War: Illusions and Realities’ Windrich, ‘Savimbi’s War: Illusions and Realities’. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 250. Davis, ‘Cosmopolitans in Close Quarters’, p. 299. Ellis, External Mission, pp. 232–233. George, Cuban Intervention, p. 197, mentions 900 MK guerrillas being concentrated in Luena and Cuito Cuanavale in support of FAPLA’s 1986 offensive against UNITA but makes no reference to MK soldiers in his detailed description of the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. His source is an interview with FAPLA Major and FAA commander in Cuito Cuanavale, Mataus Timóteo (p. 334). MK veteran Lerato Godfrey Lengau claimed in an interview conducted by the Military and Stalwart Veteran Project in Bloemfontein, 14 September 2004, that he was injured in the battle. The bona fides of his claim are difficult to verify. A more trustworthy source categorically denies that MK combatants participated in the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. Patrick Ricketts (aka ‘Blaz’), MK veteran and leader of a number of tours to Cuito Cuanavale, informed me that there were no MK combat formations at Cuito Cuanavale during the 1987/88 war. MK combat units were engaged in combat operations in central-east Angola and northern Angola against UNITA combats units. Though there were three cadres stationed amongst the 71st Cuban Brigade that was located about 26 km west of Cuito Cuanavale, on the road to Menogue

224

Notes and their role was mainly in assisting with intercepting, translating and interpreting SADF communications. Email from Ricketts to the author, 21 June 2013 This was also the position taken in the Parliamentary Millennium Project (PMP)’s background brief to a Stakeholder’s Workshop for the 20th Anniversary Commemoration of Cuito Cuanavale held on 5–6 December 2007, which stated that ‘[w]hilst South African liberation forces were not directly involved in the Battle, it contributed significantly to forcing the apartheid government to the negotiations that eventually led to South Africa’s liberation’. Copy of this is in author’s collection.

53 Scott Thomas, The Diplomacy of Liberation: The Foreign Relations of the ANC since 1960 (London: I.B. Tauris, 1996), p. 202 claims 100 MK cadres died in the battle, and that word spread of their involvement, inspiring people in the townships to acclaim the imminent demise of the apartheid regime. This claim is without citations, so it is difficult to say from where he obtained his information (anecdote?). My thanks to Steve Davis for this and other references. 54 Mills and Williams, Seven Battles, p. 19. 55 Piero Gleijeses, ‘Cuito Cuanavale Revisited’, 11 July 2007, Mail & Guardian (online) at http://mg.co.za/article/2007-07-11-cuito-cuanavale-revisited; Ronnie Kasrils, ‘Cuito Cuanavale: A Paradox of History’, address by the Minister for Information Services, Havana, Cuba, 24 April 2008, at http://www.ssa.gov.za/Portals/0/SSA%20 docs/Speeches/2008/Minister%20Kasrils%20Cuba%2024%20April%202008.pdf (accessed 11 June 2013). 56 Cited in Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions, p. 394. 57 George, Cuban Intervention, p. 268, cites Cuban sources that put the number at 3,800, at least. 58 ANC National Executive Committee, statement of the second ordinary meeting of the year, Ekurhuleni, 17 March 2008, at http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/pr2008/ pr0317.html (accessed 27 May 2008). 59 ANC National Executive Committee. 60 Parliament of the Republic of South Africa, in Session, Cuito Cuanavale Commemoration, July 2008, p. 4, at http://www.parliament.gov.za/content/ insession%2015.08.081~1~1.pdf 61 Parliament of the Republic of South Africa, p. 5. 62 Graeme Addison, ‘Fighting over the Memory of a Battle Nobody Won’, Business Day, 25 February 2008. 63 PMP, Commemoration of the 20th Anniversary of the Battle of Cuito Cuanavale, Official Short-Term Programme of Events 2008. This included a public forum at Rhodes University on 28 May 2008, which featured Ronnie Kasrils, then Minister of Intelligence Services, and General (retd) Roland de Vries, commander of the

Notes

64

65 66 67 68 69

70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77

78 79 80 81

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SADF’s 61 Mechanised Battalion during the battle of Cuito Cuanavale. For the text of Kasril’s talk, see Ronnie Kasrils, ‘Historic Turning Point at Cuito Cuanavale’, address to Public Forum on the 20th Anniversary of Cuito Cuanavale’, Rhodes University, 28 May 2008, at http://www.pmpsa.gov.za/FILES/pdfs/Kasrils.pdf (accessed 5 November 2010). African National Congress, ‘ANC Commemorates the Battle of Cuito Cuanavale’, 2008, at http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/pr/2008/pr0319a.html (accessed 12 June 2013). SABC News, ‘All Set for Angolan Battle Commemoration’, 21 March 2008. Anonymous, ‘Fallen MK Soldiers Honoured’, 2008, at www.news24/SouthAfrica/ Politics/Fallen-MK-soldiers-honoured-20080324 (accessed 12 June 2013). Paul Morris, ‘Slaying Past Demons’, Times Live, 12 August 2012, at http://www. timeslive.co.za/thetimes/2012/08/13/slaying-past-demons (accessed 13 June 2013). Louis Bothma, Anderkant Cuito: ‘n Reisverhaal van die Grensoorlog (Epping: ABC Press, 2011). Tjaart Barnard, ‘Cuito Cuanavale (1987–1988): A Dialogue on Commemoration’, unpublished paper, p. 9, at http://www.academia.edu/715057/CUITO_ CUANAVALE_1987–1988_A_DIALOGUE_ON_COMMEMORATION (accessed 13 June 2013). Janet Cherry, Umkhonto weSizwe (Auckland Park, 2011), p. 97. Geldenhuys, We Were There. Geldenhuys, We Were There, p. 17. Neels Jackson, ‘Die “klein generaaltjie” raak ‘die m**r in’, Die Beeld, 14 October 2011. Afriforum, 21 February 2012, at http://www.afriforum.co.za/onswasdaar/ [my translation]. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9wE3U-LD6E&feature=player_embedded http://www.afriforum.co.za/english/2012-02-21-ope-videobrief-aan-zuma-afskopvan-afriforum-se-veldtog-teen-eensydige-oorvertelling-van-die-geskiedenis/ (accessed on 16 July 2012). Robert J. McMahon, ‘SHAFR Presidential Address: Contested Memory: The Vietnam War and American Society, 1975–2001’, Diplomatic History, 26, 2 (Spring 2002), 173. McMahon, ‘SHAFR Presidential Address: Contested Memory’, 175. McMahon, ‘SHAFR Presidential Address: Contested Memory’, 173. Leopold Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War 1966–1989 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2013), pp. 448, 457. Incredibly, the SADF generals were better informed than top officials in Washington who did not predict this turn of events. See Tom Engelhardt, The End of Victory Culture: Cold War America and the Disillusioning of a Generation (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007 [rev. ed.]), p. ix.

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Notes

82 It is commonly attributed to Winston Churchill but this cannot be verified. It might be a corruption of his statement, ‘History will be kind to me because I intend to write it’. George Orwell used the phrase ‘history is written by the winners’ in a column in 1944. See http://www.alexpeak.com/twr/hiwbtw/ (accessed 10 May 2013). 83 See Wolfgang Schivelbusch, The Culture of Defeat: On National Trauma, Mourning, and Recovery (London: Granta, 2004). 84 Philip Frankel, Soldiers in a Storm: The Armed Forces in South Africa’s Democratic Transition (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2000), p. 24. 85 Teresa Phelps, Shattered Voices: Language, Violence and the Work of Truth Commissions (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), p. 78. 86 Margeret Macmillan, The Uses and Abuses of History (London: Profile, 2009), p. 59. 87 J. Torpey (ed.) Politics and the Past: On Repairing Historical Injustices (Oxford: Rowan & Littlefield, 2003). 88 Erik Christiansen, Channeling the Past: Politicizing History in Postwar America (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 2013). 89 Gareth van Onselen, ‘The Past Is Another Website’, Sunday Times, 26 May 2013, 17. 90 Barnard, ‘Cuito Cuanavale: Dialogue on Commemoration’. 91 Jeremy Black, Using History (London: Hodder Arnold, 2005). 92 Keegan, The Face of Battle, pp. 27–37. 93 Davis, ‘Cosmopolitans in Close Quarters’, p. 299, n. 399. 94 David Glassberg, ‘Public History and the Study of Memory’, The Public Historian, 18, 2 (Spring 1996), 11.

Chapter 7 1 2

3

The SADF, as well as SWATF and Koevoet operated from the Eenhana base. My narrative and assessment of the episode is based on a reading of various sources but informed primarily by accounts by two participant observers. The chief aide to the UN Special Representative in Namibia, Cedric Thornberry, provides an anecdotal but even-handed treatment in his A Nation Is Born: The Inside Story of Namibia’s Independence (Windhoek: Gamsberg Macmillan, 2004), pp. 87–141 and former chairperson of the independent pressure/study/contact group NPP 345 and later a respected judge, Bryan O’Linn, provides a detailed and well-documented account in his Namibia: The Sacred Trust of Civilization: Ideal and Reality (Windhoek: Gamsberg, Macmillan, n.d.), pp. 315–336. Julian Rademeyer, ‘Mass Graves No Secret at the Time’, Sunday Times, 22 November 2005, at http://www.sarpn.org.za/newsflash.php?news_id=4012&archive=1 (accessed 28 January 2011).

Notes 4

5

6

7 8

9

10 11 12

13

14 15 16 17 18

19 20

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Heitman was a member of the SADF citizen force and his writings reveal a definite pro-South African bias. This renders his report of the inhumanity of the security forces’ behaviour all that more credible. Shaun Smillie and Hans Pienaar, ‘Namibia: Mass Grave Discovered’, The Star, 11 November 2005, at http://www.afrika.no/noop/page.php?p=Detailed/10814. html&d=1 (accessed 31 January 2011). Leon Engelbrecht, ‘The Elusive Truth about Namibia’s Mass Graves’, Mail & Guardian, 21 November 2005, at http://www.mg.co.za/article/2005-11-21-theelusive-truth-about-namibias-mass-graves (accessed 11 February 2011). Thornberry, A Nation Is Born, p. 121. Justine Hunter, ‘Dealing with the Past in Namibia: Getting the Balance Right between Justice and Sustainable Peace?’, in Andre du Pisani, Reinhart Kössler and William A. Lindeke (eds), Reconciliation and Transition in Namibia (Freiburg: Arnold Bergstraesser Institut, 2010), p. 425. Justine Hunter, ‘No Man’s Land of Time: Reflections on the Politics of Memory and Forgetting in Namibia’ in Gary Baines and Peter Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Southern Africa’s Late Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008), p. 307. Willem Steenkamp, South Africa’s Border War 1966–1989 (Gibraltar: Ashanti Publishing, 1989), p. 179. Patricia Hayes and John Liebenberg, Bush of Ghosts: Life and War in Namibia 1986–1990 (Cape Town: Random House Struik, 2010), pp. 21–22. Catalogue of Bos: Constructed Images and the Memory of the South African ‘Bush War’ by Christo Doherty, works first shown at Resolution Gallery, Johannesburg, 15 January–12 March 2011, Mass Grave 1, p. 28. Cf. Eugene Goddard, ‘Fighting on the Wrong Side of History’, Business Day, 17 February 2011, at http://www.businessday. co.za/articles/Content.aspx?id=134624 (accessed 23 April 2011). Kgomotso Nyanto, ‘Apartheid Graves of Horror’, New African, January 2006, at http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa5391/is_200601/ai_n21407630/ (Accessed 28 January 2011). Engelbrecht, ‘The Elusive Truth about Namibia’s Mass Graves’. Nyanto, ‘Apartheid Graves of Horror’. Rademeyer, ‘Mass Graves No Secret at the Time’. E. Gibson, ‘Geraamtes in die Kas’, Beeld, 25 November 2005. IOL News, 30 November 2005, ‘Namibia Rules Out Mass Grave Truth Commission’ at http://www.iol.co.za/news/south-africa/namibia-rules-out-mass-grave-truthcommission-1.260223 (accessed 11 February 2011). Francis Xaogub, ‘Shrine Unknown’, New Era, 24 January 2011, at http://www. newera.com.na/article.php?articleid=37011 (accessed 20 June 2013). Heike Becker, ‘Commemorating Heroes in Windhoek and Eenhana: Memory Culture and Nationalism in Namibia’, 1990–2010’, Africa, 81, 4 (2011), 534.

228

Notes

21 Becker, ‘Commemorating Heroes in Windhoek and Eenhana’, 539. 22 Becker, ‘Commemorating Heroes in Windhoek and Eenhana’, 523–532. 23 Anna Vögeli, ‘“They Gently Bring Back Memories of Those Events … ”: A Case Study of the Reception of Namibia Day and Cassinga Day Posters’ in Giorgio Miescher, Lorenzo Rizzo and Jeremy Silvester (eds), Posters in Action: Visuality in the Making of an African Nation (Basel: Basler Afrika Bibliographien, 2009), pp. 162–163. 24 This is a line from the Namibian national anthem ‘Land of the Brave’, adopted in 1991. 25 SWAPO was not party to this negotiated settlement as it was not (yet) the ruling party in Namibia. 26 O’Linn, Namibia, p. 318, mentions that Nujoma agreed to adhere to the provisions of the Geneva Protocol in a letter dated 12 August 1988. He also confirmed SWAPO’s compliance with the provisions of UNSCR 435 in a letter dated 18 March 1989. 27 S/13120, 26 February 1979, cited in The Namibia Factsheet No. 4, April 1989, ‘Renewed Fighting in April’ issued by the Namibia Information Group, Cape Democrats, Salt River. 28 S/13156, March 1979, cited in O’Linn, Namibia, p. 319. 29 Thornberry, A Nation is Born, pp. 98, 107, 132; Richard Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization: The Diplomatic, Economic, and Military Battlegrounds of the Namibian War of Independence’, unpublished Ms, 2011, 199. 30 Leopold Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War 1966–1989 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2013), p. 430. 31 David Lush, Last Steps to Uhuru (Windhoek: New Namibia Books 1993), p. 158. 32 Times of Namibia, 3 April 1989, cited in The Namibia Factsheet No. 4, ‘Renewed Fighting in April’. 33 Statistics of fatalities and casualties vary in the sources. The Namibia Factsheet No. 4, ‘Renewed Fighting in April’, cites official figures as 279 PLAN combatants and 23 South African security force members killed. Peter Stiff, Nine Days of War and South Africa’s Final Days in Namibia (Alberton: Lemur, 1989; rev. ed. 1991) cites similar figures. 34 O’Linn, Namibia, p. 322. 35 Thornberry, A Nation Is Born, pp. 113, 121. 36 O’Linn, Namibia, p. 335. 37 Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization’, p. 43. 38 Thornberry, A Nation Is Born, p. 93. 39 ‘A Grave Case of Memory Loss’, Mail & Guardian, 28 November 2006, cited in Hunter, ‘Dealing with the Past’, p. 429. 40 O’Linn, Namibia, p. 326. 41 K. Kazenambo, ‘There Was Never a PLAN “incursion”’, New Era, 22 December 2005, at http://www.newera.com.na/article.php?articleid=10054 (accessed 20 June 2013).

Notes 42 43 44 45

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52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

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O’ Linn, Namibia, p. 318. Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization’, pp. 201–202. Thornberry, A Nation Is Born, 97–98. Citizen Phil ya Nangoloh, ‘Remembering April 1 Massacre’, Namrights, 5 April 2012, at http://www.nshr.org.na/index.php?module=News&func=display&sid=178 9 (accessed 20 June 2013). ‘A Grave Case of Memory Loss’, Mail & Guardian, 28 November 2006, cited in Hunter, ‘No Man’s Land of Time’, p. 307. Colin Leys and John Saul (eds), Namibia’s Liberation Struggle: The Two-Edged Sword (London: James Currey, 1995), pp. 56–57. Sam Nujoma, Where Others Have Wavered: The Autobiography of Sam Nujoma (London: Panaf, 2001), pp. 286, 395ff. Christof Maletsky, ‘April 1: Nujoma Lays the Blame at Thatcher’s Door’, The Namibian, 25 November 2005, at http://www.namibian.com.na/index. php?id=28&tx_ttnews[tt_news]=18792&no_cache=1 (accessed on 27 January 2011). C. Saunders, ‘Liberation and Democracy: A Critical Reading of Sam Nujoma’s Autobiography’ in H. Melber (ed.), Re-examining Liberation in Namibia: Political Culture since Independence (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 2003), p. 93. The late Klaus Dierks, who was an elected member of SWAPO’s central committee until 1997 and served as Deputy Minister of Works, Transport and Communication in SWAPO’s first cabinet, reported that he had personally been inside PLAN camps within Namibia before the date of the ceasefire. But this assertion is qualified or perhaps contradicted by the statement that SWAPO does not have ‘bases’ in Namibia, in the sense of permanent installations containing personnel and technical infrastructure. See http://www.klausdierks.com/Chronology/131.htm (accessed 21 April 2012). Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization’, p. 192. Stiff, Nine Days of War and South Africa’s Final Days in Namibia. Review of first edition of Peter Stiff, ‘Nine Days of War’ by Paul Moorcraft in the Journal of Southern African Studies, 16, 4 (1990), 778. Stiff alleges, inter alia, that the Kenyan troops that formed part of the UNTAG contingent covertly assisted SWAPO with arms, ammunition and uniforms. Hunter, ‘No Man’s Land of Time’ in Baines and Vale, Beyond the Border War, pp. 302–321. Jannie Geldenhuys, At the Front: A General’s Account of South Africa’s Border War (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball. 2009). Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 292. Geldenhuys, At the Front, p. 293. The term is borrowed from accounts of the campaign waged by the Argentine armed forces against leftist guerrilla groups and other opposition movements

230

61 62 63 64 65 66

67

68 69

Notes between 1976 and 1983. But certain commentators reckon that ‘state terrorism’ would be a more appropriate term to describe these events. See E. Jelin and S.G. Kaufman, ‘Layers of Memories: Twenty Years after in Argentina’, in T.G. Ashplant, G. Dawson and M. Roper (eds), Commemorating War: The Politics of Memory, (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers 2004), pp. 89–110. Cf. Antonius C.G.M. Robben, ‘How Traumatised Societies Remember: The Aftermath of Argentina’s Dirty War’, Cultural Critique, 59 (Winter 2005), 120–164. The revelations of the disposal from helicopters of the bodies of executed SWAPO combatants in the Atlantic Ocean, which emerged during the Wouter Basson trial, bares comparison with the elimination of the so-called ‘disappeared’ under Argentina’s military junta. TRC Report, v. 2, ch. 2, #128. Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 297. Stiff, Warfare by Other Means, p. 380. Terry Bell with Dumisa Ntsebeza, Unfinished Business: South Africa, Apartheid and Truth (Cape Town: RedWorks, 2001), pp. 221–223. Dale, ‘Delayed Decolonization’, p. 290. Although Pik Botha assured the media that Koevoet had been disbanded as ‘an act of good faith’, some of its members had actually been integrated into SWAPOL when the bulk of the security forces had departed Namibia. See The Namibian, 3 April 1989, cited in The Namibia Factsheet No. 4, ‘Renewed Fighting in April’ and Steenkamp, South Africa’s Border War, p. 181. Peter Stiff, The Covert War: Koevoet Operations in Namibia, 1979–1989 (Alberton: Galago Press, 2000), p. 478; Timothy J. Stapleton, A Military History of South Africa: From the Dutch-Khoi Wars to the End of Apartheid (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2010), p. 185. Jonathan Dunnage, ‘Perpetrator Memory and Memories about Perpetrators’, Memory Studies, 3, 2 (2010), 91. Richard A. Wilson, ‘Justice and Legitimacy in the South African Transition’ in Alexandra Barahona De Brin, et al. (eds), The Politics of Memory: Transitional Justice in Democratising Societies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), pp. 204, 211, 215–216.

Chapter 8 1 2

William V. Spanos, American Exceptionalism in an Age of Globalization: The Specter of Vietnam (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2008), p. x. Dorian Haarhoff, The Wild South-West: Frontier Myth and Metaphors in Literature Set in Namibia, 1760–1988 (Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press, 1991), p. 196.

Notes 3

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6 7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

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It should be pointed out that certain scholars are sceptical of the assumption that policymakers invoke analogies to make decisions. Some suggest that analogies are used to justify a conclusion already reached on other (usually unspecified) grounds, while others doubt whether it is necessary to resort to cognitive structures like historical analogies to explain the choices of policymakers. See Yuen Foong Khong, Analogies at War: Korea, Munich, Dien Bien Phu and the Vietnam Decisions of 1965 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), pp. 8–9 and David Houghton, ‘The Role of Analogical Reasoning in Novel Foreign-Policy Situations’, British Journal of Political Science, 26, 4 (1996), 524. Keith Shimko, ‘Metaphors and Foreign Policy Decision Making’, Political Psychology, 15, 4 (1994), 658–659. David Elliott, ‘Parallel Wars? Can “Lessons of Vietnam” be Applied to Iraq?’ in Lloyd C. Gardner and Marilyn B. Young (eds), Iraq and the Lessons of Vietnam (New York: New Press, 2007), p. 18. Shimko, ‘Metaphors and Foreign Policy Decision Making’, 665. David N. Livingstone and Richard T. Harrison, ‘Meaning through Metaphor: Analogy as Epistemology’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 71, 1 (1981), 96. Cited in Magnus Malan, My Life with the SA Defence Force (Pretoria: Protea Boekhuis, 2006), p. 80. James Sanders, South Africa and the International Media: A Struggle for Representation (London: Frank Cass, 2000), p. 152. Daniel Hallin, The Uncensored War: The Media and Vietnam (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1986), p. 50. Sanders, South Africa and the International Media, p. 8. Piero Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions: Havana. Washington, Pretoria (Alberton: Galago Books, 2003). Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 117. Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 132. Cited in Thomas G. Paterson, ‘Historical Memory and Illusive Victories: Vietnam and Central America’, Diplomatic History, 12 (Winter 1998), 8. Malan, My Life with the SADF, p. 42. Lt. Gen. C.F. ‘Pop’ Fraser, then Chief of the Army, was the doyen of SADF military thinkers on the subject of counterinsurgency. He introduced the writings of French COIN specialist Andre Beaufre, then Director of the French Institute for Security Studies, to the SADF. Beaufre’s classic text, An Introduction to Strategy (1963), was the primary inspiration for Fraser’s manual entitled Lessons Drawn from Past Revolutionary Wars (1966). It was translated into Afrikaans and became prescribed reading for the SADF officer corps. See John Daniel, ‘Racism, the Cold War and South Africa’s Regional Security’ in Sue Onslow (ed.), Cold War in Southern Africa: White Power, Black Liberation (London: Routledge, 2009), p. 38.

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18 Deon Visser, ‘Military History at the South African Military Academy’, Historia, 49, 2 (1999), 141. 19 The SADF also studied the lessons of other wars of insurgency such as Malaysia (which was regarded as a British success story), Algeria (a French failure), and other conflicts such as Cuba and Ireland. 20 The ANC was South Africa’s leading liberation movement whose armed wing Mkhonto weSizwe (MK) was formed in 1960 to wage war against the apartheid state. The leading liberation movement in Namibia was SWAPO and it too adopted the armed struggle with the establishment of the Peoples’ Liberation Army of Namibia (PLAN). The SADF’s counterinsurgency operations were primarily to combat MK and PLAN’s revolutionary war. 21 Anthea Jeffery, People’s War: New Light on the Struggle for South Africa (Jeppestown: Jonathan Ball Publishers, 2009), p. 26. 22 Jeffery, People’s War, p. 41. 23 Jeffery, People’s War, pp. xxxiv, 39 holds that the parallels between elements of the people’s war in Vietnam and events in South Africa from 1980 to 1994 are remarkable but chooses to enumerate differences instead. 24 Jeffery, People’s War, pp. xxxiii–xxxiv. This charge has been contemptuously dismissed by MK veteran Mac Maharaj in his review of Jeffery’s book. See ‘History 101, Anyone?’, Sunday Times, 13 September 2009. 25 Peter Brush, ‘Reassessing the Viet Cong Role after Tet’ at http://www.library. vanderbilt.edu/central/Brush/Reassessing-VC-Role-Tet.htm (accessed 15 January 2013). 26 Janet Cherry, Umkhonto weSizwe (Auckland Park: Jacana, 2011), pp. 90–91. 27 Ronnie Kasrils, ‘The Fall of the Berlin Wall and Consequences for Change in South Africa’, address at Rhodes University, 13 May 2009; Cherry, Umkhonto weSizwe, p. 142. 28 Cited in Jeffery, People’s War, p. xxxiii. 29 Joseph Kobo, Waiting in the Wing: The Electrifying True Story of a Bishop Who Was Once in the Military Wing of the ANC (Milton Keynes: Nelson Word Ltd., 1994). 30 Susan Brown, ‘Diplomacy by Other Means: SWAPO’s Liberation War’ in Colin Leys and John Saul (eds), Namibia’s Liberation Struggle: The Two-Edged Sword (London: James Currey, 1995), p. 21. 31 Richard Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 1966–1989’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 18, 2 (2007), 201; Anita M. Gossmann, ‘The South African Military and Counterinsurgency: An Overview’ in Deane-Peter Baker and Evert Jordaan (eds), South Africa and Contemporary Counterinsurgency: Roots, Practices, Prospects (Claremont, CA: UCT Press), p. 90, holds that the SADF discounted theory in favour of experience. 32 Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 202. 33 Paterson, ‘Historical Memory and Illusive Victories’, 10.

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34 Paterson, ‘Historical Memory and Illusive Victories’, 10. 35 Dick Lord, From Fledgling to Eagle: The South African Air Force during the Border War (Johannesburg: 30° South Publishers, 2008), p. 72. 36 Gretchen Rudham, ‘Lost Soldiers from Lost Wars: A Comparative Study of the Collective Experience of Soldiers of the Vietnam War and the Angolan/Namibian Border War’ (MA thesis, University of Cape Town, 2003), p. 24. 37 James H. Willbanks, ‘The Legacy of the Vietnam War for the US Army’ in Andrew Wiest, Mary Kathryn Barbier and Glenn Robins (eds), America and the Vietnam War: Re-examining the Culture and History of a Generation (New York: Routledge, 2010), p. 272. 38 ‘Fragging’ was slang for the practice of targeting strict or unpopular officers and NCOs with fragmentation grenades so as to kill or incapacitate them. Eight hundred such attacks were recorded between 1969 and 1971 and 45 officers and NCOs were killed. See Willbanks, ‘The Legacy of the Vietnam War for the US Army’, p. 272. 39 Gossmann, ‘The South African Military and Counterinsurgency’, p. 86. 40 Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 205. 41 Andrew Wiest, ‘The “Other” Vietnam War’ in Wiest, et al., America and the Vietnam War, p. 56. 42 David Williams, On the Border: The White South African Military Experience 1965–1990 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2008), p. 117. 43 C.W. Erichsen, ‘Shoot to Kill: Photographic Images in the Namibian Liberation/ Bush War’, Kronos, 27 (November 2001), 181. 44 Stephen J. Rockell and Rick Halpern (eds), Inventing Collateral Damage: Civilian Casualties, War, and Empire (Toronto: Between the Lines, 2009). 45 Sahr Conway-Lanz, Collateral Damage: Americans, Noncombatant Immunity and Atrocities after World War II (New York: Routledge, 2006). 46 Kendrick Oliver, The My Lai Massacre in American History and Memory (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006). 47 Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 201. 48 Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 200. 49 Denis Herbstein and John Evenson, The Devils Are among Us: The War for Namibia (London: Zed Books, 1989), p. 105. 50 John Fitzgerald, ‘The Winter Soldier Hearings’, Radical History Review, 97 (2007), 118–122. 51 Don Foster, et al., The Theatre of Violence: Narratives of Protagonists in the South African Conflict (Cape Town: Institute for Justice and Reconciliation, 2005). 52 Gossmann, ‘The South African Military and Counterinsurgency’, p. 96. 53 Marilyn B. Young, ‘Bombing Civilians from the Twentieth to the Twenty-First Centuries’ in Yuki Tanaka and Marilyn B. Young (eds), Bombing Civilians: A Twentieth-Century History (New York: The New Press, 2009), p. 157.

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54 Jannie Geldenhuys, At the Front: A General’s Account of South Africa’s Border War (Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball, 2009), p. xv. 55 Peter Arnett, ‘Major Describes Moves’, New York Times, 8 February 1968, cited in Paterson, ‘Historical Memory and Illusive Victories’, p. 13. 56 I have documented at least two occasions when SAAF planes dropped napalm during aerial assaults on SWAPO bases in neighbouring states in the 1980s. And the Angolan authorities made unsubstantiated allegations that the SADF and/or UNITA deployed chemical gas during the battle of the Lomba River in 1987. See Gary Baines, ‘Review Article: From Uniformed Technocrat to Securocrat: Magnus Malan’s Memoir’, Historia, 54, 1 (2009), 321–322. 57 Anna-Mart Van Wyk, ‘The USA and Apartheid South Africa’s Nuclear Aspirations 1949–1980’ in Onslow, Cold War in Southern Africa, 55–83. 58 Wiest, ‘The ‘Other Vietnam War’, 66. 59 Dale, ‘A Comparative Reconsideration of the Namibian Bush War’, 202. 60 Leopold Scholtz, The SADF in the Border War 1966–1989 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2013), p. 448. 61 Vladimir Shubin, The Hot ‘Cold War’: The USSR in Southern Africa (London: Pluto Press, 2008). 62 Vladimir Shubin and Marina Traikova, ‘There Is No Threat from the Eastern Bloc’ in South African Democracy Education Trust (SADET), The Road to Democracy in South Africa, Volume 3: International Solidarity (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008), p. 985. 63 J.E. Davies, Constructive Engagement? Chester Crocker & American Policy in South Africa, Namibia & Angola (Oxford: James Currey, 2007). 64 Richell Bernazolli and Colin Flint, ‘Embodying the Garrison State? Everyday Geographies of Militarization in American Society’, Political Geography, 29 (2010), 157–166. 65 Bernard Magubane, ‘From Détente to the Rise of the Garrison State in South African Education Democracy Trust,’ The Road to Democracy in South Africa, Volume 2 [1970–1980] (Pretoria: Unisa Press 2006), pp. 37–97. 66 Dylan Craig, ‘Total Justification: Ideological Manipulation and South Africa’s Border War’ in Baines and Vale (eds) Beyond the Border War, pp. 56–74. 67 According to Professor R. Green, the official death rate of white troops killed on the border, expressed as a proportion of all white South Africans, was three times that of the US forces in Vietnam. See The Cape Times, 4 January 1985, cited in Catholic Institute of International Relations, Out of Step: War Resistance in South Africa (London: CIIR, 1989), p. 31. 68 Rudham, ‘Lost Soldiers from Lost Wars’, p. 36. 69 Merran Phillips, ‘The End Conscription Campaign 1983–1988: A Study of White Extra-Parliamentary Opposition to Apartheid’ (MA thesis, University of South Africa, 2002).

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70 Hallin, The Uncensored War. 71 Rudham, ‘Lost Soldiers from Lost Wars’. 72 Peter Ehrenhaus, ‘On Americans held Prisoner in Southeast Asia: The POW Issue as “Lesson” of Vietnam’ in Richard Morris and Peter Ehrenhaus (eds), Cultural Legacies of Vietnam: Uses of the Past in the Present (Norwood, NJ: Ablex Publishing Corporation), p. 20. 73 M. Behr, The Smell of Apples (London: Abacus, 1995), 82–83. 74 Graeme Addison, ‘Censoring the Press in South Africa during the Angolan War: A Case Study of News Manipulation and Suppression’ (MA thesis, Rhodes University, 1980). 75 Prime Minister B.J. Vorster stated in Parliament on 30 January 1976: ‘ … America lost the war in Vietnam because inter alia the press was too much involved with that war.’ Hansard, 30 January 1976, col. 374. 76 Baines, ‘Introduction’ to Beyond the Border War, p. 10. 77 Elliott, ‘Parallel Wars?’, 23. 78 Richard Nixon, No More Vietnams (New York: Arbor House, 1985), p. 15. 79 Hilton Hamann, Days of the Generals (Cape Town: Zebra Press, 2001). 80 Baines, ‘Introduction’ to Beyond the Border War. 81 Kristin Ann Hass, Carried to the Wall: American Memory and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998). 82 Sasha Gear, Wishing Us Away: Challenges Facing Ex-Combatants in the New South Africa, Centre for the Study of Violence & Reconciliation, Violence & Transition Series No. 8 (Braamfontein: CSVR, 2002). 83 Jeremy Kuzmarov, The Myth of the Addicted Army: Vietnam and the Modern War on Drugs (Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2009). 84 Marita Sturken, Tangled Memories: The Vietnam War, the AIDS Epidemic, and the Politics of Remembering (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997), p. 66. 85 Nigel C. Hunt, Memory, War and Trauma (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 86 Keith Beattie, The Scar that Binds: American Culture and the Vietnam War (New York: New York University Press, 1998). 87 Willbanks, ‘The “Other” Vietnam War’, 285. 88 David Greenberg, ‘Why Vietnam Haunts the Debate over Iraq’, HNN George Mason University’s History News Network, 8 August 2005, at http://hnn.us/ articles/4779.html. 89 Newsweek, 11 March 1991, cited in Willbanks, ‘The “Other” Vietnam’. 90 Marilyn Young, ‘Still Stuck in the Big Muddy’ in Ellen Schrecker (ed.), Cold War Triumphalism: The Misuse of History after the Fall of Communism (New York: The New Press, 2004), p. 270. 91 Paul Reynolds, ‘Spectre of Vietnam Looms over Iraq’, BBC News Online, 3 November 2003, at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/3237171.stm; Baker,

236

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‘Spectre of Vietnam Looms Large over the Killing Fields of Iraq’, Times Online, 23 August 2007, at http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/iraq/article2310610. ece. 92 Michael Rothberg, Multidirectional Memory: Remembering the Holocaust in an Age of Decolonization (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2009), p. 3. 93 Daniel Levy and Nathan Sznaider, The Holocaust and Memory in the Global Age (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2006).

Chapter 9 1

R. Werbner, ‘Smoke from the Barrel of a Gun: Postwars of the Dead, Memory and Reinscription in Zimbabwe’ in R. Werbner (ed.), Memory and the Postcolony: African Anthropology and the Critique of Power (London: Zed Books, 1998), pp. 71–102. 2 Reinhart Kössler, ‘Public Memory, Reconciliation and the Aftermath of War: A Preliminary Framework with Special Reference to Namibia’ in Henning Melber (ed.), Re-examining Liberation in Namibia: Political Culture since Independence (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 2003), pp. 99–112. 3 Kössler, ‘Public Memory’, p. 103. 4 Annie Coombes, History after Apartheid: Visual Culture and Public Memory in a Democratic South Africa (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003). 5 Sabine Marschall, Landscape of Memory: Commemorative Monuments, Memorials and Public Statuary in Post-Apartheid South Africa (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 6 Paratus v. 29, no. 1, Special Supplement, February 1978, v. 7 A replica of the statuette presented posthumously to the next of kin of those who died in action during the aborted Angolan invasion of 1975 (known by the code name ‘Operation Savannah’). 8 Paratus v. 30, no. 7. Special Supplement, July 1979, i. 9 James Mayo, War Memorials as Political Landscape: The American Experience and Beyond (New York: Prager, 1998), 74–75. 10 The toll of those killed while on active duty remains unclear. In a statement to Parliament in 1982, the then Minister of Defence Magnus Malan said that the SADF had a casualty rate of 0.012 per cent (or 12 in every 100,000) of the average daily strength of its armed forces in South West Africa. It is not clear whether this figure includes casualties from accidents and suicides but this figure is a gross underestimation of the actual situation. According to Professor R. Green, the official death rate of white troops killed on the border, expressed as a proportion of all white South Africans, was three times that of the US forces in Vietnam. See The Cape Times, 4 January 1985, quoted in Catholic Institute of International Relations, Out of Step: War Resistance in South Africa (London: CIIR, 1989), p. 31. My

Notes

11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29

237

research suggests that the number of national servicemen who died in accidents or by their own hand whilst in uniform outnumbered those killed in action by about 3:1 and that the total number of troops killed during the 1970s and 1980s numbered about 5,000. This figure does not include black members of the SADF or its surrogate forces. Steenkamp’s estimate of 715 SADF personnel killed in action between1974 and 1988 is clearly too low. See his ‘The Citizen Soldier in the Border War’, Journal for Contemporary History, 31, 3 (December 2006), 20. John Dovey’s roll of honour lists 1,986 SADF members killed on active duty over the period of 1964–1994 (but has no data for 1980 and 1981). See http://www.justdone.co.za/ ROH/stats_Static.htm. Stiff ’s (see Appendix to Steven Webb, Ops Medic: A National Serviceman’s Border War (Alberton: Galago, 2008) roll of honour of those killed in active service numbers 2,095 and is based on the tally of names listed at the Klapperkop site supplemented by his own research. www.freedompark.org.co.za, Press Release, 5 July 2005. Cited in Zayd Minty, ‘Post-Apartheid Public Art in Cape Town: Symbolic Reparations and Public Space’, Urban Studies, 43, 3 (2006), 423. www.freedompark.org.za. Marschall, Landscape of Memory, p. 213. Freedom Park was scheduled to be completed in 2009 at an estimated cost of R719 million according to The Daily Dispatch, 17 January 2007, (‘Unbiased’ monument unveiled’), at http://www.dispatch.co.za/2007/01/17/SouthAfrica/dmonu.html www.freedompark.org.za. Christoph Marx, ‘Ubu and Ubuntu: On the Dialectics of Apartheid and Nation Building’, Politikon, 29, 1 (2002), 58. Marx, ‘Ubu and Ubuntu’, 59. www.freedompark.org.za. www.freedompark.org.za. Informal conversation with Ramzie Abrahams, Freedom Park, 16 June 2008. www.freedompark.org.za. www.freedompark.org.za, Media Release, 8 March 2006. South African Press Association, News 24, 29 January 2007 (‘SADF Names at Freedom Park?’), at http://www.news24.com/News24/South_Africa. Afriforum, Media Statement, 10 January 2007 (‘Freedom Park must also honour members of former defence force, Afriforum asks’), at www.afroforum.co.za. Afriforum, Media Statement, 14 January 2007 (‘Steve Hofmeyr and Afriforum rally against “one-sided” Freedom Park’), at www.afroforum.co.za. A Freedom Park Trust Media Release, 31 August 2006, announced that the names of more than 2,100 Cuban soldiers would be inscribed on the wall. This has since been accomplished. See http://www.freedompark.org.za. Pretoria News, 17 January 2007 (‘Include Us, Says Ex-SADF members’). The Herald, 17 January 2007 (‘Alternative “Freedom” Wall Unveiled’).

238

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30 Hofmeyr’s statement that ‘the omitted soldiers never resorted to killing fellow South Africans’ (see ‘Singer Steve Hofmeyr Protests Freedom Park Wall’, available at http://www.jetstreak.com) might have held for most individuals who wore the SADF uniform but not for the institution. As such, it is either deliberately self-serving or incredibly naïve. Apart from failing to acknowledge that SADF troops deployed in the townships killed anti-apartheid activists and MK/APLA cadres in the course of their duties, it ignores the evidence of cross-border operations by special forces (such as the Matolo raid by Recces on Maputo in January 1981) that killed exiled South Africans. Hofmeyr also ignores the evidence of the ‘hit squads’ and other ‘dirty tricks’ directed by the Military Intelligence Division and the SADF front organization, the Civil Co-operation Bureau (CCB). See James Sanders, Apartheid’s Friends: The Rise and Fall of South Africa’s Secret Service (London: John Murray, 2006). 31 The Herald, 30 January 2007 (‘Freedom Park Dialogue’). 32 Mail & Guardian, 30 January 2007 (‘Freedom Park: Committee to Discuss SADF Inclusion’). 33 The Herald, 31 January 2007 (‘Workshop to Discuss Names’). 34 The Herald, 9 February 2007 (‘SADF Addition Mooted for Wall at Freedom Park’). 35 Freedom Park Trust, ‘Freedom Park Trust Honours Families of Fallen SADF Soldiers’, 2008, at http://www.freedompark.org.za. 36 See, for example, ‘Some Thoughts of a NSM!!!’, Army Talk Magazine (Just Done Publications), Issue #1, April 2008, 12–13, reproduced as Appendix N in Jan Breytenbach, Eagle Strike! The Story of the Controversial Airborne Assault on Cassinga 1978 (Sandton: Manie Grove Publishing, 2008), pp. 585–587. 37 Die Beeld, 24 July 2009 (‘Gevalle SAW-soldate gaan hul eie muur kry’), at http://m.24.com/afr/FullArticle.aspx?aid=ARTICLE_2541861&cat=Beeld&sh=Hoo fsto … ?ref=Sex%C5%9Ehop.Com 38 Die Beeld, 26 October 2009 (‘Muur van herinneringe betaal skuld, sê Viljoen’), at http://www.beeld.com/Suid-Afrika/Nuus/Muur-van-herinnering-betaal-skuld-seViljoen-20091026 39 Voortrekker Monument, Media Release, ‘Annual Commemoration Service at the SADF Wall of Remembrance’, Pretoria, 20 May 2011, at www.voortrekkermon. org.za/downloadDocument.php?filename … doc. For a summary of the sources consulted by Major-General Opperman and the criteria employed for the inclusion of names, see Status Report on the SADF Wall of Remembrance, 1 September 2009, at http://www.warinangola.com/Default.aspx?tabid=721. 40 The Times, 30 March 2010 (‘ANC Wants Freedom Park, Voortrekker Monument Linked’), at http://www.timeslive.co.za/local/article380613.ece/ANC-wantsFreedom-Park-Voortrekker-Monument-linked. 41 The Times, 30 March 2010. 42 SABC News, 1 August 2010, ‘Voortrekker Monument to Remain Independent of Government’, at http://www.sabcnews.com/portal/site/SABCNews/menuit

Notes

43 44 45

46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58 59 60

239

em.5c4f8fe7ee929f602ea12ea1674daeb9/?vgnextoid=2b31af7e0f92a210VgnV CM10000077d4ea9bRCRD&vgnextfmt=default%20&channelPath=South%20 Africa%20%3E%3E%20General. M-Net, Carte Blanche, ‘War Stories’ (Part 1), 5 June 2011, at http://beta.mnet.co.za/ carteblanche/Article.aspx?Id=4367&ShowId=1. Freedom Park Trust, ‘Dialogue with the Nation’ at http://www.freedompark.org.za. J. Wingard, ‘Ons eie muur van herinnering byna voltooi’, Praag, 2009, at www. praag.co.za/johann-wingard-magazine-419/5464-ons-eie-muur-van -herinneringbyna-voltooi.html. Jeffrey K. Olick, The Politics of Regret: On Collective Memory and Historical Responsibility (New York: Routledge, 2007), p. 139. M-Net, Carte Blanche, ‘War Stories’ (Part 1), 5 June 2011, at http://beta.mnet.co.za/ carteblanche/Article.aspx?Id=4367&ShowId=1. Die Beeld, 18 January 2007 (‘Letsels aan twee kante na oorlog’). Censor Bugbear, 5 April 2009, ‘Zuma: “Afrikaners the Only White African Tribe”’, at http://censorbugbear-reports.blogspot.com/2009/04/zuma-afrikaners-onlywhite-african.html. Informal conversation with Ramzie Abrahams, Freedom Park, 16 June 2008. Peter Stiff, ‘Freedom Park’ in Steven Webb (ed.), Ops Medic: A National Serviceman’s Border War (Alberton: Galago Books, 2008), p. 246. Steenkamp, Freedom Park, p.13. D. Foster, P. Haupt and M. de Beer, The Theatre of Violence: Narratives of Protagonists in the South African Conflict (Cape Town: Institute for Justice and Reconciliation, 2005), pp. 15–16. www.freedompark.org.za. Mail & Guardian, 7 November 2007 (‘Freedom Park: Own Up to “Our” Pain’). Freedom Park Trust Media Release, 8 March 2006, at http://www.freedompark.org.za. M-Net, Carte Blanche, ‘War Stories’ (Part 1), 5 June 2011, at http://beta.mnet.co.za/ carteblanche/Article.aspx?Id=4367&ShowId=1. Peter Carrier, Holocaust Monuments and National Memory Cultures in France and Germany since 1989 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2005), p. 214. William Kidd and Brian Murdoch, ‘Introduction’ to Memory and Memorials: The Commemorative Century (London: Ashgate, 2004), p. 4. Jenny Edkins, Trauma and the Memory of Politics (Cambridge: CUP, 2003), p. 17.

Chapter 10 1 2

David Williams, On the Border: The White South African Military Experience 1965–1990 (Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2008), p. 24. The Bantustans or ‘independent’ homelands included Transkei, Bophuthatswana, Venda and Ciskei.

240 3

Notes

The Defence Department claims that the CPR of the former non-statutory forces contained 54,000 names. However, the final CPR submitted to parliament in 2002 as part of the SANDF’s Final Integration Report listed only 44,303 names. Of these, 21,212 were integrated into the SANDF, leaving 23,091 former NSF members who would now qualify as veterans. The Demobilisation Amendment Act of 2001 stipulated that the process of integrating former NSF members should be terminated at the end of 2002, effectively closing the CPR. It is therefore unclear by what legal authority the Defence Department continues to add names to the CPR and how it has arrived at the current figure of in excess of 56,000. See The Sunday Independent, ‘War Vets Bill Could Blow Up in SA’s Face’ by Deon de Lange, 11 April 2011, at http://www.iol.co.za/sundayindependent/war-vets-bill-could-blow-upin-sa-s-face-1.1055019?cache=0%3Fimage3D16%3Fcache%3D0%3Fimage%3D16 %3Fcache%3D0%3Fimage%3D16%3Fcache%3D0%3Fimage%3D16%2F7.120%3 Freport%3D19.111161.1300779988%2F7.120%3Freport%3D19.11 4 ‘War vets bill could blow’ by de Lange. 5 My neologism is an amalgam of the terms ‘netizens’ (see below) and veterans. 6 This notion is borrowed from Jay Winter, ‘Forms of Kinship and Remembrance in the Aftermath of the Great War’ in Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan (eds), War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 40–41. 7 Politicsweb, 16 August 2011. 8 The Director-General of the Department of Military Veterans stated that the number of beneficiaries of the Military Veterans Bill was a ‘moving target’ because the national umbrella body of veterans, the South African National Military Veterans’ Association (SANMVA), was unable to provide reliable figures for its membership. See News24, ‘R19,6bn for veterans a moving target – DG’, 9 March 2011, at http://www.news24. com/SouthAfrica/Politics/R196bn-for-veterans-a-moving-target-DG-20110309 The costing of the bill varied from an R65bn, an estimate by Alexander Forbes, to R1.6bn, the revised figure by the Director-General to the portfolio committee on Defence and Military Veterans. See Business Day, ‘“Apartheid Veterans” may cost SA up to R65bn’ by Wyndham Hartley, 7 March 2011, at http://www.businessday. co.za/articles/Content.aspx?id=136399 And fin24com, ‘Veterans R1.6bn Benefits “Not Enough”’, 13 April 2011, at http:// www.fin24.com/Economy/Veterans-R16bn-benefits-not-enough-20110413 The Cabinet approved the lowest figure but the parliamentary opposition and commentators considered the Bill unaffordable. 9 News24, 16 August 2011. 10 L. Mashike, ‘“You are a Time Bomb … ” Ex-Combatants in Post-Conflict South Africa’, Society in Transition, 35, 1 (2004), 87–104. 11 Winter, ‘Forms of Kinship’, pp. 41, 59.

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12 Charles Braithwaite, ‘Cultural Communication among Vietnam Veterans: Ritual, Myth and Social Drama’ in R. Morris and P. Ehrenhaus (eds), Cultural Legacies of the Vietnam War: Uses of the Past in the Present (Norwood, NJ: Ablex Publishing Co., 1990), pp. 146–147. 13 Charles Braithwaite, ‘“Were YOU There?” A Ritual of Legitimacy among Vietnam Veterans’, Western Journal of Communication, 61, 4 (Fall 1997), 423–447. 14 The phrase is credited to Professor Jannie Gagiano of Stellenbosch University’s Department of Political Science in the TRC Report v. 4, ch. 8, p. 224. 15 André van der Bijl, ‘Poetry as an Element of the Apartheid Military Discourse’, Scientia Militaria: South African Journal of Military Studies, 39, 1 (2011), 56–84. 16 See ‘A Glossary of Military Terminology and Slang’ at http://www.allatsea.co.za/ army/glossary.htm for an explanation of these terms. 17 Both are derogatory terms used by Afrikaans-speakers of English-speakers. Rooinek suggests that the fair-complexioned or pasty English-speaker is not accustomed to the harsh African sun and is likely to get his neck burned a bright red colour. The use of the term dates back to the Anglo-Boer or South African War (1899–1902) and was used by the Boer guerrillas to describe the British soldiers (or khakis). Soutpiel stems from the notion that the latter have divided loyalties; that they, metaphorically speaking, have one foot in South Africa and the other in the United Kingdom, and that their penis dangles in the ocean and becomes salty as a result. 18 ‘Dutchman’ implies someone of Dutch descent (even though Afrikaners also had French and German ancestry), as well as someone who mangles the English language. ‘Rockspider’ is apparently derived from the Anglo-Boer War and describes the ability of the Boers to evade the enemy by flitting into nooks and crannies, although it is also used to suggest that Afrikaans-speakers are a particularly low form of life (but it has no connection with the Australian slang term for paedophiles). 19 Willem Steenkamp, South Africa’s Border War 1966–1989 (Gibraltar: Ashanti, 1989). This has become something of a collector’s item. 20 H-R. Heitman, War in Angola: The Final South African Phase (Gibraltar: Ashanti, 1990). An equally sought after collector’s item. 21 These include Peter Stiff, Nine Days War (Alberton: Lemur Books, 1991) and The Silent War: South African Recce Operations 1969–1994 (Alberton: Galago, 1999). 22 Cameron Blake, the author of three books on the Border War, works in a Cape Town store that stocks military memorabilia and is frequented by veterans of the war looking for Pro Patria medals, and so on. See Eve Fairbanks, ‘Trophies and Treasured Times’, Mail & Guardian, 25 November 2011, at http://mg.co.za/ article/2011-11-25-trophies-and-treasured-times (accessed 28 November 2011). There also appears to be a brisk trade in Border War memorabilia on the bidorbuy. co.za internet site.

242

Notes

23 Gary Baines, ‘Blame, Shame or Reaffirmation? White Conscripts Reassess the Meaning of the ‘Border War’ in Post-Apartheid South Africa’, Interculture, 5, 3 (October 2008), 214–227. 24 Samantha Vice, ‘How Do I Live in This Strange Place?’, Journal of Social Philosophy, 41, 3 (2010), 323–342. 25 Charles Villet, ‘The Importance of Having a Voice’, Mail & Guardian Online, 4 November 2011, at http://mg.co.za/article/2011-11-02-the-importance-of-havinga-voice (accessed 5 December 2011). 26 Commonly referred to as TCP/IP, an abbreviation of Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Protocol. For a technical explanation of these terms, see Mark Sportack, TCP/IP First-Step (Indianapolis: Cisco Press, 2005). 27 Phil Agre, ‘The Internet and Public Discourse’, First Monday, 3 (2 March, 1998), at http://firstmonday.org/htbin/cgiwrap/bin/ojs/index.php/fm/article/view/581/502 (accessed 28 November 2011). 28 Paul Edwards, The Closed World: Computers and the Politics of Discourse in Cold War America (Cambridge MA: Cambridge University Press, 1996), passim. 29 A term coined to describe ordinary citizens (denizens?) who have adopted the internet as their chosen means of communication and source of information. They exhibit a deep distrust of the old media, which are reckoned to be dominated by monopolies and have close relations with governments. 30 Randy Bass cited in Ron Rosenzweig, Clio Wired: The Future of the Past in the Digital Age (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), p. 157. 31 Bass cited in Ron Rosenzweig, Clio Wired: The Future, pp. 194, 201. 32 Agre, ‘The Internet and Public Discourse’. 33 Peter Ehrenhaus and Richard Morris, Cultural Legacies of the Vietnam War: Uses of the Past in the Present (Norwood, NJ: Ablex Publishing Co., 1990), p. 226. 34 Roland Leikauf, ‘Vietnam Experience Then and Now: Hypertextual Memories about America’s Longest War’, paper presented to the ‘Whose Vietnam?’ Conference, University of Amsterdam, October 2010. Leikauf ’s argument, while suggestive, suffers from a chronological flaw. The silence that followed the Vietnam War had been effectively broken before the veterans of that war became conversant with the internet and its possibilities for telling their stories. 35 Martin Pogačar, ‘(New) Media and Representations of the Past’ in Anna Maj and Daniel Riha (eds), Digital Memories: Exploring Critical Issues (Oxford: Interdisciplinary Press, 2009), p. 25. 36 Sasha Gear, ‘The Road Back: Psychosocial Strains of Transition’ in G. Baines and P. Vale (eds), Beyond the Border War: New Perspectives on Southern Africa’s Late-Cold War Conflicts (Pretoria: Unisa Press, 2008). 37 Lori Kendall, Hanging Out in the Virtual Pub: Masculinities and Relationships Online (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2002).

Notes

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38 Marc Smith and Peter Kollock (eds), Communities in Cyberspace (London: Routledge, 1999). 39 Eric Schmidt and Jared Cohen, ‘The Digital Disruption’, Foreign Affairs, 89, 6 (November/December 2010), 75. 40 Schmidt and Cohen, ‘The Digital Disruption’, 78. 41 Natalie Fenton, ‘The Internet and Radical Politics’ in J. Curran, et al. (eds), Misunderstanding the Internet (London: Routledge, 2012), p. 169. 42 Fenton, ‘The Internet and Radical’, p. 169. 43 Jodi Dean, Aliens in America: Conspiracy Cultures from Outerspace to Cyberspace (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), pp. 8–9. 44 Michael Barkun, A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 185–186. 45 Rosenzweig, Clio Wired, p. 22. 46 Mike Featherstone, ‘Archiving Cultures’, British Journal of Sociology, 51, 1 (January 2000), 166–178. 47 Pogačar in Maj and Riha, Digital Memories, p. 27. 48 Rosenzweig, Clio Wired, p. 177. 49 Theresa Edlmann, ‘Divisions in the (Inner) Ranks: The Psychosocial Legacies of Apartheid Era Militarisation’, South African Historical Journal, 64, 2 (June 2012), 256–272. 50 Michael Ignatieff, ‘Review of Cass Sunstein’s On Rumors: How Falsehoods Spread, Why We Believe Them, What Can Be Done?’, Foreign Affairs, 8, 6 (November/ December 2010), 200. 51 Jay Winter, ‘Thinking about Silence’ in Efrat Ben-Ze’ev, Ruth Ginio and Jay Winter (eds), Shadows of War: A Social History of Silence in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), p. 8. 52 The South African Bush War, The South African Soldier, ‘Life as We Knew It: The Old SADF – 1977’, at http://www.geocities.com/sa-bushwar5/ (accessed 19 January 2006). 53 This is to be found on the Facebook group Grensoorlog/Border War cited above. 54 South African Roll of Honour Database, www.justdone.co.za/ROH at http://www. webring.org/hub?ring=internationalwar;id=8;ac=_%11%1C%1D%18%01%08%01 %00%0D%04%03KPMNK%06%12%11H76l%29162%23%27%27%2Fe%2F%22%6 051~%00%1C%1Cz;go (accessed 22 June 2013).

Conclusion 1

Larry Ray, ‘Mourning, Melancholia and Violence’ in Duncan Bell (ed.), Memory, Trauma and World Politics: Reflections on the Relationship between Past and Present (Palgrave Macmillan: Basingstoke & New York, 2006), p. 138.

244 2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15

16 17

18 19 20

Notes Peter Reichel, Vergangensheitbewätigung in Deutschland (Overcoming the Past in Germany) (C.H. Beck, 2007), p. 20ff, at http://www.goethe.de/ges/phi/prj/ffs/the/ a98/en10459994.htm (accessed 27 June 2013). Siobhan Kattago, Memory and Representation in Contemporary Europe: The Persistence of the Past (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), p. 31. Alan Cairns, ‘Coming to Terms with the Past’ in J. Torpey (ed.), Politics and the Past: On Repairing Historical Injustices (Oxford: Rowan & Littlefield, 2003), p. 66. Cairns, ‘Coming to Terms’, p. 63. Cairns, ‘Coming to Terms’, pp. 84–85. Kattago, Memory and Representation in Contemporary Europe, p. 23. Kattago, Memory and Representation in Contemporary Europe, p. 40. Kattago, Memory and Representation in Contemporary Europe, p. 43. The TRC process was framed within a Christian worldview of confession and forgiveness. According to the Buddhist perspective, the victim–victimizer dichotomy is false because both are actually of one body. War, it is argued, is an ‘act of humankind’. See Yuki Miyamoto, Beyond the Mushroom Cloud: Commemoration, Religion and Responsibility after Hiroshima (New York: Fordham University Press, 2012), p. 101. Tristan Anne Borer, ‘A Taxonomy of Victims and Perpetrators: Human Rights and Reconciliation in South Africa’, Human Rights Quarterly, 25 (2003), 1116. Claire Moon, ‘Narrating Political Reconciliation: Truth and Reconciliation in South Africa’, Social and Legal Studies, 15, 2 (2006), 260. Moon, ‘Narrating Political Reconciliation’, 272. Moon, ‘Narrating Political Reconciliation’, 274. Charles Maier, ‘Doing History, Doing Justice: The Narrative of the Historian and of the Truth Commission’ in Robert Rotberg and Dennis Thompson (eds), Truth v. Justice: The Morality of Truth Commissions (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), p. 274. Maier, ‘Doing History, Doing Justice’, p. 275. IOL News, 15 July 2011 (‘Suspect Held for Maties Prof Assault’), at http:// www.iol.co.za/news/south-africa/western-cape/suspect-held-for-maties-profassault-1.1100026#.UWcXfaJTD6Y (accessed 15 July 2011). Leigh Payne, Unsettling Accounts: Neither Truth Nor Reconciliation in Confessions of State Violence (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008) Peter Frost, ‘Shifting Borders, Pushing Boundaries’, at http://cue.ru.ac.za/ theatre/2011/shifting-borders-pushing-boundaries.html (accessed 13 July 2011). Payne, Unsettling Accounts, p. 281.

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Winter, J. & Sivan, E. (eds) (1999). War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Young, M. (2004). ‘Still Stuck in the Big Muddy’ in E. Schrecker (ed.), Cold War Triumphalism: The Misuse of History after the Fall of Communism. New York: The New Press, 262–273. —— (2009). ‘Bombing Civilians from the Twentieth to the Twenty-First Centuries’ in Y. Tanaka and M.B. Young (eds), Bombing Civilians: A Twentieth-Century History. New York: The New Press, 154–174. Zerubavel, E. (1996). ‘Social Memories: Steps to a Sociology of the Past’. Qualitative Sociology, 19, 3, 283–290. —— (2003). Time Maps: Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Index Note: locators with ‘n’ refer to note numbers. Addis Ababa 56 Afghanistan, victimization of soldiers in 86 African National Congress (ANC) 3, 11, 24, 26, 30, 102–3, 146, 148, 151–2, 156, 158, 164–5, 166–8, 171, 172, 190, 200n. 62, 201n. 71, 217n. 31, 232n. 20 Border War and 106–19 Freedom Park and 165–6 human rights violations and 168 in Vietnam 141–2 white Afrikaners and 161–2, 174 Afriforum lobby group 115, 161–2 Afrikaner, ethnic identity of 33, 161–2 Afrikanerdom 166 agency, loss of, victimization and 84 Agent Orange 146–7 Ahtisaari, Martti 124, 130, 132 Akerman, Anthony 192–3 Alexander, McGill 95, 99, 102–3 Almeida, Luis de (Dr.) 57 Altered States (Nunes) 19 American anti-war movements 149 ‘American War’ 196n. 39 amnesty, for human rights violations 24, 93, 135, 156, 168, 188, 190, 199n. 49, 200n. 52 Amnesty Committee (TRC) 24 ‘Amnesty or Impunity?’ A Preliminary Critique of the Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa’ 200n. 62 An Unpopular War: Voices of South African National Servicemen (Thompson) 21 analogies, decision-making and 10, 138–9, 231n. 3 Andrew, Rick 19, 38, 45 Anglo-Boer War 33, 182 Anglo-Zulu War 182

Angola Cuito Cuanavale and 76–8, 106–11 FAPLA forces 44, 76–8, 106–11 Operation Savannah in 53–5 South African POWs in, codes of conduct of 51–71. See also POW narratives See also Namibia Angolan proxy forces (UNITA) 47–8, 53–5 Angolan War, memoir (Holt) 75–9 Angolan War, The: The Final South African Phase (Heitman) 177 anti-terrorism legislation 27 anti-war movements, in America 149 apartheid army apartheid system and 185–6 Nazi regime similarities 28–9 apartheid system collapse of 82 military service and 84–5 apartheid wars 2 APLA. See Azanian People’s Liberation Army. Apocalypse Now (film) 39 armed propaganda 144 Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) 47, 146 Army Talk Magazine 198n. 24 Asberg, Sven 98 Ashplant, Timothy 1, 87 askaris (collaborators) 146 At Thy Call We Did Not Falter (Holt) 9, 19, 20, 75–81 atrocities of war 26, 28, 36–7, 89, 93, 99, 121, 145–6, 154, 188 See also human rights abuses Audoin-Rouzeau, Stephane 16 aversion therapy, on gay conscripts 85 Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA) 3, 158, 168, 171, 238n. 30

Index Baines, Dudley 157, 158 Baines, Gary 161 Ball, George 141 ballesbak 176 baptism of fire 16 Barkun, Michael 181 Barnard, Leo 94 Barno, Mike 14 Basson, Wouter trial 230n. 60 Batley, Karen 42, 45 Battalion 32, 199n. 41 battle-centric history 18, 105, 111–12 Battle Group Foxbat 53 Battle Group Orange 56 Battle Scarred: Hidden Costs of the Border War (Feinstein) 19, 20 battlepiece, approach to war 7 Beaufre, Andre 231n. 17 Becker, Annette 16 Becker, Heike 125 Behind the Lines of the Mind (van Niekerk) 83 Behr, Mark 33, 36, 42 Belsen (concentration camp) 99 betrayal, sense of, in war narratives 40 Bildungsroman (rite of passage) 6 biting the bullet 47 See also vasbyt Blake, Cameron 21, 241n. 22 Blatchford, Matthew 46 bloggers 184 body count battlefield success and 45–6 Cassinga 2 See also casualty rate border duty 52 Border-Line Insanity: A National Serviceman’s Story, A (Ramsden) 19 border literature (grensliteratuur) 32–3, 37 Border War, defined 1–2 Borer, Tristan Anne 189 bosbefok or bossies (mental breakdown) 39, 78, 176 Boshoff, G.J.J. 67 Botha, Pik 64, 132, 134, 230n. 66 Botha, P.W. 26, 27 Cuito Cuanavale and 110 Klapperkop memorial and 156–9 POW politicking and 61–5 prisoner release/exchange 66–7

263

Bourke, Joanna 86, 213n. 64 Braithwaite, Charles 175 Bravo Group 199n. 41 Breaking the Wall of Silence (BWS) 133 Breytenbach, Jan 92–5, 198n. 24, 199n. 41, 206–7 n.7, 214n. 9, 216n. 20, 217n. 34, 218n. 37 Brooke, J. 222n. 37 Broyles, William 35 Brush, Peter 142 Buddhist perspective, forgiveness 244n. 10 Buried in the Sky (Andrew) 19, 38 Bush, George H.W. 153 Bush, George W. 153–4 bush war 2, 23, 182, 194n. 7 bushmen 47 Buthelezi, Mangosuthu 166 Cairns, Alain 188 Callaghan, Sean Mark 200n. 52, 201n. 71 Calueque Dam 78 captivity, conditions of, POWs and 57–61 Caputo, Phillip 35, 37, 42, 46–7 Carrier, Peter 170 Carte Blanche programme 206–7n. 7, 239n. 57 Cassinga, narrative inconstancies in versions of 101–3 SADF version of 90–6 survivors stories 99–101 SWAPO version 96–101 Cassinga Day 100 Cassinga massacre 28 Casspirs (mine resistant vehicles) 27 Castro, Fidel 105, 107, 109 Castro, Raul 58 Casualties of War (Lang) 38 casualty rate 234n. 67, 236–7n. 10 See also body count Censor Bugbear 239n. 49 censorship, in POW camps 59 Certified Personnel Register (CPR) 171, 240n. 30 ‘Charlie’ 36 children, victims at Cassinga 94, 97 Christian perspective, forgiveness 244n. 10 Christiansen, Erik 118 Churchill, Winston 226n. 82 Citizen, The (periodical) 150 citizen force 91, 107, 143, 149, 167, 176

264

Index

Civic Action Programme (PSYCHOPs), in Namibia 45, 143 Civil Co-operation Bureau 28, 238n. 30 civilian life, POW adjustment to 68–71 civilians, at Cassinga 92–4, 96–7 Clark Amendment Act 148 closed socialisation environment 176 closed world discourse 179 Coetzee, J. M. 33 Cohen, Jared 181 COIN (counter-insurgency) 127–8, 141, 143, 201n. 67 COINOPs (counterinsurgency operations) 143 Cold War 3, 18, 115–6, 139–40, 151, 179 Cold Warriors 153 collateral damage 145 collective memory 1, 4, 10, 116, 118, 154, 172, 175, 187 colonialism 2, 125 combat cultural construction of 31–48 love/hate relationship with, in war narratives 35–6 as mystical experience 15 combat madness, in war narratives 39 communication (outside), in POW camps 59–60 conscripts. See South African Defence Force conscript confessions, catharsis 18–22 conscription, racially based 84, 149, 168 Convention for a Democratic South Africa (CODESA) 117 cosmopolitan memory 154 counterinsurgency operations (COINOPs) 143 Crocker, Chester 109, 221n. 22 Crossley, Michele 80 Cuanda-Cubango province (Angola) 110 Cuban forces in Angola 53–5, 57–9 Cassinga 94–5 Cuito Cuanavale and 76–8, 106–13 honoring, Cuito Cuanavale 112 prisoner release/exchange 65–8 Cuito Cuanvale, narrative 20, 76–7 battle-centric view, of history 105–6 memory battle, losing, winning war or 115–17 mythicizing/commemorating 111–14

victors write history? 117–19 war without victors/vanquished 106–11 cultural construct, of combat 31–48 cultural codes, transnational tradition, of war writing 31–4 universal war themes 34–41. See also narratives; war narratives Vietnam/Border War literature 41–8 cultural disintermediation 181 cultural globalization 34 cultural turn, in war studies 7 cyberspace discursive laager and 184–6 political neutrality of 180 Dachau 99 danger pay 52 Danney, Graham (POW) 53–5, 57, 61, 71 Danney, Gwyn 71 Dawson, T. G. 87 DDR (democratization, demobilization, reintegration) 8, 172 de Klerk, F. W. 151 de Vries, Roland 224n. 63 Dean, Jodi 181 Deegan, John 83 Defence Act of 1957 27, 52–3 1976 amendment to 62 defoliants 146–7 See also napalm dehumanization of enemy, in war narratives 36, 145 Del Vecchio, John 39 Democratic Alliance 173 Democratic Turnhalle Alliance (DTA) 134 Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM) 86 Die Afrikaner (newspaper) 62 Die Beeld (newspaper) 67 Die Reuk van Appels (The Smell of Apples, Behr) 33 Dié Wat Wen (Geldenhuys) 109, 222n. 34 Dierks, Klaus 229n. 51 diet, in POW camps 58 dirty war, Namibia 133–4 discursive laager, dissent and 183–4 discursive struggles, politics of memory and 165–9 Doherty, Christo 124 domestic/sexual violence 82–3 Dovey, John 186

Index Downs, Frederick 42, 47 du Plessis, Mike 217n. 34 Durand, Arn 37, 201n. 71 Dusklands (Coetzee) 33 Dutchmen 176, 241n. 18 Dzinesa, Gwinyayi 83 Earle, Steve 42–3 Edlmann, Theresa 183–4 education, moral 188 Edwards, Paul 179 Eenhana (base) 121, 122, 125–6, 226n. 1 Eglin, Colin 62 Ehrhart, W. D. 38, 40, 47 elements, war against hostile 42 Elliott, David 138 Ellis, Stephen 112 emasculation, in war narratives 38 End Conscription Campaign (ECC) 138 End of the World, The (documentary) 113 enemy, ineptitude/menace of 44 enemy rules night, theme 42–3 Englehardt, Tom 225n. 81 Enola Gay 6 Eric the Brave (Louw) 48 escape, from POW camps 60–1 ethnic identity, of Afrikaner 33 Euvrard, Esme 60 execution, of prisoners 201n. 71 exile, self-imposed 22 eye-witnessing 15–16, 95 Facebook 115, 185, 197n. 6 families of POWs politics and 61–5 readjustment to civilian life and 69 FAPLA. See Popular Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola fatalism, superstition, in war narratives 37–8 Featherstone, Mike 182 Feinstein, Anthony 19, 20, 35–6, 39–43, 46–7 Feldman, M.B. 69 Fenton, Natalie 181 fictive kinships 5, 175 Fields of Fire (Webb) 37 flame wars 182 flashbacks, PTSD and 74 flesh-witnessing 15, 16

265

Forces Favourites (Blatchford) 46, 48 Fort Leavenworth 141 fragging 144, 233n. 38 Fraser, C.F. 231n. 17 Freedom Park controversy discursive struggles, politics of memory 165–9 SADF memorial, at Klapperkop 156–9 SADF memorial, at Voortrekker Monument 164–5 wall of names 159–64 Freedom Park Trust 161, 163 French COIN doctrine 141 Friend, The (newspaper) 70 From Soldier to Civvy: Reflections on National Service (Blake) 21 Frontline states 28 Frost, Peter 193 Fussell, Paul 35 Gagiano, Jannie 198n. 33 Galgut, Damon 40 garrison state 148 gay conscripts, aversion therapy and 85 Gear, Sasha 180 Geldenhuys, Jannie 15, 23, 77, 107, 109, 115, 124, 130, 133, 147 Geldenhuys, Ratel 76 Geneva Conventions 58 Geneva Protocol 127, 133, 146 George, Edward 107 Germany coming to terms with traumatic past 187–8 Wehrmacht and 28–9 Gettysburg 170 Giliomee, Hermann 166 Gleijeses, Piero 107 Gobodo-Madikizela, Pumla 74 Google 182 ‘gook’ 36 Gordon, R.J. 37, 203n. 11 Great Powers 148 Great Trek 166 Great War 17 Green Book, The: Lessons from Vietnam (ANC) 141 Greensoorlog (Border War) 185 grensliteratuur (border literature) 32–3, 37, 203n. 11

266 grensvegter (border fighter) 19, 66, 85, 145 Groenewald, Petrus Jacobus 56, 61 Grootfontein, Namibia 52 groups collective memory and 4–5 SADF veterans as 175–8 Guadalcanal, capture of 211n. 27 Guardian, The (newspaper) 139 ‘Guerrilla War’ (Ehrhart) 41–2 Gulf Wars 150, 153–4 Halberstam, David 47 Hall, Kevin 200n. 52 Hallin, Daniel 139 Hamaambo, Dimo 91, 131, 218n. 36 Hamman, Jan 67 Hansard 61 Harari, Yuval Noah 15–16, 19, 31, 34, 73 harkis (collaborators) 86 Harman, Dominic 17 health, in POW camps 58 Heinemann, Larry 206n. 94 Heitman, Helmoed-Romer 106, 177, 227n. 4 Henke, Suzette 80–1 Heritage Journey 113 Heroes’ Acre Memorial 126 Herr, Michael 35, 38 Herstigde National Party (HNP) 62 Herzog, Tobey 41 heterosexual norms 85 Heywood, Annemarie 100 history battlecentric 18, 105 victors write 117–19 Ho Chi Minh 143 Hofmeyr, Steve 162, 163, 238n. 30 Holmes, Richard 86 Holocaust 99, 154 Holt, Clive 9, 19, 20, 210n. 11 memoir 74–81, 87 homecoming of POWs 65–8 homeland defence forces 23, 171 Hough, Pierre 216n. 20 Huisgenoot (magazine) 70 human rights violations 24–5, 189–90, 199n. 50, 201–2n. 73 Hunt, Nigel 73–4 Hunter, Justine 227n. 8

Index Hussein, Saddam 153–4 hybrid war 2 Hynes, Samuel 17, 73 ICT (information and communication technology) 179, 181 identity Afrikaner, ethnic 33, 161–2 militarized, SADF veterans and 175–8, 177 Ignatieff, Michael 184 In Country (Mason) 48 indemnity, blanket 27 indigenization, of war 147 indigenous people, in war zones 36–7 individuals, memory and 5 Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) 26, 166 International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) 58–9, 63–6 Internet discursive laager and 184–6 language of 178–81 Intimate History of Killing (Bourke) 86, 213n. 64 invisible enemy 41–2 Iraq, war in 153–4 isolation cells, in POW camps 61 Jay, Paul 34 Jewish Bolsheviks 29 Joint Military Monitoring Commission (JMMC) 108, 127–8 Jones, James 211n. 27 Jota, Zoliswa 113 journalists at Cassinga 97 embedded 150 See also media kaffir 36 Kasrils, Ronnie 142 Kassinga. See Cassinga Kattago, Siobhan 188–9 Keegan, John 7, 17 Kendall, Lori 180 Khmer Rouge 151 Kitshoff, Lodewyk Johannes Christian 56 Klapperkop, SADF memorial at 156–9 Kobo, Joseph 143, 217n. 31 Koen, Gary 212n. 43

Index Koevoet (COIN unit) 167, 201n. 67, 226n. 1 amnesty and 200n. 52 as SADF proxy 145–6 bounty system 27 demobilization 134, 230n. 66 execution of SWAPO prisoners 201n. 71 modus operandi 27 prosecution of members 28 human rights abuses of 27–8, 37, 134, 145 under SAP command 27 Kok, Lets 66 Koornhof, H.E. 33 kopjes (hills) 165 koptoe (headstrong) 85 Korff, Granger 19 Kriel, Kallie 163 Krige, Uys 206n. 3 Kruger, Louis 33 KwaMakutha (attack on) 26 laager (circle of wagons) discursive. See discursive laagers, dissent and mentality 182 Lamprecht, Tommie 95 Lang, Daniel 38 Lange, Eugene de (POW) 58, 61–2, 71, 209n. 59 language division, in POW camps 60 Internet 178–9 of SADF soldiers 176 of Vietnam soldiers 175–6 Larmer, Miles 195n. 14 Legacy Heritage 159 Legion of Associated Airborne R.S.A. (LAARSA) 95 Leikauf, Roland 180 leisure activities, in POW camps 59 Levene, Mark 101–2 Levy, Daniel 154 Lewis, Lloyd B. 32, 42 Liberation Struggle 2–3, 11, 29, 81, 100, 103, 111–3, 116, 125–6, 135, 155–6, 160–2, 165–9, 173 Liebenberg, John 108–9, 123–4, 126 life-writing 80–1 Linenthal, Edward 102 literature, common themes in Vietnam/ Border war 31–48

267

Lomsky-Feder, Edna 5 lost cause, war narrative theme 13, 47–8, 116 Louw, Johan Vlok 48 Lubowski assassination 28, 202n. 76 M-Net 206–7n. 7 Magubane, Bernard 56 Maier, Charles 191 Maier, Karl 110 Mail & Guardian (newspaper) 169 Makwetla, Thabang 173 Malan, Magnus 23–4, 66–8, 124, 140 trial of 26–7 Mamdani, Mahmood 200n. 62 Mandela, Nelson 112 Maphatsoe, Kebby 166 Marais, Jaap 62 Maree, Sergeant 53–5 Marlantes, Karl 42 Mason, Bobbie Ann 48 mass graves at Cassinga 97–8 Namibian ceasefire violation and 122–6 in northern Namibia 121 Massacre in History, The (Levene) 101–2 Matolo raid (Maputo) 238n. 30 Matterhorn (Marlantes) 41–2 Maynier, David 173 Mayo, James 157 Mbeki, Thabo 143, 159, 160 McAdams, Dan 80 McCuen, John 2 McMahon, Robert 116 McWilliams, Mike -215n. 11 media blackout on Border War 149 POW release and 65–7 See also journalists Meiring, Muller 78 memoirs At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A war memoir (Holt) 75–9 SADF veterans 13 soldier’s witness, authority of 14–18 subaltern narratives 18–22 writing as narrative therapy 80–1 memory collective 1, 4, 10, 116, 118, 154, 172, 175, 187

268

Index

cosmopolitan 154 digital 184–6 sharing, on Internet 182 veteran’s, of military experiences 177 memory politics of, discursive struggles and 165–9 memory wars Cuito Cuanavale and 115–17 mnemonic communities and 4–8 mental health in POW camps 60 PTSD 78–9 mercenaries 23, 53, 57, 208n. 21 militarized identity, SADF veterans and 175–8, 177 Military and Stalwart Veteran Project 223n. 52 Military in a Political Arena: the South African Defence Force and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission 25 military language 175–6 Military Veterans Act 174 Military Veterans Bill 173–4 Military Veterans (Department of) 173 military veterans (SADF) 8, 81, 83, 88, 113, 165, 171–5, 190–1, 216n. 20 military victimhood 86 Mills, Greg 105 Minister of Foreign Affairs (MFA) 64–5 Minter, William 20–1 MK Veterans Association. See Umkhonto weSizwe. mnemonic communities, memory wars and 4–8, 190–1 Mobile Soldiers and the Un-national Liberation of South Africa 195n. 14 Moon, Claire 189–90 MPLA. See Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola Mugabe, Robert 132 My Cuban (Van Heerden) 39, 44 My Heart of Darkness (film) 83 My Lai massacre 37, 145 Nadelson, Theodore 84 Namhila, Ellen 99–100 Namholo, David Phillips 143 Namibe–Lubango–Menongue line 107 Namibia 2–4, 10, 27–8, 32, 36, 40, 42, 45–6, 48, 52–3, 90–3, 96, 103–4, 107–13,

116–7, 121–35, 137–8, 140–1, 143–51, 155–6, 174,176. Cassinga. See Cassinga narrative Civic Action Programme in 45 slang names for 36 war crimes in 27, 28 See also Angola Namibia cease fire violation accusations 121–2 dirty war 133–4 mass graves 122–6 SWAPO and South African security forces 129–33 SWAPO’s violation of ceasefire and 126–9 Namibian, The (newspaper) 96, 124 Namibian National Archives 100 Namibianization, of war 147 Namoloh, Charles 131 napalm 217n. 33, 234n. 56 narrative(s) Cassinga. See Cassinga narrative personal 16–17 POW. See POW narrative PTSD. See PTSD narrative subaltern narratives 18–22 war. See war narrative narrative templates, cultural construct, of combat 31–48 National Executive Committee 112 National Front for the Liberation of Angola (FNLA) 140 National Heritages Resource Act 159 National Liberation Front (NLF) 142 See also Vietcong national liberation struggle 2–3 National Party 23–4, 26, 61–5 National Press Union (agreement) 208n. 39 national service 21–2, 32, 47, 52, 84, 138, 149, 177, 198n. 33 National Service Generation (NSG) 6, 11, 13, 18, 22, 51, 171, 185, 192–3 National Serviceman Dave 18, 198n. 24 national serviceman (NSM) 20–1 national servicemen 18, 20, 56, 60, 69, 91, 107, 143, 163, 171, 176, 185, 193, 237n. 10 National Union for the Total Independence of Angola (UNITA) 2–3, 23, 47, 53, 75–6, 106, 109–11,

Index 112, 114, 140, 147, 207n. 9, 210 n. 11, 218n. 36, 221n. 22, 223n. 52, 234n. 56 Nazi genocide 99 Nazi regime, apartheid army and 28–9 ‘n Basis Oorkant die Grens (Kruger) 33, 42 Netizens 179 Neto, Agostinho 57 New York Accords 110, 127 news blackout, on war 40 nightmares, PTSD and 74 Nine Days of War (Stiff ) 132 19 With a Bullet: A South African Paratrooper in Angola (Korff ) 19 Nixon, Richard 144 nodal points 24 Noll, Christian 5 Nomansland (film) 83 non-disclosure agreement 52–3 Norman, Natasha 1 Northern Ireland conflict 87 North Vietnamese Army (NVA) 40–2, 44, 142, 145, 147 Novick, Peter 87 Nujoma, Sam 100–1, 122, 127, 130–2 Nunes, Frank 19 ‘n Wêreld Sonder Grense (Strachan) 39 Nyanto, Kgomotso 227n. 13 O’Brien, Tim 44–5 old timers 47 See also ou manne One Very Hot Day (Halberstam) 47 Ons was Daar (We Were There, Geldenhuys) 15 Onslow, Sue 108–9 Operation 435 134 Operation Desert Shield 153 Operation Displace 107 Operation Hooper 76–7, 106, 210n. 11 Operation Marion 26 Operation Modular 76, 106, 210n. 11 Operation Packer 106 Operation Reindeer (Cassinga) 90–6, 103, 216n. 20, 217n. 33, 219n. 60 Operation Saluté October 107 Operation Savannah 9, 51–7, 61, 68, 140–1, 236n. 7 Operation Vula 195n. 13 Operation XXXI Anniversary 107

269

Opperman, Gert 164, 166 Ops Medic: A National Serviceman’s Border War (Webb) 19 Organisation of African Unity (OAU) 56, 140 Orwell, George 226n. 82 Oshikango, Durban Light Infantry base at 45 ou manne (old timers) 47 Oukwanyama district of Namibia, mass graves 122–6 Owamboland 41–2, 135 Owen, Wilfred 41 Paco’s Story (Heinemann) 206n. 94 Pagano, Gaetano 97–8 Pala, Maria 60, 64 Pan Africanist Congress (PAC) 158, 171 Paratus (magazine) 99, 210n. 11 Parents’ Committee (of Namibia) 133 Parliament’s Millennium Project (PMP) 113 past, coming to terms with 187–90 Paton, Aubrey 13 Payne, Leigh 12, 93, 192–3 ‘Peer Group’ (Shields) 39 People’s Liberation Army of Namibia (PLAN) 3, 37, 44, 99, 101, 122–33, 143–4, 146, 199n. 45, 201n. 70, 218n. 36, 228n. 33, 229n. 51, 232n. 20 Cassinga and 90–6 Namibia ceasefire and 131–3 People’s Revolutionary Tribunal 57 perpetrator–victim binary 86, 135, 189–90 Perskor magazine 70 photographs Cassinga 92, 93–4, 97–9 Klapperkop memorial 157, 158 mass graves 123–4 Namibia 108–9 Wall of Names, Freedom Park 161 Photolo, Peggy 165 Pienaar, Louis 27, 133 poison gas, at Cassinga 96–7 Pol Pot 151 politicking, on home front, POWs and 61–5 politics of memory 10–11, 119, 155 discursive struggles and 165–9

270 Popular Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola (FAPLA) 3, 44, 54, 58, 75–6, 78, 106–9, 114, 148, 210n. 11, 218n. 36, 223n. 52 Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) 54–7, 62, 109, 111, 114, 140, 144, 148 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) 20 as alibi, among SADF veterans 81–4 At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A war memoir (Holt) 75–9 Internet discourse and 180 SADF, as victims 84–7 SADF, use of as alibi 81–4 as transforming experience 73–4 war narratives and 39–40 writing, as therapy 80–1 Potgieter, Andries Hendrik (POW) 56, 60–1, 64, 69, 71 POWs captivity, conditions 57–61 censorship of correspondence 59 communication 59–60 diet 58 escape 60–1 execution of prisoners 201n. 71 health 58 isolation cells 61 language, division 60 leisure activities 59 mental health 60 release of 65–8 work, return to 70 POW narratives bidding war for 70 capture and exposure 52–7 civilian life, readjusting to 68–71 conditions of captivity 57–61 politicking on home front and 61–5 release and homecoming 65–8 Powers, Kevin 41 prisoner exchange 65–8 prisoners of war. See POWs Progressive Reform Party 62 Project Coast 28 propaganda armed 144 photo 54–5 psychology, narrative turn in, PTSD and 73–4

Index PSYCHOPs 143 PTSD narrative Behind the Lines of the Mind (van Niekerk) 83 as therapy 80–1 At Thy Call We Did Not Falter: A war memoir (Holt) 75–9 Vietnam War 152–3 race communism views and 198n. 33 military veterans and 177–8 racialization, of POWs 62 racially based conscription 84, 149, 168 Rademeyer, Julian 226n. 3 Radio SA 60 Rambo 62 Ramsden, Tim 19 Rand Daily Mail (newspaper) 55 Rapport (newspaper) 70 Ray, Larry 243n. 1 realpolitik 181 reconciliation 73, 80, 82, 122, 125, 135, 156, 159–60, 163–4, 166–71, 178, 188–91, 193 PTSD and 73–4 See also Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) ‘Red Nightmare’ (Feinstein) 39–40 refugees, Angolan 52 Remembrance Day 156–9 Republican Press 70, 209n. 64 Return, A (Rule) 48 ‘Reunion, The’ (Earle) 42–3 Rhodesian Bush War 23, 182, 194n. 7 rite of passage Bildungsroman 16, 185 war narratives 35–6 rockspiders 176 Rogers, Bob 66–7 romanticism, war and 15 rooi gevaar 2, 183 rooinek 176, 241n. 17 ‘rookies’ 36 Roper, M. 87 Rosenzweig, Ron 181 Rothberg, David 154 Ruacana-Calueque hydroelectric project 107 Rudham, Gretchen 149 Rule, Peter 48

Index SADF. See South African Defence Force Saldanha Military Academy 141 Saunders, Christopher 132 ‘scabs’ 36 Schmidt, Eric 181 Scope magazine 209n. 64 scriptotherapy 80–1 Sebald, W. G. 18–19 security forces (South African) 2–3, 27–8, 81–2, 121–35, 138, 142, 145–6, 156, 168, 201n. 65, 215n. 6, 227n. 4, 230n. 66 Serote, Wally 162, 163 Seven Battles that Shaped South Africa (Mills & Williams) 105 Shadows of War (Winter) 184 Shalli, Martin 131 shell shock 39–40 Shields, Bill 39 short-timers syndrome 47 Sikhumbuto (Freedom Park’s commemorative compound) 160, 167, 169 Smell of Apples, The (Behr) 33 Smithsonian Institute 6 Smyth, Marie 87 social constructivism 17 social discourse 179 soldiers, as historians 16–17 Soldier’s Tale, The (Hynes) 17 soldier’s witness, authority of 14–18 Somewhere on the Border (Akerman) 192–3 South African Air Force (SAAF) 147 South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) 40, 56, 60, 113, 150, 215n. 11 South African Defence Force (SADF) Cassinga narrative, their version 90–6 conscripts 6–7, 18, 20–5, 53, 56, 82–6, 88, 110, 138, 143, 147, 152, 167–8, 172–3, 176, 183, 199n. 41, 200 n. 52 Cuito Cuanavale and 106–13 5th South African Infantry Battalion (5 SAI) 56 memorial at Klapperkop 156–9 Memorial Wall, Voortrekker Monument 164–5 Namibian ceasefire violation and 121–34

271

occupation of Namibia 28, 137–8, 140 as perpetrator organization 8, 26 POW narratives 51–71 reputation of 23–9 retired generals 10, 18, 25, 28, 109 61 Mechanised Infantry Battalion 9, 75, 7 6–8, 224n. 63 veteran memoirs 13–14 veterans 6–7, 9–11, 13–14, 18, 21–2, 29, 112, 114–16, 118, 146, 152–3, 155, 162, 165–6, 168, 171–4, 186, 192 militarized identity of 175–8 PTSD amongst 78–9, 81–4 shared experiences 184–6 as victims 84–7 as virtual community 178–83, 184–5 South African Military Web Ring 182 South African National Defence Force (SANDF) 24–5, 158–9, 162, 164, 172, 175, 240 SADF soldiers integrated into 152 South African Police (SAP) 27, 35, 41, 43, 47, 149, 200n. 62, 201n. 65 South African Press Association (SAPA) 56 South African Red Cross Society 58, 70–1 South African Roll of Honour 186 South African Roll of Honour Database 243n. 54 South African Veterans’ Association (SAVA) 83 South Africa’s Border War (Steenkamp) 177 South West Africa People’s Organisation (SWAPO) 2–3, 10, 27, 35–6, 39–40, 43, 44, 46, 46, 89–95, 101–4, 107, 110, 116, 135, 140–1, 143, 145–6, 199n. 45, 217n. 33, 218n. 36, 228n. 26, 229n. 51 Cassinga, their version 96–104 Namibian ceasefire violations and 121–34 South African security forces, Namibia and 129–33 spy crisis 133 violation of Namibian ceasefire 126–9 South West African Police (SWAPOL) 127–8 South West African Territorial Force (SWATF) 23–30, 127–8, 147 soutpiel 176, 241n. 17 Spanos, William V. 137–8 Springbok Radio 60

272

Index

spy crisis. See SWAPO Star, The (newspaper) 68 Steenkamp, Willem 3, 167, 177 on Cassinga 91–2 on Namibian ceasefire violation 123 Stellenbosch University 192 Steyn, Jaap 166 Stiff, Peter 132, 167, 177 Strachan, Alexander 37, 39 Stuart, Kelsey 58, 70–1 subaltern narratives 18–22 sublime revelation, war as 15 Sunday Independent, The (newspaper) 100 survival strategies, war 46–7 swart gevaar 2, 183 Sznaider, Nathan 154 Tal, Kali 85 technology digital, perverse effects of 184 faith in superior weapons and 43–4 Techumatete base 91 Terblanche, Hannes 53–5, 57, 59, 60 terror, in war narratives 36–7 Tet Offensive 142 Thatcher, Margaret 132 Thin Red Line, The (Jones) 211n. 27 13th Valley, The (Del Vecchio) 39 ‘Thirty Minutes to Clear the Minefield’ 77 32 Battalion 23, 76 thirty years war 2 Thomas, Scott 224n. 53 Thompson, Jacqui 21 Thornberry, Cedric 122, 226n. 2 To the Bush and Back (van der Walt) 19 To the Point (periodical) 150 transnationalism 34 trauma. See post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); PTSD narrative traumatic past, coming to terms with 187–90 triumphalism 116–17 Troepie: From Call-up to Camps (Blake) 21 troepies (soldiers) 19 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) 8, 20, 24–30, 81–2, 88, 93, 103, 133, 146, 153, 155, 156, 167–8, 191, 199n. 49–50, 201n. 73, 215n. 5, 244n. 10 Cuito Cuanavale and 118

Freedom Park wall of names and 159 mass graves and 122 victim–perpetrator binary 189–90 Tsafendas, Dimitri 169 Tutu, Desmond 160 Twitter 115 ubuntu 159–60 Umkhonto weSizwe (MK) 3, 10, 24, 106, 112–4, 117, 119, 141–6, 151, 158, 168, 171–2, 174, 201n. 65, 238n. 30 Cassinga and 217n. 31 Cuito Cuanavale and 223n. 52, 224n. 53 formation of 232n. 20 veterans 172 Veterans’ Association 166 Union Defence Force 175 United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) 96 United Nations Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 127, 151 United Nations Transitional Assistance Group (UNTAG) 124, 130, 131–2, 229n. 55 United Party 62 University of Stellenbosch 198n. 33 University of the Free State 94 University of the Witwatersrand 69 Unsettling Accounts (Payne) 192 value system, of white supremacy 32 Van der Mescht, Sapper 70–1 van der Merwe, Chris 74 van der Post, Laurens 206n. 3 van der Walt, Nico 19 Van Heerden, Etienne 39, 44 van Niekerk, Anton 192 van Niekerk, Marius 83–4 vasbyt (biting the bullet) 47, 60, 176 Verster, Rig 93–4 Verwoerd, Hendrik 169 veterans, politics of victimhood and 172–5 See also SADF veterans and MK veterans vicarious victimhood 87 Vice, Samantha 178 victim culture 86–7 victimhood human rights violations and 190–1

Index military veterans and 172–5 soldiers as (PTSD) 84–7 TRC and 118 victimization, loss of agency and 84–5 victors, write history? 117–19 Vietcong 142–7 guerrilla army 142 slang names for 36 See also National Liberation Front (NLF) Vietnam, Border Wars, comparisons analogies/metaphors 138–9 lessons of 139–51 lost wars, aftermath 151–3 Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW) 149 Vietnam Veterans Memorial 152 Vietnam War as American War 196n. 39 Border War, comparisons with 31–48 literature, common themes with Border War 41–8 My Lai massacre in 37 new narrative for 116 stigmatization of veterans of 179–80 veterans, as victims (PTSD) 85–6 veterans, fictive kinship and 175 Viljoen, Constand 25, 214–15n. 3 vindicationists 116 violence, gratuitous, in war narratives 36–7 virtual community, SADF veterans as 178–83 virtual pub 180 Vo Nguyen Giap 143 Vogeli, Anna 228n. 23 Voortrekker Monument 159, 164–5 Voortrekker Technical Services 52 Vorster, B.J. 62–3 Vreugdetrane (tears of joy) 67 Wakashe, Themba 113 Wall of Names at Freedom Park 112, 113, 159–65, 161 war futility of, war narratives and 41 naming of a 2–4 news black outs on 40 universal themes of 34–41 witnesses, memories and 14–18 war crimes, non prosecution in Namibia 27 See also human rights abuses

273

war literature, common themes of 41–8 war narratives body counts, battlefield success and 45–6 combat madness in 39 dehumanization of enemy, theme 36 elements, war against hostile 42 emasculation in 38 enemy, ineptitude of 44 enemy rules night 42–3 fatalism/superstition in 37–8 futility of war 41 invisible enemy in 41–2 lost cause 47–8 love/hate relationship, with combat 35–6 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in 39–40 rites of passage 35 sense of betrayal in 40 survival strategies in 46–7 technology, faith in superior weapons and 43–4 war of words 12, 119, 155, 191 ‘War Within, The’ 83 warrior, archetypal 185 Waterkloof Air Force Base 66, 67 Watts, Derek 169–70 Wayne, John 32 We Were There (Geldenhuys) 115 Web 1.0 180 Web 2.0 180 Web 3.0 180 Webb, Steven 19, 37 Weekly Mail (newspaper) 124 Wehrmacht, apartheid army and 28–9 Wette, Wolfram 28 WHAM, winning hearts and minds 44, 143, 146, 201n. 67 White, Luise 195n. 14 white supremacy, value system of 32 Whitty, Karen 25 Wiehahn, C.J. 63–4 Wiehahn, Robert (POW) 53–5, 57, 60, 70 Wiest, Andrew 144 Wikipedia 182 Williams, David 105 Wilson, David 59, 64, 67 Wilson, Robert (POW) 9, 52–9, 61, 67–70 Windrich, Elaine 111

274 winning hearts and minds (WHAM) 44, 143, 146, 201n. 67 Winter, Jay 5, 184 Winter Soldier hearings 146 witnessing, soldiers 14–18 women, in combat 185 writing, life story, as therapy 80–1

Index Yellow Birds, The (Powers) 41 YouTube (Afriforum) 115 ZANLA-PF 132 Zerubaval, Eviatar 5 Zimbabwean Liberation War 194n. 7 Zuma, Jacob 113–16